Monday afternoon I left work early and took the family dog (the black one) pheasant hunting. I fully expected not to shoot a pheasant, not even to see anything, and I wasn’t disappointed. But I got several great shots nonetheless. The two hours spent in the field brought back memories of a half century or more ago when I spent happy hours with my dad hunting in the western part of Cache Valley. Back then we had more luck, but the cold wind, dead grass and cattails rustling against boots, cows in nearby fields, the occasional shotgun blast of a fortunate hunter, clouds hanging low over mountains, fighting with the sun for control — all were reminders of what a beautiful place I live in.