I had been standing along the Snake River before sunrise, looking upstream toward Mount Moran, hoping for another quiet morning like the one that gave me The Long Walk Home. The river was wrapped in darkness, and the world was still more sound than sight. Then I heard it. Behind me, somewhere in the darkness, came the unmistakable lip-smacking calls of elk cows. They were close—much closer than I realized—but in the predawn blackness I never saw them. Within seconds I heard them scrambling away from the riverbank, and I assumed I had just missed another opportunity. It wouldn't be the last surprise of the morning. A short distance downstream, the same cows emerged from the darkness, now being led across the Snake River by a mature bull. Steam drifted across the water while the first hints of dawn separated the golden cottonwoods from the dark forest behind them. The bull paused only long enough to be certain his small harem was following before continuing toward the opposite shore. Nature often rewards patience, but sometimes it rewards acceptance. The moment I thought had slipped away simply unfolded somewhere else. A short distance downstream, the same cows emerged from the darkness, now entering the Snake River with a mature bull urging them forward from behind. Steam drifted across the water while the first hints of dawn separated the glowing cottonwoods from the dark forest beyond. The bull never rushed ahead. Instead, he stayed behind his small harem, quietly pushing them toward the opposite shore, making certain every cow crossed safely before following them himself.