I'm a mountain man, to that I have no doubt. Ninety Nine percent of the time I'll take to the steeps, leave the flatlands for those wanting to milk cows and mow grass. The mystery the mountains possess have kept me entranced since I was a little scooter wandering the Appalachians with my BB-gun. That "What's over the next ridge?" mentality pushed me deeper into the woods than a little fella should have been, the same holds true for this not so little fella today. So you got your calculator out and did the math; that leaves a lingering one percent floating around, right? If not the mountains, then where?
The plains of course! The ones I was just poking fun at of in the opening paragraph. Hypocrite, I know.
Though my gravitational pull will always be towards the vertical world, the plains certainly has its own charm. Like the ocean, it's vast expanse is almost intoxicating in a homogonous way. Its unobstructed horizon has a beauty and magnificence of its own, not for its neck craning majesty but certainly for the magnitude of its vastness.
It was time to get lost in some emptiness. The dust bowl region of southeastern Colorado would do just the trick. The quarry? Quail. Scaled quail to be exact. Two days of wandering aimlessly through native grasslands with the occasional broken down homestead was in order.
The Jeep was packed, foot on the gas with enough caffeine consumed to keep the eyelids pried open until the next millennium. This raiding party was headed out when the rest of the heathens (I like to call the that when I take the rare instance of not joining them) were headed home from last call.
Birds were shot, dogs were worked and we were all tired and happy. My fix of the plains was thoroughly satiated.
Enough of my babble, enjoy the pics... I have some cows that need milking and a lawn to mow.