Don't take this too seriously.

Short sleeve shirts, January, and chukar don't seem to fit together.  It seems like one of those dreams you have that even deep in slumber you know it's not quite right.  Azure sky, mud and snow at about 50/50, good friends, better dogs, and the dose of reality:  Next to no birds. 

Perfect conditions for the average human activity usually mean the opposite to the game we pursue.  You don't see birds sunning themselves midday on top of cliffs, strutting their stuff for the ladies and saying "Goddam Roy!  What a beee-u-ti-ful day, eh?"  At least not during scattergun season.  Fishing on sunny days in the winter can provide some bent rods, but that's because fish in ice choked waters have a bit more appreciation for the sun than even we do.  But you don't take these things to mind when you slap those boots on and take to the field.  Optimism is a cheap, sexy whore.  Realism is about the chase, climbing the mountain with an open mind and a light heart, because it's worth it.  Don't take this seriously.  We're running around with shotguns on steep and rocky mountain slopes where we don't belong, looking for a fucking bird that's only gifts are surviving here because it is exactly where it belongs.

Sometimes you get lucky, dumb lucky.  And sometimes meeting everyone back at the trucks with the only pair of stiff legs poking out of your game bag with the best poker face you can pull is worth every muddy, sliding step.

Excuse the poor camera jerk shadow.