It was late evening near the Madison river in Yellowstone. I heard his shrill bugle, and then the grunts through the cool air. It was a call of wildness and passion. I looked through the trees, into the grassy meadow where I saw him, head high, antlers back, a huge bull elk. His call was directed toward a lone cow elk at the end of the meadow. The other cow elk, some thirty or more, were in a herd near him. He called again, this time the sound less demanding, his head a little lower. She turned so slightly, but continued to sit, resting in the brown high grass. There were two young bull elk across the river. This made him very nervous. He must have realised this was no ordinary cow elk. He was now making small whistling noises. Now she turned with a peacefull smile, and a whistling noise left her lips too. He gently walked over and kissed her. There were many other cow elk, waiting in the meadow, but only this one had his heart.