For a brief time every year, beyond the edge of progress, a perfect place waits.

The arrival of October brings a host of changes to the North Country uplands. The heat and humidity of the past few months have vanished, and stray leaves skitter along the ground on brisk, scented winds. Shiny, crisp apples from the local orchard bounce in jacket pockets, while the sweet fragrance of the season’s first cider fills the air. The everyday sight of children waiting for the morning school bus has comfortably returned to the land, and luminous Jack-O-Lanterns begin to establish their fleeting sentinel in the gloaming. Faint honking from southbound travelers following ancient sky routes whispers to the earthbound what the coming frosts will soon mark as unmistakable; October is here.

To North Country bird hunters, however, this time of year means much more than leaf piles and fresh cider donuts. For, as the coming of the Autumnal Equinox initiated the primeval cycle, October’s magical transformation of the common green of Summer into a palette of brilliant colors completes the process. With October’s lengthening shadows, primal urges stir the blood of both bird dogs and their owners in a way little experienced, or understood, by most of modern society. Sadly, the majority of people, insulated and cosseted by today’s urban cocoons, have largely lost touch with the seasons. Yet, clinging to a genre that has nearly vanished, upland bird hunters remain aware that October is unique, and glorious.

For most North Country sportsmen, October is the month that epitomizes classic upland bird hunting. The heat and thick, green foliage that plague September disappear, competition from November deer hunting has not yet begun, and the cold rains, deep snows, and frigid temperatures of the late season remain a distant prophecy. Pleasant weather and a backdrop of dazzling colors are October’s gifts. And while those vivid colors are fleeting, few things in life are as hauntingly perfect as a mid-October stroll through a sun-dappled upland forest after the first hard frost. Surrounded by a multicolored cascade of gently falling leaves, the October bird hunter searches out his quarry swathed in an ephemeral Impressionist painting.

October reminds us of the fleeting nature of our existence. It is certainly no stretch of the imagination, and is in fact a commonly made analogy, to view the natural seasons as corresponding to the cycle of all life. Spring and Winter are the obvious equivalence of birth and death. Summer and Autumn represent the prime of life, and the onset of middle-age. Above all others, as the season when the long awaited hunt begins, bird hunters cherish Autumn in all its stages. But it is during that brief October span when the vibrancy of Summer fades and the tincture of Nature’s finale appears that those who walk the forest are perhaps most gently, and movingly, reminded of the mortality of all things. October prompts us to savor every moment.

Upland bird hunting in October is both venerable and reverent. Against the backdrop of brilliant foliage splashed across the landscape the sight of a working dog, the smell of gun smoke, and the whirring flush of a bird kindle memories of long past hunts. Reminiscences of hunting partners who have passed away are fondly called to mind, and cherished bird dogs of bygone days are mourned. In October, the ghosts of our past walk with us.

October is also a time of new beginnings and discovery. For many, new equipment is brought afield for the first time and new coverts are explored. The time for training and practice has ended, and energy filled puppies are coaxed into performance for expectant hunters. Perhaps most importantly, every October a small number of neophyte hunters walk into the uplands for the first bird season of their lives. Some of these new bird hunters are self taught, others enter the forest with an experienced friend, mentor, or family member. Of the whole, some, a very lucky few, will find their soul captivated by the essence of the October uplands and forever seek out its untamed charms and the wild birds that are its incarnation.

We each have only a few precious Octobers. In fact, there’s one waiting in the uplands right now. Whatever you do, don’t miss it.

By Shaun O’Connell
Shaun P. O’Connell has been rambling the uplands of the Berkshires and Green Mountains in search of pa’tridge, woodcock, and brook trout since he was a boy. Much to the chagrin of his wife, he shows no sign of ever growing up.
©2004 Shaun O’Connell

Cabin fever isn't pretty, but the sportsman's plague can be survived.

The fever struck two days into The Blizzard of 2005. Thirty-five inches of fresh snow on the ground, subzero temperatures, howling winds, and closed roadways. Yes siree, a surefire recipe for fever if ever there was one – cabin fever that is.  The sportsman could feel it settling into his bones like the plague, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it, and he was afraid.

For you see, New England sportsmen are used to Ol’ Man Winter in all his guises. And they know how deadly cabin fever can be. The afflicted become moody, prowling the house unshaven, coffee cup in hand, staring morosely out of windows, snarling at spouses and children, and generally becoming all around no-fun-to-live-with. Even their dogs don’t want them around once the fever takes hold. So, over the years northern sportsmen have seized upon certain winter activities in an effort to prevent infection. They ski, snowshoe, ice fish, hunt white rabbits, and the like. Anything to get outside and into the forest. Still, a good old fashioned Nor’easter puts a bit of a damper on all outdoor pursuits for its duration, inevitably infecting the sportsman trapped indoors with cabin fever.

In general, at the first sign of symptoms a sportsman takes matters into his own hands and attempts self-medication. Sporting goods catalogues are read, reread, and read again for good measure. Internet sporting bulletin boards are visited, and cabin fever victims exchange stories of symptoms, cures attempted, and sympathies. Old sporting books and magazines are dug out of boxes and reread whilst ensconced in comfortable repose, often accompanied by copious draughts of spirituous liquids (for medicinal purposes of course).

As his attempts to stave off cabin fever inexorably fail, the sportsman may become desperate enough to agree when his spouse suggests “The Cure.” The exact nature of “The Cure” differs from household to household, but it inevitably involves manual labor of some sort, be it shoveling snow in the teeth of the storm, painting the guest bedroom, rewiring the basement, etcetera. Some experts suggest that the sportsman who agrees to submit to “The Cure” is delirious with cabin fever, however, case studies suggest it is the earlier self-administered copious draughts of spirituous liquids that are often to blame. Regardless, while “The Cure” is about as effective a treatment for cabin fever as letting blood or leeches, nevertheless it is often attempted, with no change in the sportsman’s condition resulting. And, while rumor has it that “The Cure” does wonders for the wellbeing of the sportsman’s spouse, medial literature remains inconclusive on that point.

So, with aching back and pounding head, at the end of the day the sportsman shuffles into his study for his final stand against the noxious cabin fever pulsing though his body. Fly tying gear is pulled from closets, and soon the desk is littered with feathers, hooks, and thread. From time to time the sportsman rises from his tying, pacing to the window and back. Pauses are taken to fondle shotguns, and an oily cloth passed across their wood and metal for the 100th time since the season ended. Bamboo fly rods are examined, and the smell of varnish elicits wistful sighs and visions of brook trout. Pockets of hunting vests are emptied, refilled, and emptied again. Loose shotgun shells are sorted by color, gauge, and shot size. As evening progresses and cabin fever ravages the body and mind, self-destructive tendencies rise to the surface of the sportsman’s psyche, and the veracity of shock collar settings are explored firsthand. At length, totally spent and consumed in an orgy of self-loathing and pity, our tragic upland hero winds up head in hands on the desk, passed out from snorting fly cement and Hoppe’s No. 9.

Finally, after what seems an eternity, the sportsman raises his weary head and notices something; it’s quiet. The howling winds have stopped. He springs to his feet and rushes to the windows. Sashes are thrown open, and with great joy the realization dawns that the storm is over! Purpose has been restored and the fever breaks. Miracle of miracles, it appears the plague has passed and our protagonist will live to see Spring! Like the Phoenix rising from the flames, the sportsman dashes to his pile of gear and frantically begins planning the morrow’s ice fishing expedition. Wives, children, and dogs breath easier, and life settles back into its normal routine.

It should be noted that the preceding is in no way autobiographical. How could it be? I don’t ice fish, and I’m plumb out of fly cement….

©2005 Shaun O’Connell