That single silver moment that calls to us.
In the dense cover of the early season one can spook-up and never see a half-dozen or more grouse for every bird you may be blessed to actually lock eyes upon. And for that one well-camouflaged bird, in the still-green thickness, you may not see it in time for a decent shot. What one will most likely experience is the sound and whirr of wings and, if you are lucky, the brief blur of a gray-brown projectile just as it disappears from your sight.
Such are the frustrations of hunting for the ruffed grouse in the early season.
It may be whatever you dream. The sporting life calls to us in such ways.
Yet such are the true rewards. When on that rare and sunny day, and when all goes right, there happens a good and noisy flush, and the gun comes up, and a bird, no...a myth...goes down. Perfection.
Such silver moments call upon men over and over again. And he will re-enact his quest for years perhaps, maybe for a lifetime, to achieve that single ideal. It may be the perfect shot on a perfect day. It may be the rise of a trout on the perfect river. It may be the cedar arrow nocked, loosed and that seeks its target as if on a beam of heavenly light. It may be whatever you dream. The sporting life calls to us in such ways.
Nature calls too. Listen to the wind hiss through the tops of tall pines for very long and it will evoke an essential wildness in men that will call to his heart for the rest of his life. And it will be perfect. - WES:::