Fall is almost here

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

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 living slows down and the residents can take stock of their outdoor lives.

Mine revolves, as it always has, around fishing and hunting. It's just that these outdoor loves speak a bit more provocatively to me, and I willingly imbibe in everything that epitomizes the best and worst of autumn weather.

Autumn weather means river fishing for salmon and steelhead.

It might be enough for most people just to watch the brief flurry of autumn colors as the days grow shorter and the weather cools. It starts 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 jump out, making them more attractive.

There are one or two days each fall when the brilliant sunshine combines with just the right angle of the sun to make each color stand out in stark contrast against any nearby cedars or pines. I've yet to see a pine tree whose beauty wasn't intensified 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 spent to the forest floor and a mess to clean up from the yard.

I love the cool, clear days, and find a steady diet of fall rain a bit to somber for this time of year. Daily rains make me anxious for the sun.

Fall means a changing of the season. Thank God for four seasons.

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 work hard to renew their kind.

The old adage about Pacific salmon always holds true: It states that fall salmon are born orphans, 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, or the quick flush of a snipe from the edge of a wooded water puddle. These game birds, although I seldom run into snipe  these days, provide something very important to me. It matters not that my wing-shooting skills dimished when my vision started to go.

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.

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 in. His eyes aren't on the ground but a few feet above the ground, a built-in hedge against being startled by the flush, which inevitably still does that job even though we expect it.

Watching a good dog work great bird cover is more fun than shooting.

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.
Sometimes, for me at least, the bird commits suicide, diving into a shot string of No. 8 bird shot early in the season and slightly larger shot once the leaf drop ends.

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 backlit by the setting sun or a back drop of blazing color.

Autumn is knowing I can kill a buck with my bow, and having the intestinal fortitude to forego the shot because it isn't necessary. There are times, once I draw down 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, and I endorse both thoughts.

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 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. 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, I'm sure you know what I mean.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors