November has arrived and will quickly shake a blanket of leaves onto the ground. While autumn doesn’t officially end until the winter solstice arrives, I’ve always tended to blame this 11th month for stealing away the season’s customary colors.
While there are plenty of folks who will still chase cold-weather steelhead and sit in rocking boats as long as the weather holds above freezing, I’ve never been one of those hardy souls. Nor do I feel overly compelled to sit on a frozen block of ice while peering through a shimmering hole in the water.
Oh, I’ve done all of that … and still do on occasion, given the right circumstances. Those things just don’t draw me like they once did. A growing stubbornness has allowed my like-to-dos to outweigh my ought-to-dos, and my interests are now largely dictated by my want-to-dos, turning some things into used-to-dos.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m short of things to keep me busy.
Those like-to-dos have grown in scope over the years. For instance, take my often-mentioned pastime of fly fishing. It started out as a pretty simple endeavor. I became interested, saved a few bucks for a rod, reel and a few other necessities, and headed for the bass and bluegill ponds. And I had a blast.
Of course, that’s how things get started — interest and success. Once that happens, the floodgates open, and those hobbies can broaden into a consuming effort to collect both memories and equipment.
That fascination with one rod and reel has blossomed into book collecting, tying flies, building a few rods, trips to streams and rivers I’d otherwise never have heard of and friendships with people I might otherwise never have met.
Somewhere along the way, I discovered that enjoying fly fishing didn’t always require catching fish. Sometimes it didn’t even require going fishing.
That one purchase had become an all-season interest.
Now, multiply that by upland hunting, target shooting, wildlife management, writing, double shotguns, bamboo rods, bird dogs — and a few bird-brained dogs — and you quickly get the picture.
The pleasures haven’t disappeared with the passing seasons. They’ve simply taken on a few different forms.
So, while I blame November for erasing the splendor of the more colorful early autumn days, it isn’t with sadness, regret or angst. Instead, it comes with an appreciation for what follows: A dog’s fascination with the changing scents of the season as it rustles through crackling leaves. A squirrel’s thundering approach in search of fallen hickory nuts and acorns, drawing the attention of scolding jays. Whitetail bucks facing off at the edge of a field, sparring for the attention of waiting does.
The staunch pause of a setter or the rush of a cocker that triggers the flush of a woodcock, followed by the crack of an old double that seems so at home beneath a canopy of a few stubborn oak leaves refusing to abandon their summer perches.
Waves of waterfowl beginning their southward journeys along those mysterious flyways that have drawn them for millennia.
An evening campfire that begs you to pull your chair just a little closer to warm your front, even as you feel the cold creeping in behind you. The creaking of trees as falling temperatures worry their limbs, and owls letting loose their haunting nighttime calls.
A comfortable chair near a window where you can watch Canadian-born juncos, siskins, nuthatches and grosbeaks visiting a carefully placed feeder. Or perhaps a chair beside a small fireplace whose friendly light dances on the walls around you as you recall other autumns.
I’ll watch as frosty nights and chilling showers settle over the landscape, and as the sun shifts into its quieter winter mood. Somehow, the feeling of loss that comes with autumn’s fading colors gives way to the promise of things to come.
November is October’s maturing sister, waiting for Old Man Winter to arrive at the soundless ringing of the solstice hour.
