When the autumn leaves drop and the forest is bare of foliage, deer appear in the backyard. They clean up fallen apples and whatever is left in the gardens as hors d’oeuvres, but what keeps them around are the lush green grass and clover in the yard. They show up just before dusk; does followed
Longtime grouse hunters have a list of places where they used to go hunting. Trees grow old. They fall down or are cut down. Over a span of a decade or more, a familiar forest can change so much that it becomes hard to recognize. Old logging roads and trails disappear and new ones are made.
If Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was a misshapen mitten, the Keweenaw Peninsula would be the thumb. This rocky appendage juts defiantly into Lake Superior, its hardwood, pine and hemlock clad ridges rising hundreds of feet above the crystalline blue. We had already been atop Brockway Mountain,
Lake Superior was rolling up on the cobblestone beach at the creek mouth, pushing the stream’s bog-stained outflow along the shore. I was wearing waders, but there would be no wading this morning. The waves were at least chest high as they hit the beach. I stood in the wash and made a few casts.
It’s moose season in the north. On Facebook, some of my Canadian friends have been eagerly anticipating the season; talking about who drew a tag in the lottery and where they plan to hunt. Both topics are pertinent. Due to a crashing moose population, available hunting tags were greatly reduced
The overcast sky was a nondescript gray. It didn’t feel like rain. The sun, suddenly peering through the clouds, was blood red. That meant at least some of the cloud cover was actually smoke from distant wildfires.
This has been