For two long years, high in the rugged Colorado mountains, a young bull elk carried an impossible burden. Wrapped tightly around his neck, like a cruel and unwanted necklace, was an old black car tire. It dangled heavily against his chest as he moved through forests, meadows, and even neighborhoods.
At first glance, it was almost absurd—a majestic creature of the wild wearing a symbol of human waste. But as the months turned into years, the sight became more tragic than strange. Here was a bull elk, one of nature’s proudest animals, reduced to hauling the weight of human negligence wherever he went.
And yet, somehow, he survived.
Wildlife officers began tracking him after the first reported sightings. They nicknamed him, followed him through seasons, and watched as he managed to forage, drink, and even travel with a herd—always with the same stubborn ring of rubber clinging to his neck. It didn’t stop him from eating, nor did it appear to sap his strength. But danger loomed in every shadow.
During the fall rut, when male elk locked antlers in fierce battles for dominance, the tire was a deadly liability. It could easily snag on branches, fences, or another elk’s rack. It could tighten, choke, or trap him in a fight he couldn’t win. The question wasn’t if the tire would cause harm—it was when.
For two years, officers with Colorado Parks and Wildlife searched for their chance. But the elk was elusive, wary of humans, and impossibly strong. At nearly 600 pounds and with ten sharp points crowning his head, he was a force of nature—one not easily approached, let alone subdued.
Then, on a cool Saturday evening in early fall, fate intervened.
Around 8:00 p.m., wildlife officers Dawson Swanson and Scott Murdoch received a call from a local resident. The bull elk had been spotted near their home, moving with a herd of about forty others. This time, the officers were ready. They moved carefully, every step deliberate, knowing that one mistake could send the animal bolting into the darkness, perhaps lost for another year.
The tranquilizer dart flew true. The great bull slowed, staggered, and finally lowered himself to the ground. For the first time in two years, he lay still, the hated tire waiting to be removed.
But even then, the challenge was not over.
The tire was steel-reinforced, impossible to cut cleanly with the tools they had in the field. To save the elk, the officers had to make a difficult choice: one of his antlers would have to come down. It wasn’t a decision made lightly. Elk antlers are symbols of pride, weapons of survival, and crowns of beauty. But survival came first.
With precision, they sawed through one antler. Only then could they slide the tire free.
What they discovered inside was staggering—nearly ten pounds of debris had collected within the rubber walls. Pine needles, dirt, leaves, and even small rocks were packed inside, pressing against the elk’s neck every moment of his life. It was a wonder he had endured so long.
And yet, remarkably, his body had held strong. Aside from some rubbed-off hair and a small wound no larger than a coin, the elk was in surprisingly good condition. “Other than that, he looked really good,” Murdoch later recalled. “I was quite shocked to see how well he had fared.”
For years, he had roamed between Park and Jefferson Counties, sometimes disappearing during winter only to reemerge when the snow gave way to spring. He had kept his distance from people, wary and cautious, following the instincts that had kept him alive. But all the while, the tire remained, a man-made trap that turned his life into a dangerous gamble.
Now, at last, the burden was gone.
When he awoke from the tranquilizer, he stood tall once again, unshackled, free to roam without the weight of rubber and steel dragging against his body. The forest welcomed him back as he trotted away, his spirit unburdened for the first time in years.
The rescue, though triumphant, carried a sobering reminder. This elk’s story was not just about luck and persistence—it was about responsibility. Human objects, from discarded tires to hammocks, swing sets, laundry lines, and holiday decorations, can become deadly traps for wildlife. What seems harmless in our backyards may mean years of suffering for creatures who share our landscapes.
As Swanson reflected after the rescue, “I am just grateful to be able to work in a community that values our state’s wildlife resource.” His words carried weight. Without the call from the resident, without the teamwork of officers, without patience and persistence, the elk might still be wandering, his fate uncertain.
Instead, he was given a second chance.
And so, the story of the elk with the tire ends not in tragedy, but in triumph. He is once again the wild creature he was meant to be—majestic, free, and unburdened. Somewhere in the Colorado mountains, he roams with his herd, his head held high, his strength fully his own.
For two years, he carried the weight of human negligence. But thanks to compassion, determination, and a little luck, he now carries only the weight of his antlers, his freedom, and the endless wild ahead.
It is a story of resilience, of the quiet patience of those who refused to give up, and of the enduring truth that even the wildest of creatures sometimes need a helping hand.
