Autumn Is Coming

Autumn comes each year with a balmy day, breezy weather, days when a sweater feels just fine while greeting the dawn, and on the odd day, fall rains pelt us with cold water that will soon turn to snow.

Remembering and solitude

But for now, on the sixth anniversary of my twin brother George’s death, I welcome the bright sunny day. I fished the Betsie River for Chinook salmon, without success, and suffered and sweated in the near 90-degree heat.
That I didn’t catch a fish didn’t matter. It was a time of quiet solitude, a chance to think back to our 64 years together, and to remember all the great times and good fun we enjoyed along the way. That said, there is more to autumn than this early heat wave.

Autumn’s Magic

There is something magical that offers to show its pretty face right after Labor Day. The hordes of tourists have abandoned northern Michigan, and once they leave, the frantic pace of northern living slows down and the residents can take stock of their lives.
Mine revolves, as it always has, around fishing and hunting. It's just that these outdoor pastimes speak a bit more provocatively to me, and I willingly imbibe in everything that epitomizes autumn weather.
It might be enough for most people just to watch the brief flurry of autumn colors as future days grow shorter and the weather cools. It begins with a gradual blend of orange, purple, red and yellow colors. They quickly intensify in the depth of their beauty, and brilliant sunshine seems to make each color more lovely.
There are one or two days each fall when the brilliant sunshine combines with just the right angle of the sun in the sky to make each color stand out in vivid contrast against any nearby conifers. I've yet to see a pine tree whose beauty wasn't enhanced by its close proximity to aspens, maples or oaks in full color.
Those days are when I stop the car, step outside, and bask in the glory of the autumn hues. I love the sight of the leaves in full color on the trees, and frown slightly once they lose their sparkle, and fall dead and somber to the forest floor.

Other magical things about autumn …

I love running water. The sight and sound of a trout stream twisting through the woods and gurgling around a log jam, makes me happy to be alive. I often pause, during an autumn day, to idly sit on a river bank to watch the ritual of recreation as Chinook salmon move onto a spawning redd and renew their kind.
The old adage about Pacific salmon holds true: They are born an orphan, and die childless. Think about it, and it's another marvel of nature that requires too much thought to explain. It's enough to know that it is true.
Autumn means testing my mettle against the thunderous flush of a ruffed grouse, the corkscrewing flight of the woodcock towering over an alder run, a long-tailed rooster pheasant cackling into the air, or the quick flush of a snipe from the edge of a wooded water puddle once their hunting seasons open. These game birds, although I seldom run into snipe anymore, provide something immensely important to me.
These months often deliver a day of fine dog work. It's wonderful to watch a brace of pointers or setters work the cover, singly or in tandem, moving into the wind, cutting the breeze at a 45-degree angle, and suddenly slamming to a rock-hard point, their bodies quivering with anticipation of a flush.
They stiffen in position, one dog backing the other, and hold steady as we move in. Calming words of "easy now" are muttered softly as a hand gently touches the dog's head or shoulder to steady them up, and the hunter moves ahead toward the flush. His eyes aren't on the ground but a few feet above the ground, a built-in hedge against being startled when the bird goes up.
The bird is up and away, and a shotgun barrel swings through the grouse or woodcock, and when everything looks right, a shot is fired.

An occasional good shot …

Sometimes, for me at least, the bird commits suicide, diving into a long shot string of No. 7 1/2 bird shot early in the season and slightly larger shot once the leaf drop occurs.
It is sitting still in a tree stand, marveling at the fall splendor of color along the oak ridges, and watching a buck ease through a saddle and become back-lit by the setting sun and a back drop of blazing color.
Autumn is knowing I can kill a buck with my bow, and having the intestinal fortitude to forgo the shot because it isn't necessary. There are times, once I draw on a buck, and then let off without taking a shot, that I know that buck could be killed. Knowing it and doing it are two different philosophies.
This next two months are the finest of the year. They provide me with everything I need to feel whole. They stroke my one-eyed vision, offer me daily glimpses of some of the most colorful sunrises and sunsets that an angler or hunter could ever hope to see.
Fall is my time. It is the best time of my life, and just think, it starts this month and I can't wait for it to unfold. I'm ready, quivering like a dog on point, and panting to be afoot in the woods again.
Being there, once again, moves me in such an exquisite way that words to describe my awe often fail me. But then, you probably know what I mean. 

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors