I could lie to you and say that I slayed limits two days straight this weekend, because I really could have, but I didn’t. I shot nearly a box of shells on mostly good opportunities provided by my now jaded bird dog and only had one bird throw feathers, which proceeded to dive into a boulder patch and bury itself deeper than the Titanic. It was a gorgeous trip to say the least, and even though I’ve picked up some terrible shooting habit lately I’m glad I went and ate humble pie in such a beautiful place. Off to the range for some guidance from someone smarter than myself. If this doesn’t mirror golf… god dammit. At least this is what the sporting life dishes out sometimes, and we must accept it. Game on, devil birds.

Sorry for the lack of verbiage (well maybe you’re welcome to some of you), I’ve been toiling away on another couple of projects that have been zapping my creative juices. One will be public shortly, the other by summer -hopefully. Stay tuned.



Post day beer un-re-cap.





TIME TO GO YET!!!!???!!! PLEASE!!!








10 responses to “Crooked

  1. It might be that your prodigious beard had become so voluminous that it is keeping your face too high off the stock of the gun for a proper mount.
    Winter layers of clothing can really bring on a case of the yips as well.

    • I think that not seeing many in the early season brought about some parasitic buck fever, and my greed is showing now that we’ve been striking the mother load. Straight shooting to you, Dan.

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