I don’t know what it is that drives me.

I run 15-20 miles a week on the county roads around my home, but I can’t make it through a day of shopping in Billings.  I go to a few stores with my wife and I’m beat before we get to Walmart.  By the end of the day I’m offering to “watch” the car while she runs in to the last few stores.

And then comes hunting season.

For the last three years I’ve been flying solo when I shot each of my elk.

The first of those three, a mature cow, was the first and only time I ever considered walking away.  Just up and leave her laying there in the trail.  No one was around…I could probably make it to my truck and never see another soul.  No one would know I shot her…and then I wouldn’t have to finish gutting her out.

I hadn’t even started packing yet and I was thinking about quitting!

But I didn’t do that.

I cowboy’d up, got her quartered, and headed up the trail with the first load.  Not too bad.  It was about 1 mile uphill to the trailhead.  It was tough, but I made it.  So, I went back for load two.

Tougher, but still doable.  I estimate I had 75 pounds of meat on my back.  My legs were aching, but I made it.

The last load took place well after dark.  I had a flashlight and I was alone and covered with blood.  My backpack was covered with blood.

Did I mention I had a flashlight?  One flashlight.

In the dark.

In the Big Horn National Forest.

In October.

I don’t claim to be an intelligent man, but even I knew what a poor decision it was to be on that trail that night.

But something drove me to make that last trek down the hill to get my last load of meat.

And it was going to be my last load.  I was determined to fit every last bit of meat onto my pack frame.

I can only guess the last load was nearly 100 pounds.  I really don’t know, but I had to heave the pack onto a nearby boulder and crouch down to try to get it on my back.  Standing up, the load was too heavy and I couldn’t lift the straps high enough to get them onto my shoulders.

Once that was accomplished, it was just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other until I made it up the hill.

Step by plodding step I climbed that hill until I reached the trailhead…just as our local Search and Rescue personnel showed up.

I’m not even joking.

They showed up AFTER all the meat was packed out!! Gee, thanks guys.

I harvested this year’s elk in nearly an identical situation.  I shot my elk, a cow, only a few miles from where I had the earlier experience.  I had left my vehicle just over a mile away, parked on the side of a Forest Service road.

I wasn’t supposed to shoot an elk that afternoon.  I had been hunting with my brother Barry all week.  We both had “any elk” permits, which generally means “hold out for a bull as long as possible, but shoot a cow if you can’t find a bull.” We both had passed on cows earlier in the week.  This is a coveted tag and we didn’t want to “waste” it by shooting a cow too early.

I like to think of myself as a trophy hunter, but in reality, I’ve never shot what most hunters would call a true trophy.  I’m really up there for the meat.  Would I like to have nice rack to hang on the wall?  A cool tailgate photo with me holding up my trophy buck or bull?  Heck yeah!  But ultimately, I want to put meat in my freezer and so, I nearly always end up shooting a fat doe or big cow.

So that day, Barry and I hunted together in the morning, but he had to head home for his son’s HS football game later that evening.  My plan was to walk down to a certain meadow, just to take a look around and then head home.  I didn’t expect to see anything–and I didn’t. At least not at first.

When I arrived at the meadow, there was nothing there, so I took a break underneath a tree.  It was mid-afternoon and the weather was unseasonably warm.  I soon got sleepy and dozed off.  When I woke up some time later, I noticed clouds had rolled in over Medicine Mountain and it looked like a storm was heading our way.

“But I’m not far from my truck.  And it’s still really warm,” I thought to myself.

I sat there another 45 minutes.

And then, from out of the trees to my right, not 30 yards away, a cow and calf elk stepped out into the clearing.  The cow spotted me immediately.  I wasn’t hidden at all.  She looked at me and I looked at her, both of us motionless, wondering what to do.  I couldn’t raise my gun or I would spook her and she didn’t know whether I was something to be feared or just part of the landscape.

In the end, she decided I wasn’t anything to be worried about.  She walked right past me and never game me another thought.  I watched her for some time trying to decide whether to shoot or not.  It was late, and if I shot her, I would have a lot of work ahead of me to get her packed out.  A storm was rolling in and I would be working in the dark soon.

In the end, I decided to shoot.

I had taken an entire week off work, I had already passed on one cow, and this was an easy shot at a mature elk.  If I didn’t shoot right then, I would have to take more time off work, make more trips to the mountain, and there was no guarantee I would get another chance.

It felt like a gift, so I took her.

She dropped with one shot from my .270, and then the real work began.

I got her cut up before the storm hit.  I boned out the meat so I wouldn’t have to carry any extra weight and packed everything into game bags.  Rather than pack out one load at a time, I decided to pack the four bags a short distance, one at a time.  My goal was to get the bags all across Porcupine Creek while there was still light, so I wouldn’t have to cross it again in the dark.

I didn’t have a pack frame with me—it was in the truck—so I decided to carry my gun and hunting pack, and one load of meat, back to the truck to retrieve the meat hauler pack.  By this time a light rain had started and wouldn’t let up again that night.

From the creek I could almost see the road, so when I got to the truck, I decided to leave it running, with its lights on.  That way I would have the headlights to guide me during what I hoped would just be two more trips.

I considered just heading home and coming back the next day to retrieve the remaining loads of meat.  The meat would certainly be fine, but I wasn’t sure how much snow (the rain had turned to snow by now) we would get and I didn’t want to drive 50 miles each way to wade through an uncertain amount of snow to pack out a heavy load.

I decided to just get everything done that night and it ended up being one of the toughest things I’ve ever done.  By the time I reached the truck for the last time, I was soaked to the skin and absolutely beat.  I was Andy Dufresne standing outside Shawshank after crawling 500 yards through a sewer pipe.

And I’ve rarely felt happier.

So what is it that drives me?  Or you?  Or any number of people that battle unspeakable challenges on a daily basis?  Challenges that I can’t even fathom.

I’m not sharing these stories to show how tough I am or that I have discovered the secret to unlimited will power.

Remember, I’m the guy who can’t make it through a day of shopping.

I recount these experiences because I’m fascinated by mental toughness and how and why we choose to persevere and when to throw in the towel.

I can’t begin to know what goes on in yours or anyone’s mind.  I know there are very real illnesses of the mind that prevent many people from making rational decisions.  But if you have the ability to make sound decisions and do hard things, know that you are tougher than you can possibly imagine.

Your internal reservoir of will power has much more in reserve than you think.

Grit it out.

Don’t give up.

You’re stronger than you think.