Chores

As it turns out, rain isn't the worst that can happen on some days. It's Autumn now, and knowing what is coming next, we all want to enjoy as many of these colorful, pleasing days outdoors as possible. But today, there's a definite chill in the air, and the precipitation is trading back and forth between mist, drizzle, and light rain. My morning walk in rubber boots and rain parka was nice enough -- reminded me of those past days in a duck blind with raindrops dripping off my hood -- but I'll admit, it felt pretty good back inside.

There were some loose plans with Scott for some hunting behind his setters, but hunting in the rain has lost much of its appeal. There was a day when it wouldn't have mattered, while now the realization of getting older and releasing some of that "extreme desire" (as She calls it) is kinda' bothersome. Yesterday's effort in the rain was mostly exercise, resulting in disassembling a gun to clean and hanging my orange-shouldered hunting coat to dry. The grouse, apparently, were hiding in places I didn't go. 

There are things to do outside. Never-ending Autumn chores around home. Lawn mowers to rotate places with the snowblower (the weatherman said we might get a smattering of snow today. Not enough for the blower, but, well... you get the idea), and a couple of outboard boat motors to service if I've decided they won't be used anymore. Ok, to be honest, those motorized implements and boats are all under roofs, so I could stay dry and relatively comfortable working on them, but not as comfortable as my easy chair gazing out the front window watching the rain. Tasks for the chainsaw and brush-cutter are waiting, and the yearly messing around with various garden fencing that goes up or down depending on the mood-- hers, that is. Of course there's more. Not today, though. It's cold and rainy.

There are things to do indoors, jobs big and little. I've noticed a loose bit of baseboard in the hallway; been looking at replacing the ceiling in the bedroom; and all manner of other things and projects that could be replaced or updated in a long-time DIYer's homeowning lifetime. And I need to re-load some shotgun shells, which may not fall into everybody's category as "necessary", but I used my last box of 20-gauge reloads at the gun club last Sunday, and next Sunday is coming around. 

One of my favorite outdoor writers was Gene Hill. I enjoy everything he wrote, and I'm glad to have a collection of his books. When he passed, a talented author was lost. Today I think I'll re-read his thoughts on chores. Then I'll get to loading those shells. It's a good day for it.  

Hunting without

 After something like fifty years of grouse hunting, this season I'm without a dog. I've often said that I'd likely quit hunting birds if I didn't have a dog, and at the time, I believed it. But the autumn colors are too much to resist, and while there are ways to enjoy October without a gun in hand, I have the guns and enjoy every second of handling them far too much to keep them locked up.

Gabbi went down a little over a week ago. Kidney failure, a result of the Lymes she contracted last fall. She'd been going downhill for a couple of months -- Vet said this happens to a small percentage of animals that get the disease. When the time came, a compassionate veterinarian and assistant came to our house to finish the task. Gabbi is buried near three other setters on the property, all marked with a planted white pine as a remembrance.

Without a dog, hunting is not the same. It's not bad -- just different.  Yesterday I found a pretty piece of cover I'd never seen before, an easy-looking trail that just might hold birds. I slipped out of my vehicle, grabbed my shotgun, and started walking. I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss watching my dog break away into the cover ahead, or hear the cheery bell ringing from her collar as she explored the thickets, balsam runs, and alder edges in her quest for grouse. There was, however, a peacefulness to it. I moved slowly and stopped often, just to look around. A short examination of acorn-filled bear droppings was called for. A piliated woodpecker knocked chunks from a dead aspen while I watched. And there's the quietness to enjoy with only the slight breeze to rustle the leaves.

I was a half-hour into it, maybe a bit more, when a grouse flushed to the right. It didn't seem like it flew far, and a stand of taller balsams fifty yards out appeared a likely place the bird would land. Getting a shot in that kind of cover is tough but worth a try, so in I went.  I pushed around the entire stand but couldn't raise the bird, again. I moved farther east in the cover before turning back toward the trail. I guess I was more intent on gaining the easy trail and let my guard down. Two grouse flushed behind me, and I swung around just in time to see two beautiful birds flash through a tiny opening to disappear before the gun barrel could catch up. Akin to missing the strike of a big fish, I could swear, or grin and accept it. Even better, be thankful for the sight. That's hunting. And it's better than not hunting. By a long shot.