Yet, our hero braves the arctic break of light in search of the (not so elusive) feather footed creatures of the tundra...
There! Off in the (near) distance, a wing of premature winter. Your mistimed camouflage did you in, snow wing.
The Ranger of the North, stealthily (or as stealthily as one can while wearing Gore-Tex), takes aim.
Our Ranger of the North, returns to camp with his brace of feather footed prey of the silent 'p'.
( A little etymological trivia: The word 'ptarmigan' originates from Scottish Gaelic 'tarmachan' . The pt- spelling is a mistaken Greek construction from 1680's, according to the Online Etymology Dictionary. I know, I'm such a geek.)
He heralds two of the tundra’s most feared tailed mercenaries to flush out the rest of the (not so elusive) feather footed creatures of the tundra.
Lyra squeals, “I smell them! Over here! Hurry, hurry!”
“For dog’s sake,“ mutters Loulou, “calm down before you pee on yourself.”
Onto the rolling tundra they traverse, in search of the rest of the feather footed creatures of the tundra.
In the end, our Ranger of the North returns to camp with the morning’s bounty.
My darling, dashingly handsome, dear husband (yes that his official blog designation) ran off for a few days with the girls and a hunting buddy in search of caribou and moose. This was the closest they got to a caribou:
As you can see, he did find plenty of small game to fill the Rubbermaid bounty bins.Apparently, he was keen on taking down the equivalence of a caribou’s worth of ptarmigan. Not that I’m complaining...
Stay tuned to find out what madcap culinary adventures are in store for these feather footed yummies.