- Messages
- 104
- Reactions
- 172
In a secluded part of the Columbia River, where basalt cliffs tower above, the river as it flows its way to the Pacific. leaving my truck, I embarked on a solitary adventure. Armed with my Hatsan 105X 25 pellet rifle, I sought out elusive prey: the yellow-bellied marmots, known as rockchucks in this part of the world.
The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the canyon walls. The air smelled of sagebrush, and the distant flow of the river provided a soothing backdrop to my pursuit. Rockchucks are no ordinary critters, they inhabit desolate expanses, challenging even the most seasoned hunter. Unlike the hyper pace of ground squirrel or a rabbit rockchucks offered a different kind of thrill.
Why did I choose the rockchucks as my quarry? Perhaps it was the beauty of the country itself—the desolate beauty of eastern Washington foothills. The canyons with its solitude, the wind-swept canyon stretched as far as the eye could see. Rockchucks, with their yellow bellies and stout frames, blended perfectly into this rugged landscape.
As I crept along the basalt cliffs and rip rap, my eyes scanned for movement. Rockchucks are great at concealment, their fur blending with the rocky terrain. Spotting one was like finding a nugget of gold. My reward for patience and observation. And when I did spot him. I stopped motionless. The rifle nestled against my shoulder, I took aim.
The shots pop had a slight echo through the canyon, and the rockchuck tumbled. Its orange-brown fur contrasted sharply against the gray rocks. But this was not mere target practice; it was my communion with nature. Each successful shot this day felt like a tribute to the wilderness and appreciation to the forces that shaped this land over the eons.
I would sit on a warmed boulder, watching the river below. The current flowed relentlessly, carving its way through the basalt layers, heading its way to the Pacific ocean In those moments, I felt connected to the land, to the river, and to the animals that called this place home. I felt at peace.
The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows across the canyon walls. The air smelled of sagebrush, and the distant flow of the river provided a soothing backdrop to my pursuit. Rockchucks are no ordinary critters, they inhabit desolate expanses, challenging even the most seasoned hunter. Unlike the hyper pace of ground squirrel or a rabbit rockchucks offered a different kind of thrill.
Why did I choose the rockchucks as my quarry? Perhaps it was the beauty of the country itself—the desolate beauty of eastern Washington foothills. The canyons with its solitude, the wind-swept canyon stretched as far as the eye could see. Rockchucks, with their yellow bellies and stout frames, blended perfectly into this rugged landscape.
As I crept along the basalt cliffs and rip rap, my eyes scanned for movement. Rockchucks are great at concealment, their fur blending with the rocky terrain. Spotting one was like finding a nugget of gold. My reward for patience and observation. And when I did spot him. I stopped motionless. The rifle nestled against my shoulder, I took aim.
The shots pop had a slight echo through the canyon, and the rockchuck tumbled. Its orange-brown fur contrasted sharply against the gray rocks. But this was not mere target practice; it was my communion with nature. Each successful shot this day felt like a tribute to the wilderness and appreciation to the forces that shaped this land over the eons.
I would sit on a warmed boulder, watching the river below. The current flowed relentlessly, carving its way through the basalt layers, heading its way to the Pacific ocean In those moments, I felt connected to the land, to the river, and to the animals that called this place home. I felt at peace.
