What can you say about the weather? I haven’t seen this much rain in September in these parts for a long, long time. We got one nice day this weekend, tried a couple new spots (nothing happening), and then took some friends – one of whom was making his debut to hunting – to our can’t-miss spot. Howling wind and rain made it tough for the dogs to locate birds, and we had a rare few partridges revealed. Still, beautiful terrain, good exercise, good friends, and a couple more Hungarian partridges made it better than the best day of work. Chukar Hunting: not for the greedy.
Tough luck, good funSomewhere out there, chukar hunker
Our last day to hunt this season got fog-shortened. But at least we got out. Walking was hard, we couldn’t find many birds despite plenty of sign, and got lost a couple of times because of the blowing pea soup and its disorienting properties. I kind of like those properties. So that’s it for this year. I’m grateful my wife could join us so many times this year and for her nice camera eye.
Trudging around in the sloshy conditions for 3-1/2 hours today gave me some good time, with suitable environmentals, to think about the lament I was to play at Burns Night later that evening. The soundtrack to the video (below) is called “Lament” (by Paul Motian). I think it sounds like sad fog. But cathartic sad fog.
Well, after last week’s mystery, we learned today that we must not have worked hard enough. Today we did. My ankles feel like shattered glass but my spirit and psyche are hovering well above the butte. Angus, as is his wont, is largely responsible.
What a partner
Sun, rocks, and greenup. And ibuprofen, Balvenie, and Lulu’s. As good a Saturday as I can ask for. Leslie was on call so couldn’t come along, so it actually could have been better. Not that I’m complaining. Just sayin’.
Strategically speaking, conditions last week were very similar, and we hunted the same areas that we did today, but just not as hard or thoroughly. We also focused today only on the sunny slopes, which gave us a great view of the inversion layer in the valley. Arg. Gotta take the good with the carcinogenic. But The Balvenie certainly can help. In moderation, of course.
Went out last weekend after the big snow ’round these parts. Had a tough time finding birds. In fact, we only found quail. Not that I’m complaining but it’s not what we were looking for (but it didn’t stop us from availing ourselves of them on occasion).
We did find something we were not looking for…
Your typical snow zebra
Anyway, Leslie took some nice video and photos, so here’s the evidence. Enjoy. We did, despite the dearth of partridges where we looked.
It hit me like a D-minor 7th substituted for an F major chord: when Angus points, I hold the gun in the ready position like a guitar. I don’t play the guitar, but my favorite musician does, and I’ve been wondering for years why, on a good day in the hills, I feel like I’m living some of his more haunting tunes, like “Throughout” or “Strange Meeting.”
I imagine most people supply their own soundtracks to whatever they do. Maybe not. But I got conscious of my doing this one day while elk hunting during muzzleloader season. I spent over five hours chasing this damned herd of cows through two feet of snow up and down hills I chukar hunt in better weather. Bill Frisell’s “Throughout” looped in my head the whole time, up until I missed the climactic shot, resulting in a nightmare experience related in another post.
Driving home, pissed off, exhilarated, confused, I wondered about the soundtrack. WTF? I gave up thinking about it. Until the next time I went hunting. Every time I went out I got an unsolicited soundtrack, usually supplied unwittingly by Bill Frisell. His stuff, some of it, is my “desert island” music, and has been my friend for more than 25 years, so I guess it’s actually not too mysterious why I hear it when I’m out there. But why do I hear it when I’m out there, as opposed to while driving long distances or taking a shower or mowing the lawn? Is it because of the similarity of the two “instruments” and how they’re held? Am I subconsciously trying to channel Frisell, or Scofield or Abercrombie or Hendrix or Pastorius or Metheny or Django freakin’ Reinhardt?
I should just let it go because this can get silly in a hurry, if it wasn’t before I even began. And maybe, if I stopped thinking about this stuff and learned to focus, I’d hit more birds. But maybe Frisell wouldn’t like that, so he’s sub-intentionally mind-stalking me so I continue my bad shooting. Or maybe I should just go do the danged dishes and go to bed.
