Cold Night...Not.

I did make it north to chase a few partridge yesterday, but the sleepout did not come off. I awoke Monday with a stiff left shoulder which got stiffer and sorer as the day went on. By the end of the hunt, I was weighing whether or not to continue north and camp on the river or go home. The hunting had not been very enjoyable. While it was pleasant being out, the gun seemed five pounds heavier than usual, and any lifting with my left hand--even raising a full water bottle--sent pain shooting into my neck. Sleeping on hard, cold ground wasn't likely to improve the situation, and another day hunting with someone driving a spike into the base of my neck wasn't much of an enticement to continue the trip. So at the end of the day, I turned the car south and was home a little after 8.

I'm still pretty sore today, though it seems to be passing. This is part of getting old, I guess.

You may have already gathered that the hunt was not productive. As on my last trip to that area, I moved no birds. I did locate a couple of clearcut areas that will be worth returning to in a few years, and I scouted out a few fishing spots I may visit in the future. I'm grasping how much I still have to learn about finding grouse, and how much a few lucky excursions have spoiled me. Recognizing that ignorance doesn't bother me, though the lack of opportunity to pursue the requisite education does.

Aside from a sort of visceral compulsion, I don't have that much encouragement to purue it either, though sometimes that can come unexpectedly. At the first place I stopped in the woods, I opened the car door to catch a blast of tangled, delerious wailings from a pack of coyotes and sat still listening to them for a while. They must have been moving, as the sound gradually trailed off in volume, though not in intensity. I construed their calls as an invitation to join the hunt.