What hit me first – even before the crawling chill making its way through the clothing layers since stopping – was the distinct memory: “I’ve been here before.”
Déjà vu? No, not at all.
I had been there. In the exact spot. It was December 1958 and in a light snow, with a very crisp chill in the air. Only then my feet were a size 6 boys and freezing like exposed chicken knuckles! At least now, my feet weren’t freezing. But the blood laced adrenalin jitters were still there. And I loved it.
As I look down at the single ruffed grouse posing in ‘la mort avec l’honneur’ alongside my dad’s old double-barrel shotgun, resting in the skiff of snow, I am launched back in time to my first grouse hunt on that cold December day in ’58.