This is a foolish country. Foolish men come here to get riches from the bellies of the mountains, incessantly chipping away at them like deranged unfeathered woodpeckers. Others ply the tides of sagebrush and scarce springs of this driest of states to raise animals, who like their owners, somehow manage to scratch out a living from what appears to be nothing. They don’t know any better, the poor hooved bastards, but they know more about the desert than the speeding travelers on the interstate who call our fool’s paradise “Nu-VAH-duh” and wish for nothing more than to escape this vast empty desert. Maybe those weary and sage-sick travelers are the sane ones who still cling to traditional ideas of beauty and safety, preferring places that are green and lush as a jungle and usually mashed between a few concrete ones. The great primal hand that reaches out from the back of the brain and points a heavy finger at how essential water and communities and abundant food are seems to be in firm control, gently prodding the brain’s pleasure centers to ensure they both remain well fed and prosperous.
Our foolishness doesn’t stem from necessity nor greed, at least most of the time. It’s comes from a contorted and withered primal hand that died of a stroke years ago when we first accepted a love of the desert, and its mummified finger fell into our pleasure centers, horribly scrambling them into a masochistic omelette.
What sane and collected person would find this fun – Driving to the middle of nowhere of the Middle of Nowhere. Marching up a steep and snow infested mountainside with a loaded gun in the cold of the late season. Checking the spazzed out young dogs distance so she won’t blow the covey on the top. Watching the dog blow the covey on the top, then chasing them back down the mountain while slipping and sliding and swearing and swelling and… smiling?
Madness. Pure madness.
All for a chance to best our Master of Fools…
And sometimes, we do.