We do love hunting the flyover country. The Great Plains and its small towns, where the pace is slow, the people are mostly friendly, and the food is fried. These are places rich in Western history, where we ponder the tough souls that lived and died on the land and the relics they left behind. Vast sections of public land still remain here, wild places where self-reliance is mandatory, and the beauty of God’s creation is on dramatic display. Something is endearing about the modest accommodations, the lack of opulence, the absence of pretense, and the value of functional utility in the rural West. We certainly enjoy the sparse humanity and the consequent silence of these desolate places. I do lament the dying rural communities we see that once had a purpose but are now dilapidated ruins, holding on, rotting in disrepair until they disappear into forgotten history.
I do hope you enjoy these pictures from our hunt.
Henry, on top of the world!
Piotti BSEE; a great bird gun.
A cold hunt! Highs in the teens. But the sun was shining, and the wind was calm, so it was wonderful.
Petroglyphs. These were either made by ancient people thousands of years ago or by Mrs. Nelson’s 7th-grade class in 1952. Not sure which!
No wonder Pocahontas was such a happy girl!
Hungarian Partridge tail feathers.
Home, sweet home!
Nothing a little soap and water won’t take care of.
Sweet Henry says, “Thanks for visiting the Birdhunter!”
Birdhunter 