As I got out of the truck and grabbed my shotgun, the cold, crisp air filled my nostrils, and I welcomed the scent of balsam fir like an old friend. I loaded my gun, snapped the action shut and headed up the old logging trail.

There are still too many leaves on the trees to see into the woods well, but I trudged uphill with the shotgun in my hand. The pungent smell of decaying leaves and damp earth replaced the fir aroma as I went further up the trail.

I heard a soft “putt putt” and stopped. I scanned the forest for the source, knowing it was a grouse. Remaining motionless, I played the familiar waiting game that usually elicits movement. It worked: the grouse craned its neck, betraying its position and gave me an easy shot.

A flood of emotions came over me. I harkened back to first hun

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