The boys and I went shooting yesterday. Of course I forgot my camera. The storm was moving in and quite frankly it was not as fun as it should have been.
The wind was a bit sharp and the grapple and rain all the more annoying.
We were shooting in the hills above the river, beneath us and falling away into the ravine the river was almost black, the banks lined with silvery brush and red twigged willows.
I have always loved the color of winter in the river bottoms, it is a mix of pale muted purples, reds, black and greys and the occasional flash of rusty yellow. It is oddly austere and rich at the same time.
Right now it is mud season but in two months those hills will be thick with new grasses and come June red poppies will border the wheat fields beyond the river bottoms, it will be eye-popping-ly beautiful.
A few miles away is the little town where my great-grandmother grew up in the late 1800's, she used to say it was the perfect place for an asylum, in the summer you never wanted to leave and in the winter you could not get out.
Most people who shoot there leave a mess behind them and that is a real shame we always police our brass and make sure we leave the place better than we found it.
I wonder if those who shoot there look around and see how beautiful it is, mostly they are concerned with blowing things up.
I have to admit the black river makes a satisfying riiippp when shot with the rifle.