Now that it's November, I feel a little less guilty than I have all summer about driving out from the house past the still unpainted barn, dodging still unfilled pot holes, passing the still unrepaired fence, and a few dead apple trees that hold up their sere limbs like grotesque hands waving for my attention. But this is November.
A man can be excused for being a little lax about some things come the tag end of the year. After all, he has had guns to clean, boots to oil, shells to be sorted, dogs to run--and a hundred or so other little chores that have to be looked after while he sees how the rest of the world has been faring.
He has to go look at the mallards and the pintails, the gadwalls and the Canadas. He has to go down to the alder bottoms and check on the woodcock, and then, no rest for the weary, it's time to trundle up to the higher ground and see what has happened to the grouse in the months he's been away. It's just one thing after another, depending on where and when. Someone has to stand in the sunflowers for mourning doves and then, pacing himself very carefully so as not to overdo, it'll be bobwhites and pheasants, cottontails, chukars, or prairie chickens. Sometimes I just don't know how we do it all. But, this is November, and best we be at it.
The old dogs and the new ones know the calendar just as well. The Labrador who has spent the summer digging dusting spots under the rhododendrons and pine trees--the same one who would move only to find a shady spot--is up at 3:30 shoving a cold nose under the blankets trying to find a duck hunter to play with. The setters and pointers have been practicing their stiff-legged walks on the last robins to leave the lawn.
The women of the house don't need a calendar either. They can tell by the stuff that starts turning up on top of the mending pile. The heavy socks, canvas vests, and britches appear like magic. Thermos bottles, more than a few smelling like last year's coffee, are lined along the sinks, and the men folk are poking their noses into the ovens sniffing out the likelihood of brownies, pies, sugar cookies, and biscuits. The past summer's crop of brides tries to remember napkins for the lunches and little containers of mustard and relish. They ask, "Where are you going and what time will you be home for supper?" The wives of a few more seasons lean heavily on quantity and don't ask questions that require definite answers.
If I could ever design a perfect entry into November, I'd start a little early. I'd like first to be in Texas or Arizona in October to sharpen the eye with the dove season. Then I'd sort of drift over to Tennessee or Louisiana for some early season teal in October, and move to the upper reaches of Michigan in November for the woodcock and grouse gunning when the frosts have thinned the leaves. Then I'd like to cross the country, heading West for Utah and the heavy pintail flights for just a little bit.
Heading back East, I'd like to sit in a blind on the coast of Maine to see how good I am at handling downwind broadbills or flaring black ducks with my broken-note duck call. And, if you'd let me steal a week or so from December and tack it on the end of November, right after Thanksgiving, I'd love to be back in Texas for quail or a 10-point buck.
I guess the ideal November ought to have at least six or seven weeks--and maybe it does for those of us who divide our year along the peculiar schedules of fishing season, hunting season, Christmas, more hunting season, and then the waiting for fishing season to start the whole year over again.
Did I ever have a real life schedule like that? Almost, if you'd let me spread it out over the two seasons instead of only one. In Michigan it absolutely poured. In Maine it was too hot, and I hit a "Norther" and damn near died from cold down in Texas. I had a week of three-dog nights (a three-dog night, in case you didn't know, is when you only have one dog sleeping on your bed with you, and you really need three).
Well, that is how it sometimes happens. But this year it's going to be different. This year is going to be like the week one of my friends had in Michigan, where on the worst day they flushed 39 grouse and 20 woodcock! I'll be out of the duck blind after 15 minutes or so, like my friends who went to Stuttgart to gun the flooded timber mallards. And who knows what will happen in Texas? I do know another hunting friend who, in one day, got a limit of quail, a good turkey, and a fat eight-pointer.
There are also some other things I plan to do differently this year. I plan to hit the skeet range a little more often so I won't do what I did last year when I did have a couple of Canadas turn to the call. I plan not to wait until the last minute to get my hunting license and find that the only close source is sold out. I plan on putting in a little more time with my retriever, so she won't pull the side of the duck blind over because I have to keep her on a leash. I plan to sight in my deer rifle for obvious reasons. I plan to quit playing poker in hunting camps, also for obvious reasons.
The way to look at it is that this is a completely new November. I see no reason why this one won't be the very best we've ever known. It won't be too wet or too dry, and it won't rain on weekends except after dark. The winds will be just the right mix of damp and soft, so the bird dogs will work their best. If it's a day for ducks or geese, then the breezes will have some bite and quarter in from the NNE. There won't be too many leaves in the upland coverts and what leaves are there will be just the right mix of brown, gold, and orange. The way I see it, most birds--or at least three out of five,--won't streak for the thickest cover, but will flirt with the openings more than usual. There won't be too many of those left-to-right shots, except for the left-handed gunners.
I see that the first of November arrives on a Monday this year as it should. The Saturday and Sunday before we'll take all the leaves, clean the gutters, take down the screens, put up the storm windows, and find the snow tires for the cars. When there's a November coming up as fine as this one promises to be, we want nothing but harmony when it turns the corner.
This story originally appeared in A Listening Walk...and Other Stories by Gene Hill. Copyright (c) 1985 Gene Hill. All rights reserved.
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