feature By: Tom Huggler | November, 17
A bird hunter slows the pickup. But a woodcock hunter stops.
From the gravel road that stitches together a pair of Upper Peninsula rivers,
the canopy of young alder and aspen looks promising. Closer still are seams of red-osier dogwood –
withered bracken flecked here and there – smothering dark, damp earth. Home ground.
Home today? Tomorrow? Or did they arrive and depart already?
Nothing says today like a setter’s tinkling bell gone silent.
And so it goes – find, flush, shoot – through this sacred place to where the rivers rush together,
under brooding clouds pulling in the season’s first snow.