ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH, ESTES PARK, COLORADO

I led such a deprived childhood.  It was more a sign of the times than any neglect on my parents' part.  We had no air conditioning, no dishwasher to squabble over whose turn it was to unload, and the six of us (me, my parents and three siblings) shared one bathroom.  I walked four miles to and from school every day, uphill both ways.  Okay, maybe only half a mile, but when you’re 8 or 9, time and distance are like a rubber band stretched way beyond the original parameters.  Worst of all, the television didn’t come with a remote.  
 
That’s right, for you folks under twenty-five, life before a remote required somebody beat a path in the shag carpeting from the sofa to the television on a regular basis.  That was yours truly.  Besiders, it was a great way to garner attention; after all, I was the middle child stuck between two sisters distinctive by virtue of birth order rather than hard work or good looks.  But I digress.

There were only three stations back then, a long, long time ago in a far off galaxy with only three black and white planets receiving signals from outer space:  ABC, CBS and NBC.

Without Comedy Central, there was no South Park, nobody to lampoon presidential candidates, world leaders, and abortion.  Without Fox there was no Simpsons either. All I had back then was a goofy anthropomorphic Moose and his squirrely flying friend, Rocky. 

Nothing goofy about this guy! Looks like he ditched Rocky, too.

Pray tell, you ask, what in the world does a moose called Bullwinkle, who looks suspiciously like an elk, for those of you with a hunting license and a shotgun to call me out, have to do with a travel blog? 

I’m so glad you asked. Well, you didn’t really ask, but I know you wanted to.  Any time you’re ready, fire away via that little comment corner and I’ll fire right back at you.  I guess all the wild animals running around these parts and the mere mention of shotguns has me a little trigger happy in a manner of speaking; okay, writing. Whatever!  
 
Where was I?  Oh, that’s right.  Bullwinkle – travel – connection?  
 
Jim and I were visiting a beautiful place called Estes Park, home to one of the largest land mammals in North America.  It's a little piece of heaven at the foothills of Rocky Mountain National Park (preview of coming attractions) in Colorado, about 60 miles northeast of Denver.

The entire place called Estes Park is a room with a view.

Maybe it's moose/elk heaven, because the animals were wondering around the place without a care in the world. Perhaps they’d just gone on to greener pastures (no drought at this elevation) and were a little dazed after the trip. 

These 'cows' (female elk) obviously know that pedestrians always have the right of way.

At 7,522 feet above sea level, maybe even elk get lightheaded from the altitude.  They did simply stop now and then to get their bearings, seemingly oblivious to the hordes of people in cars and on foot gathering to watch and capture images of the spectacle.  I was in seventh heaven myself, my finger on the trigger of my camera shooting indiscriminately at anything that didn't move.

Say cheese!

Maybe in reality we were the show, not them.  We were wandering around on their turf,
stopping here and there to gawk in similar fashion.  

No pictures, please. Next thing I know they'll be all over the internet.

Who was really in charge here?  I know who’d do the charging if push came to shove.

I bet he picks up more than three stations with those antenna.

Big daddy, a.k.a. stud, seemed to know there was no question he was in charge of the entire show; this ‘bull’ sat back nonchalantly, undoubtedly considering his many options as rutting season loomed on the horizon, on his turf, with his harem of ‘cows’  grazing nearby under his watchful eye (and antlers). 

Mother nature's version of 'Sister Wives.'

His turf wasn’t always the stomping grounds for so many elk.  A little more than 100 years ago, elk had all but disappeared in the Rocky Mountains as man made his presence known with a bang. When the area was designated a national park in 1915, the elk herds now
protected, their numbers grew to the point Park Rangers today have embarked on a project to “manage” the herds via birth control (don't ask) and sharpshooters.  Nooooo, not Bambi!  I know I’m mixing my species, but you and I both know the results are the same.

Maybe the elk (they will answer to wapiti also but that version just isn’t as short and sweet as the word elk) were looking to stay at the Stanley Hotel for the winter. They’d certainly crashed the party within yards of the front door.   

Come again when you can stay longer.

Word on the street was with winter not far behind, the elk were coming down out of the mountains just ahead of the snow, looking for some new digs and an ample food supply.  With four stomachs, they certainly have their work cut out for them.

Jim and I certainly had our work cut out for us too securing the usual touristy picture (with Bullwinkle in the background) to commemorate the moment. 

Can you till I was a little frazzled after running around snapping a zillion pictures?