A massive bull elk stood in regal stillness along the banks of the river near Canmore, his towering antlers branching like polished driftwood against the pale morning sky of Alberta. Frost clung to the tawny fur of his neck and shoulders, each breath unfurling in slow clouds that drifted into the cold air before dissolving. The quiet hush of early day wrapped the landscape, broken only by the soft murmur of flowing water and the distant whisper of wind combing through spruce and pine. Muscles shifted beneath his hide as he adjusted his stance, hooves pressing into the damp earth, his dark eyes steady and watchful, reflecting both caution and calm authority. Scars along his flank hinted at past rutting battles, stories written into his body like weathered lines in bark. He lowered his head once to drink, antlers tilting forward like the crown of a forest king bowing to his domain, then raised it again, droplets falling from his muzzle to the stones below. Light from the rising sun traced the edges of his silhouette, igniting a warm glow along his back and outlining each tine of his rack in gold. In that moment he seemed less like an animal and more like a living monument to the wilderness—ancient, powerful, and utterly at home in the wild river valley that shaped his every instinct.