If you live to be 80 years old, you enjoyed 80, and not one more than 80 autumns. That’s all you got. 80.
Twenty-four a can in a case, 365 days in a year, 60 minutes in an hour, same hour you might get 80 heart beats per minute.
So taking stock, as much as we would like, there simply wasn’t that many red falling maple leaves, plump pumpkins, candied caramel apples, shooting stars, northern lights, duck hunts, owl hoots, wolf howls, oh, and grouse walks, the ones a few days after the first frosts, the perfect delish scented of fermented air in your lungs, a shirt of layers, sure it’s comfortable in the morning, even needed bringing in kindling, but far to warm in the afternoon, its gotta hook to hang it on in the afternoon, so you can find it quickly again next morn.
That buck, on the far edge of some field you can’t hunt, with horns so polished, so tall, so shiny, even in the fading daylight of a soft orange warm sunset in late October, but does he ever make you want November, and just so you know, you only got 80 of those.
- The Trout Whisperer
