Majesty. Too grand a word? Hardly. The challenge rises in trying to describe a great wild ruggedness with a language born on a small island of green hills. Or, on a deeper level, trying to reduce the imperfect harmony of a roaring flute-an 800-pound, urine soaked, mud-slathered, wild-eyed flute-to a few flat syllables. Plenty of folks have tried. And a few, in sublime moments, have crossed over, the pages of their books suddenly smelling like pine duff and elk musk. Those sublime moments are gathered together here-the words of dozens of people who have loved elk and elk country over the past century. And these passages are coupled with a language of greater clarity-photographs that need no words, images that ring with something very much like the sound of a faint bugle drifting down out of the fog. Listen well as you turn these pages. There is majesty here.