A pleasant hum of asphalt under the truck tires has just changed to the easement mentally that is now gravel crunching. It’s a good feeling; that sounds nice. And I shift a bit in my seat, I’m getting closer, and I’m excited as well, but I ain’t hurrying, haven’t all day, ain’t gonna start now. I’ll just ease along, take in the falling leaves. Whoever beats me to the cabin, at least this trip, will be just fine.
I start going over things, probably with the nice weather, pull the dock first, maybe even this afternoon. I’m almost positive we don’t need to cut a single stick of firewood, check the chimney, fire extinguisher, etc. I am running a few minutes late; my previous meeting is running over.
Sitting on the edge of the road, not one, but a pair of spruce grouse. I slow from my slow driving, roll down the truck window, they could care less as I take a photo, they must be in as big a hurry today as me.
And then, the turn, slight up hill on a two-track grassy lane. It’s like putting on wool socks; the lane has a magic all its own. Cedars so dark, birches so white, totally denuded of leaves, and here mid-trail, a lone ruffed grouse. I stop; its head comes up, he starts strutting; off into the boreal it goes. I shift back into drive myself; it feels great, finally getting here.
--The trout whisperer
