Fortress of Brush
“I sure hope we find some greasewood thickets today,” said Kirk.
At least I think it was Kirk. It sounded like him, and came from the general direction of where he’d been swallowed by the brush. The dry sarcasm was a pretty good clue too.
“Bound to be a few around here somewhere,” I called back from my own head-high tangle of thorns.
It’s been said that the world’s most magical places are guarded by extreme weather and armies of mosquitoes. Here in Wyoming that daunting duo has so much territory to cover that they’ve recruited fortresses of brush to the cause as well.
The strategy is effective.
You won’t find any tweed or heirloom shotguns in what passes for pheasant habitat in the Cowboy State. You’ll be lucky, in fact, to find a way through to the creek. But if you don’t mind leading with your shoulder for a dozen miles or so, you may just locate a rooster or two. And if you can keep your bearings long enough to reach the stream, there may even be a brace of ducks in it for you.
You can plan on puncture wounds and skin tears, but also surprised mule deer, and curious parliaments of short-eared owls.
“Coming your way!” I yelled toward Kirk, having discovered a pheasant, but not a way to shoot through solid Russian olive.
Bang! Bang! Bang! came the reply.
As terrain goes, it isn’t for everybody… but what worth having is?