Oh, November
Smoke it to the filter
This is my fifth real grouse season. By real, I mean a season spent chasing bird dogs through the grouse woods. I’ve hunted them all my life, but this season marks five as an upland obsessed, orange clad, all-out wannabe grouser. It’s my seventeenth deer season, if you don’t count the thirteen before that spent following my father around the woods in search of a buck.
One morning earlier this month, I met Dad at the deer camp woodstove at 5:30 a.m., and we wandered along opposing Adirondack ridgetops trying to fill a tag. That afternoon, I watched my dog point a bare ground grouse as the first few snowflakes began to fall. Ahh, yes. November!
My eyes are baggy and dark. My truck is filthy. My dog is tired. I’ve got too many unreturned phone calls, undone chores, and unchecked to-dos.
October was a blur. It always is. It passed quickly but with great glory, a month of hard choices much like November. Deer or birds, ducks or grouse, morning or afternoon, 28 or 16, alone or with friends, North or South. Oh, October.
October, the October that every bird hunter and outdoor writer babbles on about, is an alluring, exciting month. The woodcock moon. The mist. The frost. The flight. The falling leaves. Our October comes and goes like a hometown parade filled with all of your favorite childhood friends, each of whom you’d like to spend time catching up with, if only they weren’t marching onward. It’s fleeting, and it’s special.
November comes, and you realize October was but a tease. An appetizer. An introduction to the heart of hunting season. November is my favorite month. It always has been. As a deer hunter, you can’t beat it in any way, shape, or form. As a grouse hunter, it’s the “Bare November Days” that live on in your dreams all winter, spring, and summer. Fresh snow and the whitetail rut, seasoned dogs and well-holding grouse. Decisions, decisions. Oh, November.
A buddy once told me, “You know, I never did get distracted by those goats.” I use this phrase often now, distracted by goats, when my dog gives me that “Another deer hunt, really?” look. I’m not just distracted, though. I’m addicted. I’m obsessed with both things, and if I could fit them in each day in unison, I would. But I can’t. I’ve got a wife and a job and a life outside of hunting. My candle has been burning at both ends since September, and I’ve got to make these difficult choices in the name of balance. Balance in November? Alright, maybe not balance. But some sort of attempt at balance. I’m trying! What I’m getting at is that on these treasured November days I am truly and honestly pulled in two directions. Birds. Deer. Both? I can’t be the only one that feels this way.
In the November grouse woods, the woodcock are all but gone. The dog begins to achieve his late-season grouse focus that only really comes with the vacating of the little birds. The leaves are long down, even the beech and most of the aspen. The tamaracks are in full gold. The grouse, proud and alone. As I amble on behind the dog, I note each and every buck rub, scrape, track, trail, and bed. We jump a deer out of the swamp by the old farm. I think, “Boy, today would have been the day to be on watch.”
At deer camp, I wait patiently for a buck. I walk carefully and quietly, searching high and low for the freshest sign. I give Raquette a treat or two before leaving him in the truck again. He hates my deer hunting. I scan the ridgetops for hours and try not to think, “Boy, today would have been perfect for the dog.” I flush three grouse and never see a deer.
When I’m grouse hunting, I’m daydreaming about deer hunting. When I’m deer hunting, I daydream about the grouse woods. In both cases, I’m glad to be there, and usually daydreaming about the nearest diner. Maybe I should duck hunt more. I should really go to the movies with my wife. I need an oil change. I need a shave. I need a nap.
I suppose the real dope here is that I’m lucky. Damn lucky! Lucky to have the great fortune of stressing and worrying over such a thing as too many hunting opportunities. Lucky to be so obsessed. Lucky to have a wife and family that make it all possible, a camp and land and access to all manner of outdoorsy people, places, and things. Lucky to have been born a deer hunter. Lucky to have a grouse dog. Lucky, and grateful for another November.
And it is November, still. The bucks are chasing and the birds are holding, or so I hear. So do it. Set the alarm for 4:00 a.m. Overdo the caffeine. Do your laundry later. It only lasts so long.
November, man. Smoke it to the filter.
~
I finalized this essay from our deer camp, at peace, before going out to run the dog. With my buck tag filled, I elected myself camp cook. I made a venison roast atop the wood stove, in my great grandmother’s antique roasting pan, surrounded by root vegetables and a healthy dose of butter. After getting a deer earlier this week, I immediately spent a day in the grouse woods with Raquette. Then I slept. Balance, baby. Balance. I’m mighty thankful for this annual autumn chaos, and another wonderful November.
Another awesome read my boy!! Love ya!!
Dad
Nice story. I like your writing style.