Monarch of the West Wapiti

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Rube is, as Emerson would have it, a far better animal than I.

I love this cat-and-mouse game, having at various times slipped up to within breathholding distance of numerous coyotes, bears, deer, and elk. But I've never been quite good enough to throw a successful sneak on Old Rube. He is, as Emerson would have it, a far better animal than I. I've stood entranced while he whistled, grunted, barked, and bugled just over the next rise. I've followed his minutes-fresh spoor and found his stillwarm day beds. But I have never met Old Rube up close.

Just as well, for the meeting would kill the mystery.

During the six or so weeks of rut each fall, the bull elk is, well, the horniest of all large mammals. So overwhelming is the monarch's lust that it bloodies his eyes and swells his neck. So agitated is his mood that merely to round up a harem of a dozen or so cows and court each one during her brief estrus is not enough; the love-drunk bull requires additional outlets for his surging libido . . . innocent diversions such as antlering conifer saplings to toothpicks and wallowing in mud baths perfumed with his own urine.

Then, too, there's the tension of the challenge. Any bullish elk Casanova who has what it takes to collect a harem of cows must stand ready to prove that he also has what it takes to keep them. Younger bulls, lacking muscle and confidence enough to openly challenge a harem master, will sulk in the shadows awaiting a chance to spirit away some straying cow for a sneak-thief honeymoon. And mature bulls that consider themselves equal in power and charm to the herd master will hoof it in from miles around to challenge the king for his throne.

A bull elk Casanova must stand ready to maintain his harem.

But since it runs counter to preservation of the species for competitive males to kill and mutilate one another, most conflicts between rutting bulls are symbolic rather than physical — bugling contests, antler profiling, bluff charges, minimal-contact sparring, and the like. When physical violence does erupt, it can and sometimes does prove fatal to one or both contestants, but most often takes the theatrical form (as did the single battle of the bulls I've observed) of a barroom shoving match between two well-oiled good old boys, neither of whom really cares to have his nose bloodied.

By comparison, the ladies of the species suffer the rut with grace and dignity, spending their time — when not being herded about or romanced by the monarch of the moment-in normal elk fashion. Which is to say, grazing morning and evening on forbs and meadow grasses, relaxing in the shade to chew meditative cud through midday, and pretending to ignore the boys.

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