I woke up early the next morning to apply for hunting tags. I knew it would be a busy day for purchasing hunting tags, but I went to Minnesota prepared. I had all of the information I needed at the ready, so once I got into the Colorado Parks and Wildlife system, I could order my elk tag before anyone else had the chance to snag it. I had my laptop set up on the kitchen table, tethered to my phone's cellular data, and logged in on the CPW website long before tags became available. As soon as they did, I got into the online queue and waited.

20 minutes of waiting later, I finally got into the system and plugged in all of my information as quickly and accurately as possible. When it finally came time to entering my hunt code, I put it in as quickly as possible and clicked "continue". Unfortunately, I was too late. All 6 elk cow hunting tags for my hunt code were long gone. I wasn't overly disappointed, but I was still bummed out. Elk hunting is viciously competitive in Colorado, and as more and more people become hunters, more and more people want to get themselves a Colorado elk. It's like a rite of passage. Every avid hunter must harvest a Colorado elk before they can call themselves an avid hunter. 

I decided to call my great uncle Courtney to see if he or any of his family members had any luck. He also failed to draw any tags. His son, Sean, and his grandson, Nathan, also got nothing. In fact, uncle Courtney was looking at a live data base of all 50,000 elk tags in Colorado, and within 20 minutes, less than 20,000 remained. Within 30 minutes, nearly every elk tag in the state of Colorado was purchased. Knowing this, I didn't feel so bad about missing out. I knew my uncle Courtney still had plenty of wild game in his freezer I could come by and raid whenever I wanted, so long as I left the backstraps alone. Backstraps are as valuable to hunters as gold is to gold miners.

I closed my laptop and got ready for the rest of the day. A couple cold fronts slid in the night before, so it was a beautiful 70 degrees outside. Grandma noticed my helmet and dirtbike, and asked when I planned on going for a ride. I shrugged and told her I did not know. I was going to ask someone for a tool box and a can of WD-40 so I could clean out my dirtbike's carburetor. I hadn't ridden it in months, because the last time I rode it, the throttle got stuck as I hit the powerband in 5th gear over a hill.

By some miracle, I didn't crash. I actually still had enough control over myself to pull in the clutch with one hand, press on the rear brake with my foot, and hold down the kill button with my thumb on my throttle hand, all the while charging over the hill on a country road at nearly 70 miles per hour. After that, I was successfully scared out of riding until I knew everything was lubricated and squeaky clean. Throttles don't just get stuck like that unless they're dirty. And, since the throttle cable on my dirtbike stops inside the carburetor, I knew that's where it must need some maintenance. 

Grandma told me I should call my cousin Troy, as he's the main mechanic of the family who was around most of the time. Unfortunately, I didn't have his number. He was also at work, and I didn't want to bother him once I found his number in one of my grandma's many handwritten phone books. So, grandma told me he would come by after work to check on his cattle, and I could ask him for help then. In the meantime, I wandered outside to scope out the farm for riding spots. 

I headed east first, towards the start of a path that headed north towards the family pond. I hoped that path had been used enough for me to ride it, but the grass always takes over it quickly. As expected, the path was already overgrown with grass and stinging nettle plants that stood up to my neck in some places. I could just visualize myself crashing in the nettles, which would be much worse than crashing into a cluster of cacti. At least cactus needles are easy to get out compared to nettle needles, which cannot be picked out and will only come out on their own. 

So, I turned around and headed towards the western side of the farm, where there was a path leading to a recently harvested pea field. There, I had roughly 50 acres of barren dirt to ride my dirtbike on. While it wasn't very smooth, it still looked pretty easy to ride. I could rip around on that field all day and not have to worry about my dirtbike slipping out from under me on slick gravel roads or ruining grandma's perfect lawn. However, the carburetor still needed to be cleaned before I could safely ride it. 

Later that afternoon, a rusty old pickup skidded onto grandma's driveway, outlaw country blasting from its state-of-the-art stereo system. I stepped out onto the front porch as the truck sped into the gravel lot near the steer yard, and waited for the truck to come to a complete stop before I dared to step onto the gravel. I knocked on the tailgate of the truck once I approached it, and my cousin Troy stepped out of the cab with a smile. 

"Sup, cuz!" I called out as we bumped fists. 

"Nothin' much!" Troy replied, "Grandma called earlier. She said you were having trouble with your dirtbike?"

"Yeah, kinda." I shrugged as we walked towards the steer yard, "She just needs a carb clean, but I don't have the tools to clean it up."

"Ah, that's an easy fix." Troy smiled as he approached the gate and put his hands on it, "I can get it done in 15 minutes flat!"

I watched as Troy clambered over the flimsy gate, which was held up by a couple of large posts on either side of it, tied to the post with a bunch of twine and duct tape.

"What the hell happened here?" I asked as I also climbed over the gate, nearly losing my balance as I swung my leg over the top. 

"Andrew (my cousin and Troy's second-to-youngest brother) rammed into it with the feeder. Go figure." Troy smirked. 

"I'm not surprised." I shook my head. 

Troy led me over to the middle of the steer yard where there was a hay feeder full of hay. He also checked the water trough to make sure there was still water circulating through it. Finally, he made sure all six steers were accounted for, which bolted around wildly to stay as far away from us as possible. I made sure to keep Troy between myself and the steers, because I didn't want to get trampled, not that Troy would be much protection against a charging 1,000 pound steer. I'd seen him almost get tramped before by a Charolais bull he was trying to tame for the state fair. Turns out, being in a round pen with a 1,500 pound wild animal is never a good idea, and Troy barely escaped unscathed when the bull got sick of being pulled around and charged him.

Troy noticed me hiding behind him and chuckled, "Yeah, my steers are crazy. As long as you don't run up to them, you'll be fine."

Since Troy was done making sure his crazy steers had food and water, I followed him out of the pen to safety. Troy and I had a long conversation about what we were both up to in life. I'd been a long time since we really got to talk. While Troy has been a successful diesel mechanic and farmer for years, I excitedly told him about my memoir, and he expressed interest in reading it. 

"I don't usually have time to read too many books." Troy admitted, "But, hey, maybe yours will get me back into reading things beyond articles and manuals about my job!"

As the sun sat just above the western horizon, my conversation with Troy was cut short by a startling car horn behind us. It was my aunt Stacy, who was over for dinner. 

"Well, it's getting pretty late. I better head home and get myself some dinner. I'll be back later to fix your bike! Good talking to ya!" Troy shouted over his shoulder as I headed over to greet my aunt Stacy. 

"Sounds good!" I shouted back. 

Later that night, while I visited with my uncle Wes and his family, Troy sped back to grandma's with a truck full of tools and WD-40. He took my dirtbike apart, sprayed down the carburetor with WD-40 until it was shining like new, then put the whole thing back together, all within 15 minutes. I only knew he was there when he sent me a text as soon as he was finished, and I only caught a glimpse of his truck as I rushed back to the farm with my aunt Stacey. 

I was very excited and incredibly thankful that my dirtbike would run like new again. I felt like I owed my cousin, but didn't know how. I knew he wouldn't accept cash. What he did for me was just a favor that was easy for him to do. But I still felt like I needed to give him something in return.