Camp Grouse is a dream perched on a knoll. Around
this knoll the land rises, creating a nearly empty valley, where a stream constantly
serenades and a breeze funnels regularly between the hills. Clouds of warblers
swarm the trees in June and dragon flies patrol the yard on August evenings.
Grouse drum in the woods come March and the forest becomes a riot of color come
September. During the winter months there is a pristine silence, as the snowy world
sleeps before repeating the cycles.
 |
| Dreams of spring. |
About the time the snow disappears and the streams swell, dreams turn to trout fishing. The mighty river, a mile or so away, holds larger trout, but the small stream down the hill from Camp Grouse is full of native brook trout. Every spring the brook is different, with the snow’s runoff carving a new course and recently fallen trees always crisscrossing the stream. The new logjams and undercut stream banks will create deep dark holes where the brook trout will hide. Hopefully, a few will be coaxed out to fry in bacon fat for breakfast.
 |
| Dreams at the vice. |
Upstairs at Camp Grouse, inside the big pine desk,
is everything imaginable to tie trout flies. Books on patterns and trout sit
atop that desk, and the hours slide away there, tying and dreaming. It really
is as much fun as fishing.
Hiking books and maps, stored in the bookcase by
the stairs, help plan our short expeditions. When the weather is nice during
the summer months, our daily hikes keep both the dogs and us in shape, and so
far we haven’t run out of new places to explore.
In stormy weather, or even with the morning coffee
while waiting for the sun to climb higher, there is usually a jigsaw puzzle in
the works on a card table beside the sliding glass doors. Bookshelves are
filled with hunting and fishing lore, along with favorite novels and books on
New England history. Upstairs a guitar waits to be picked. A rainy day
certainly isn’t a hardship.
 |
| Friends helping. |
As September winds down clay targets are launched
from the deck to be turned to dust as they sail out over the alders at the
bottom of the knoll. Come the first of October the dogs will lead us into the vibrant
fall foliage, their bells ringing and enthusiasm never wavering.
And when the leaves drop and the bird hunting is at
its best, friends shuffle through Camp Grouse, and all of us hunt until our
legs hurt. There are so many coverts that we never get to them all. Memories
are made and stories are told while tired dogs sleep in front of the heater.
 |
| Dogs warming. |
And all too soon winter blankets the land again
as the world readies itself for spring again.
 |
| A place to dream. |