I barely read. I used to write. The only math I do is how birds take flight. How many in a covey. Where a pair might roost. How many miles it might take to get lost. But for the first time I am reading a book about Grouse. To be honest. There is nothing in MY heritage that says grouse hunting is to be done a certain way. There is no persona or code of sport. I’m so far behind. I don’t own a pipe, or a heavy flannel. Or even speak the proper lingo. But I am from Minnesota. And that’s all the fuckin matters. I didn’t play hockey. Well one season but I had no pads or gloves just mitts and tape. It wasn’t fun.
Spent most of childhood pissed off fought a lot. Guess I’m still a little angry. Don’t fight tho. Too banged up. To scared my back might slip. 36 years now. Got a girlfriend and four dogs. Sold all my furniture and gave away all my clothes. I named myself “the American Nomad” or what the Border Patrol call me-Nomad De Americano. I kind of like the name. Don’t know if it’s original but don’t care either. Point is soon I won’t be so angry. I’ll be northbound to a place that’s cold in December ya know. I know where I going happy bout dat don’t know where it’s headed tho. 10,000 Lakes wolves and GROUSE. Yes. I need therapy. My shrink they call A King. His castle lies in the bog. But to get there…I must sleep first. #uplandlowlife