I don’t know if it was as windy where you are as it was down in the southeast corner of the state last weekend, but I hope not. Granted, it’s Wyoming, so it probably was. That wind, even by Wyoming standards, was insane.
I went out to feed the horses Saturday morning, and it put me in a foul mood. It was bad enough that I couldn’t get the hay from the stack to the feeder without it blowing off the pitchfork and disappearing instantly, but I had been hoping to go pheasant or duck hunting over the weekend.
There was no point in trying to go hunting. If I’d kicked up a pheasant, the bird would have been in Nebraska before I could have gotten a shot off. And even if my bird dog were good, which she’s not, she wouldn’t have been able to find a scent. So much for a scent cone. Any odors left by birds out there were erased by those gale-force winds.
Waterfowl hunting would have been equally useless. I’ve been watching birds giving up on Wyoming for weeks, heading south in long V’s and big bunches. But over the weekend, any duck or goose with any sense was sitting tight on a lake or a river, waiting for the winds to die down. Or if they were heading the direction the wind was blowing, they were moving through at nearly the speed of sound.
A turkey hunt might have been an option, but I didn’t think about it until it was too late. There may have been some places up in the Black Hills that were sheltered from the wind enough to give a guy a chance to be outside for more than 10 minutes without going completely insane.
I’m hoping the winds die down by this weekend. I’d like another crack at some pheasant and waterfowl hunting. If they don’t, maybe I’ll just stand at the state line and pass-shoot some pheasants as they blow by.