In June 2006, I was in Montana on a bluff overlooking a grove of conifers alongside the west Boulder River, which was close to flood stage because of the heavy snowpack runoff.As I stood there a small herd of elk cows—mothers—emerged from the tree line with their new calves. They paused to look at me and apparently decided that I was far enough away to do no harm, and so they stepped into the raging river to lead their children to the grassy pastures on the other side.It was not an easy crossing. The calves struggled against the current and then had to thrash their way through thick brush on the far bank. One calf failed and was swept downstream, swimming frantically until he reached an eddy and was able to gain a sandbar on the side from which he’d started.He waded into the river and failed again, repeating the retreat to the eddy and the sandbar. He tried a third time and still didn’t make it. When he got back to the sandbar he was trembling, and I wondered, What now?On the far bank, the rest of the herd waited patiently as the mother of the frightened calf stood at the water’s edge and, as God is my witness, nodded her majestic head to him, as if to say, “It’s okay; I’m coming to get you.”With that she waded into the river and crossed over to him, nuzzling him for a moment before leading him upstream to an easier passage.
