The
geese have been flying overhead, sometimes six or a dozen, other times fifty or
a hundred, all honking and heading west late in the day. I’ve never figured out
where it is they go. During the morning dog walk they fly east, creatures of
habit, to feed in fields during the safety of daylight.
Non-hunting
friends ask if I’ve been hunting, not realizing it is just a fall event. In the
woods behind the house the ferns are turning golden or the color of rust. The
air smells of dried grasses and hundreds of grackles sit on the power lines
beside the street, contemplating their departure. In the mill pond down the
road clusters of ducks feed, where a month or more ago clutches of young followed
the hen mallards.
Hunting
catalogs clutter my desk and I’ve printed out the “Bring to Camp” list from my
computer. Additions will be penciled in and a few items crossed out. For the
most important weeks of the year, nothing can be forgotten.
The
dogs know what’s ahead, at least the older two. The youngest hasn’t made her
first trip north during bird season, but she’s raring to hunt. This afternoon
she cautiously pointed a planted pigeon from almost thirty feet away. That
looks like the making of a grouse dog to me. They sleep at my feet to keep
track of me.
Several
times a day I bring a calendar up on the smart phone, trying to figure out who
is visiting Camp Grouse when and how to line up all the opening days. Grouse
season is the priority, but it’s nice to catch the opening of our two duck
seasons too.
The
gun safe is unlocked evenings, so the favorite gun can come out and be hoisted
to the shoulder. It feels familiar and swings faithfully along the line where
the wall meets the ceiling. Daily it brings back assorted memories, and then is
wiped down to be put away. Usually a second or third gun comes along as a
backup, and which one is a difficult decision that will wait until departure
day.
Hours
are spent searching Google Earth,
looking for undiscovered logging roads and hidden coverts. It’s almost as much
fun as being there. The hunting journal is reread, particularly the notes made
at the end of each season, which remind me of what to do different in the
future. Lists are made of places to hunt, both new and old favorites, and
coverts to ignore because they are past their prime.
Time
passes slowly, like the days before Christmas.
The
only drudgery that my dogs might allow in their lives would be suffering
through a bath, otherwise all they do is play, eat, and sleep. And in that,
hunting and training, which they love, are included in play.
