Gone Shootin'

There's nothing akin to spending a beautiful autumn day up shooting targets in the mountains. We put on our shooting gear, and headed up a dirt road to the range.

It brought back a litany of memories from my youth. Dad would take us up to the "B," which has since been industrialized, plop us in the back of his old truck, and head down a 60 percent incline toward the river. We would hang on for dear life- I truly believed the truck would overturn if I was positioned incorrectly, or even breathed at the wrong moment. I was a truly terrified five-year old.

Up the trails around the "B" we buried our favorite dog, and the dog of my youth, Lucky. She was a mini-border collie, and the most faithful pet anyone could hope for. She was a patient and gentle creature, genial by nature and always accompanied us on our hikes. (She did run away from the moose, though. We had hoped for protection.) She was the antithesis of her name- iconically unlucky. After a street fight with a cat, she lost sight in one eye. Age tore down her bones, and she was highly arthritic, but would get up and gallop tenderly to us whenever we visited her outside. I loved that puppy. We buried her up in the mountains, with my Dad's boots, which must be properly retired. Boots are never thrown away.

{Rob's hands}

To keep in the cowboy spirit, we headed to Texas Roadhouse for a hearty steak meal.