Big…big game

You know when you were a kid, and you chucked yourself or got chucked (probably more like gently nudged) into the swimming pool or off a diving board as a rite of passage?
I’m thinking my future will be a little like that, only when you get older that sort of stuff is considered dangerous or reckless.
So, I’m in over my head, which is good, because my misery usually makes for good copy.
Anyway, I drew an elk tag on Etolin Island, so I’m excited, but based on what I’ve been reading, I feel like I’m standing on the diving board, toes curling over an edge far higher than I had previously been.
Message boards have told me that me going there to stalk, kill and pack out an elk is akin to wearing, protecting then destroying a ring in Mordor. And those are just the success stories.
One dude said, when you hold the permit, “You can almost feel the pain.”
Others posted these encouraging tidbits: “Etolin hides 99-foot cliffs.” “I didn’t think it humanly possible for two men to carry an entire Roosevelt Elk out of the Etolin alpine.” “Is it true that the harder the hunt, the better the meat tastes?” “That hunt is one of the toughest I know of.”
“Some of the worst terrain you can imagine.”
Sweet. I’ve only been an avid deer hunter for a few years, so this is going to be an education for sure.
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