Like exiting a taxi in Afghanistan a minute before bombs destroyed it and 36 people but missed me.

Like eagerly encountering a Sumatran tiger in the jungle alone and unarmed for a photo and a tale to tell.

Like watching a nubile judge in Belize sentence me to 10 years in prison for possessing two joints.

Like playing blink first with a steely-eyed shark in the Sea of Cortez armed only with a prayer.

Astonishment is a feeling of great surprise that produces lasting memories. I’ve got my share.

My latest astonishment required no risk, only a drive to that great land of adventure called Olympic National Park.

It arrived from forest shadows as my Prius rolled toward the park’s entrance station: the fleeting image of a bull Roosevelt elk wearing a rack of antlers like a crown of daggers.

The mammoth mammal looked not so much like a relative of deer but rather a testament to the creativity of an almighty god.

One moment the colossal elk was 30 yards away. The next he had vanished from sight and become a memory.

Like the tiger, the jaguar, the rhino and many other creatures that tripped my mind’s shutter, that elk will stay with me till my survival depends on cans of Ensure and bendable straws.

At least I hope so. The bull elk I spied had a thick tan body that segued to dark brown at the neck and head and on up the antlers to within inches of the points, where the color morphed to ivory.

Although motionless, he exuded an intimidating vibe, like Dirty Harry asking “Well, do ya, punk?” or Jules in “Pulp Fiction” imploring Brad to “Say ‘what’ again. Say ‘what’ again, I dare you.” 

I’d have stared at that elk far longer than mere seconds had he let me, but that’s not the way of behemoth male Roosevelt elks.

“They’re sneaky.” That’s how they are, said Bryan Murphie, an elk hunter and a district biologist for the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife whose territory includes much of the Olympic Peninsula. “They’re the ghosts of the forest.”

I’d seen Roosevelt elk cows and calves in the park. They were freaky quiet. Once, some 20 or so milled about just a shot put’s throw from me and were no louder than a snail digesting a leaf. But until this past October I’d not seen a bull elk in person.

The Roosevelt elk is the largest of the four subspecies of elk in North America by body mass, with the biggest bulls topping 1,200 pounds. The “rosies,” as cool people call them, reside in the temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest.

Hunting decimated their herds a century ago. Political will to protect the remaining rosies led to creation of Mount Olympus National Monument in 1909. It was enlarged and redesignated Olympic National Park in 1938. Several thousand rosies live there today.

The elk are named after the famous big-game hunter that would inspire the invention of the teddy bear. That’s all I’ve got to say about Theodore Roosevelt.

The rosies are one of two subspecies of elk native to Washington, the other being Rocky Mountain elk. The former are generally found on the west side of Interstate 5 and the latter generally on the east side.

Some herds, like those near Mount St. Helens and Mount Rainier, are a mix of both due to reintroduction efforts in the early 20th century that brought Rocky Mountain elk into Roosevelt elk range.

“The closer to the Olympic Peninsula you get, the elk have more pure Roosevelt genetics,” said Kyle Garrison, ungulate section manager for the WDFW.

Unlike the blacktail deer that live among us, the rosies live in herds for much of the year. During spring, summer, and winter, the elk tend to split into two herds: those consisting of mothers and calves, and those consisting of bulls.

During the mating season (a.k.a. “rut”), in early fall, bulls temporarily join cow herds. Larger bulls try to gather harems of up to 25 cows while smaller bulls try to establish dominance by locking antlers with the big guys and pushing them around.

But truth be told bull elk prefer posing to sparring. “It’s better to fight less and win through posturing,” as Murphie told me.

Sparring can lead to injury and even death, he said, and it’s generally not necessary to establish dominance. That’s not to say the bulls don’t spar, they do, but the sparring sessions tend to be short-lived events not intended to inflict damage.

An intimidating look — think Dirty Harry with his .44 magnum — combined with a high-pitched bugle that conveys “Well, do ya, punk?” keep many smaller bulls on the sidelines.

Plus, they aren’t necessarily going to be sleeping alone, so to speak. The “satellite bulls,” as they are called, often make whoopee with members of a harem that’s simply too big for a dominant bull to control.

Cows have a pregnancy lasting eight or nine months that results in a single spotted calf in late May or early June — after the inclement weather has passed but early enough so they have time to grow before winter returns.

Calves grow quickly. By the onset of winter, a calf that entered the world weighing 35 pounds may tip the scales at 250 pounds. The females might live to age 20, while the males rarely surpass 12 years.

Hunting and cougars threaten adult rosies, while calves fall victim to cougars, bears, coyotes, bobcats and dogs. Collisions with cars and habitat loss take a toll on all elk.

Returning to the elk’s set of antlers, it amazes me that the massive bony protuberances, some weighing 30 pounds, aren’t formed over years but instead just months. They usually begin growing by late spring, are retained through the breeding season, and begin falling off in February for the oldest males and in April for the younger ones.

Then, like the circle of life, new antler growth begins soon after shedding.

Scott Doggett is a former staff writer for the Outdoors section of the Los Angeles Times. He and his wife, Susan Englen, live in Port Townsend.