I say it every time, and I probably sound like a broken record, but there is something medicinal about these harsh mountains. They heal you. Maybe it’s the selfsame energy that forms mountains when two immovable plates collide, and this coming together, and coming to the surface brings with it some sort of energy. Or maybe they just are. I’m not quite sure yet. There is a spirituality here that just never dwindles or hides either. It is tangible. No matter how lost you may be internally, it is there, like a Guiding Light. These mountains harshness is their beauty. Their beauty is their harshness. I am above average in the fitness department I am well aware of that, yet even I struggle to go at it hard for a full day up in these beautiful peaks, day in and day out. They are humbling. The winter colours are soothing; Auburn, rust, fawn, and some shades of green sprinkled about for good measure. The highest peaks are still clothed in some snowy streaks, strewn about on the tops, with thin fingers reaching down the slopes ever so slightly. When you get to the higher ground, and gaze out, it looks like it’s the work of the hands of a patient, loving, wise grandmother who has quilted this all. Patch like and almost haphazard, yet perfectly planned and almost meticulously measured even though there is no pure symmetry. The icy wind keeps you in check too whenever you feel complacency kicking in, or, that one rock you overlook that is loose and waiting to send you tumble downhill on your backside. The Greywing Francolin that reside here are different. I’ve always said that and I truly feel that. They have a mysticism that I can’t quite grasp at times. This mysticism, this non-guarantee to find them, is precisely their allure and appeal. Once you taste it, you can’t quite stop thinking about it. This is the purest form of wingshooting – true hunting, there are no guarantees, there is no easy, and that is how it should be in my mind.
Always chasing the horizon.