On a high plateau bordered by rimrock, Steve Jones checked the cap on his blackpowder rifle. He looked out across the sagebrush below him to where he could see a four-point buck browsing in the open plain.
His hunt took place in the new millenium but it could have been a scene from 150 years ago. It was Thanksgiving, the sixth day of a hunt marked by bluebird weather, lonely days on windswept mesas, and frustration. The deer he had seen on the first five days were either on private land or safely behind the refuge boundary.