I am an oddity around here.

Most folks up this way, hunt grouse while driving around in trucks or on ATV’s. Stopping to pot birds with a .22 or .410 while they sit on the ground. There’s nothing overtly wrong with that, but there is no beauty in it either.

I prefer to wander the forests and fields on foot. Boots tied tight, walking for miles. Carrying a shotgun, searching for grouse.

I pause in admiration of small wonders. A chickadee flitting in the trees. The tart taste of high bush cranberries. A ravens croak. The light filtering through the trees. Sometimes for nothing at all.

I am accompanied by the dog. We communicate through whistles and hand signals. Somedays well, others not at all. She works tirelessly, nose to the ground. Driven by instinct, oblivious to all else. She scents the birds, then flushes them into the air. I shoot them on the wing.

I miss often.

But never the magic.