I am, by vocation, a hunter. A hunter of wildlife and fish. And I'm not exaggerating.
This isn't a hobby with me. I'm stuck in a feral past, or perhaps a more feral future, but lving in the present.
And I'm more of a hunter than a fisherman, in contrast with my father, who was the other way around
The first two seasons of the year open on September 1. Like most years, due to my occupation (which most people, at least who are professionals, would claim as their vocation, although I'd wager that it is with less than half, very conservatively), I worked. Opening weekend for me, therefore, is usually when I first get out, and I first get out for the greatest of the wild grouse, Blue Grouse.
They are, I'd note, delicious.
This is a somewhat complicated story, but because of the route I take in, I need permission to cross, which is always forthcoming but I didn't hear back in time this year. That meant that I needed to drive into a location a good two miles further from my normal jumping off point.
And the road, due to the heavy rains this year, and the winter snow, was eroded to impassable. So the walk was further than expected.
But still very pretty, in the morning light.
Because of the very long hike, and my recent surgery, I armed myself with a kids model 20 gauge and buttoned my shirt up to my neck. Because my old M1911 campaign hat was a casualty of a rattlesnake event two years ago, I wore a replacement United States Park Service campaign hat. I don't like it nearly as much as my old M1911.
I will say that those wearing synthetic hats are, well, missing the point, and the boat.
The entire trip involves some mountain climbing for the dog.
Those boots? White's smoke jumpers. Best boots ever.
We hike a fair amount. The dog drank out of a few streams, but I also carry a canteen and he's learned to drink out of a canteen cup.
We found and bagged two young grouse.
