"There are few towns, few people, and at this point in the season, few hunters. We come here for the quail, the pheasants, and the solitude. And since neither the quail nor the pheasants that have made it this deep into the season are inclined to die easily or honorably, we often end up with solitude. Every feather taken out here is a feather earned, every trip both pilgrimage and tribulation.
This year was no different. There was snow. There was wind. There was ice and mud and roads that hadn’t seen a county grader this century. There were birds busted, birds flushed wild, birds missed, and birds we knew were there but were simply too damn shrewd and clever to get killed by the likes of us.
But there were also crystalline grassland sunrises enjoyed with a cup of coffee, warm dirt-road sunsets appreciated with a cold beer. There was tailgate philosophizing, world problem-solving, jokes, and laughter. There was the joy of watching wild young dogs stretch out across the horizontal yellow of the prairie, and the satisfaction of watching old dogs act young, if only for a while..."
To read the entire blog "WHEN IT ALL GOES WRONG: IN BIRD HUNTING, TRUE MEANING IS OFTEN FOUND IN ADVERSITY," by Quail Forever Journal Editor Chad Love, head to the link below.