Kestrel Keller

2 months ago | thewestrn.com | Kestrel Keller

It’s 11 p.m. and I hope the night clerk at the Sundowner Motel can’t see my rifle and bloody white bag from inside the lobby. I’m waiting in the shadows of a dim, yellow street light next to the wide main drag in Dillon, Montana. My partner comes out with a room key, and we realize we have to walk past the big office window to reach the outside staircase. Putting our hefty cargo between us, with L’s larger body blocking the window, we walk in lockstep without catching the clerk’s attention.

2 months ago | thewestrn.com | Kestrel Keller

It’s humid for fall in Montana, with heavy clouds overhead, when I park my truck at the end of a long, gravel forest road. Before opening the door, I scan the parking lot scattered with horse trailers, trucks and SUVs for anything out of the ordinary. I’m looking for signs of a potential threat or annoyance. A few guys sit in an elaborate RV camp. I note that they aren’t out hunting and don’t show any sign of a harvest.

2 months ago | thewestrn.com | Kestrel Keller

September 2021We wade across the river by the light of our headlamps. It’s chilly and our group of three is quietly giddy with camaraderie, lack of sleep, and the possibility of finding a bull elk among the golden leaves of old gnarly cottonwoods. The sky is silky black and oozing stars. Contentment washes over me as I follow my friend’s silhouettes through the prairie grass. Nicole and I have hunted here before, but approaching from this direction is new to me.