I'd have to say that I'm truly blessed to have a daughter that wants to spend time with her dad.  I'm not sure how long that phase is going to last, but I'm not going to pass up any opportunity to do it.  So, a couple of weekends ago I was getting ready to go grouse hunting, and my daughter asked if she could go.  
 "Sure, honey"  was my reply, and we scoured the house trying to find the bottoms to her pink plastic rain gear.  Like most  late September days in Oregon, it was spitting rain.  That glorious, end of summer, get the animals moving, kind of rain.  The rain that signals it's time to go grouse hunting, and today I was going to have the perfect partner.  
 One of the things I always make a point of doing on any Father-Daughter outing, is getting a special treat.  We always stop off at the store, and I let her pick any candy bar she'd like to have.  Just to make things a bit more special.  I also try to treat her as an equal (within the bounds of her personal safety) and give her special responsibilities that she'd not get at home.   So after we loaded up with treats, it was off to the grouse woods.  
 Our grouse woods in western Oregon can be a bit intimidating, especially to a child. They are very dense.  Thick.   The type of place where monsters, bears, lions, wolves, sasquatches, or boogey men could dwell.   So, after parking at a gate on a closed logging road, I slipped a pair of shells in the double barrel,  gave Margo a reminder on safety around guns, and we were off into the forest.   As we walked on the two track road, she took the right track, and I took the left.   She knows not to ever get in front of me or the gun.  She also knows that the gun is not to ever be pointed at anything we don't intend to shoot.  I keep pounding this into her head anytime we are around a BB gun, a fake plastic toy gun or the real deal.   She marches through the woods with a confidence I never had at her age, and to say I'm proud would be an understatement.  Boogey men are not on our minds. 
 One of our favorite games to play as we walk the logging roads is  "what kind of poop is that?"  For a five year old, my daughter is pretty good at it. She can usually determine the difference between deer and elk poop.  As we strolled down the road, I pointed at a scat and asked my daughter "what kind of poop is that?" .  She replied, "Elk daddy'.   
"Are you sure?" 
"Deer, daddy?"  She asked, puzzled.
"Look at the shape, Margo.  That's not the shape of deer or elk poop, honey.  It's got hair and bones in it too."  
"Coyote, daddy?"
"Yup, that's coyote, Margo."
"Can that coyote spell, daddy?"
"what?" I ask, now the puzzled one. 
"That coyote can spell, daddy.  He even knew I was coming here"
"huh?"  Now I'm totally mystified.  
She points at the turd, exclaiming "Look daddy, it's in the shape of an "M" just like I spell my name" 
Well, I'll be damned.  It was a perfectly shaped M.  That coyote, in a bowl induced miracle, wrote a perfect M with his poop.  Only a child would notice.   I wonder how many other piles of perfect fecal phonics I've strolled right past, in my hurried hunting pursuits, and never noticed.  Maybe the coyotes knew I was coming, and left me an "A".   I'll never know.......

Saturday morning dawned wet, and steamy.  I was waist deep in a steelhead run on one of my favorite rivers.  I had just landed a dandy native trout of about 18", that had enough spunk and determination to put a pretty good flex in my spey rod and  get the adrenaline running with its initial tug.  Shortly after that I managed to hook a steelhead that gave me 3 good jumps on a smoking run, but it came unpinned after a couple of minutes (like most of the fish I've hooked this summer). But even though I was having some luck fishing, my heart just wasn't in the game.   I reeled up and decided to call it quits even though there was still hours of prime fishing left in the morning.  I drove home through pretty good rain showers, reminding me that I needed new wipers after a  couple of months of summer weather, that had obviously been their death knell.  
  The thing that had been on my mind all morning was not fishing, but hunting.  I've been chasing feathered and furred things for almost as long as I've fished, and every fall that deep, primitive instinct to hunt starts stirring.  I could almost throw my calendar away, the feeling is so strong and accurate at the same time every year.  It all starts with the rain.  Leaves start turning, and then the nights start getting cooler.  Then the first real rains of fall come.  It is usually accompanied by a bit of wind, and its enough to convince some maples to shed a few leaves early.  A spring rain has a fresh, green smell that signals growth and prosperity, but this first good fall rain has an almost peaty, pungent smell ushering in the death and hibernation of another winter.  Within days mushrooms will pop up out of the forest duff, elk will be in full on rut, and the grouse coveys will break up.   Its the best time of the year to be outdoors, as far as I'm concerned, and that's exactly what I plan to do the rest of the day.   
   As I arrive home, I explain the situation to my wife Meg (who's heard the same story, every year at this same time), who is understanding of my continued absence for the day.  Its not that I need to go hunting, I really HAVE to go hunting.  If I were to do anything else for the day, I'd be totally useless.  
  I head to my gun safe and pull out the trusty side-by-side twelve bore shotgun, I get my tattered shell vest, and hunting jacket.  I pull on a pair of  "brush pants" and find that they have somehow shrunk to the point that they won't quite button without a bunch of sucking in....Damn it!  (it seems my lack of summer activity and aging metabolism has not kept pace with my love for sweets and junk food),. So I grab a pair of wool hunting pants that luckily I bought  a size to big, now they fit, and will have to do for the day.  
  I head to the Grouse woods and a familiar covert I've hunted for years.  As I walk down the overgrown logging road, I feel at peace.  I take a deep breath through my nose, drinking in the moist smells of the fall rain, as drops splatter on the bill of my hat.  It feels great to be back in the woods.