Spooked: Elk Hunting in the Pacific Northwest Perry P. Perkins          The woods were still and silent in the predawn darkness, every twig that broke under our boots, or brushed our shoulders seemed deafening.  With each snap and crackle, we would freeze, my lips forming silent curses as we waited for the telltale thunder of a bull elk crashing down the canyon wall to cross the river and leave us far behind. A moment would pass, then two, and all would remain calm.  Taking a deep breath, we would resume our slow ascent through the woods to the top of the ridge. We could hear, faintly, the murmur of the Miami River on the far side of the canyon rim and, occasionally, the soft rustle of the animals feeding on the moss-shrouded plateau above.        The top of the ridge formed a shallow bowl of old growth firs, looming high above the perpetual gloom of the forest floor. In the shadow of these giants, the ground was deep with fallen needles, thick hanging moss, and clusters of pasty white mushrooms. The…