Sandhill pheasant and sharptail -- November in the Panhandle

Some people don't see the beauty of the Nebraska Sandhills. I understand; it's a dusty kind of beauty. But to me, the hills and thick grass create an austere beauty that provides contrast to the lush beauties of terrain that is easy to love.

We come here with our dogs, supposedly looking for birds. In truth, birds are only an excuse to let the wind and the grass and the sky cleanse us.

  The skies are big here, and the horizon is more than just a theory.

Frank found his first sharptail here, the native grouse of the high, dusty plains.

There are pheasant, thriving on the cropland.

Some years are better than others: the hatch is variable, and conditions change. But no matter what the year is like we always find some birds, and quantity is not as important as the stories, and the fact that we are here, on the plains.

And there are the old dogs, who need to trail one more bird, and spend one more day with us.

The fences seem insignificant, as if they won't be here long, as the sky and the space will eventually overwhelm them.

And a man is just another small break in the skyline.