Something about grouse hunting turns hunters into writers, whether it's Ortega or Hill or any of a number of others. Their printed musings have many times led me to close my eyes with their books lying opened on my chest and drift away to the coverts of New England, where the air is crisp and full of the musty smells of Fall; where moss-covered stone walls tell stories of hard work and husbandry and dreams either failed or forgotten; where clear streams run through dark woods, mirroring the windows of bright blue sky that peek through the treetops; where orchards drop their annual produce upon the forest floor for enjoyment by fur and feather and the occasional hunter; where side-by-side shotguns drape over fallen logs, as hunter and pup enjoy a snack of cheese and crackers.
It's a special, ancient and cherished place, a place I've wanted to visit since Kali and me started chasing around the country together.
And with a little home work and a brief visit in a NFS office in New Hampshire and a little bit of bushwhacking ... we found it.
Meanwhile, Dorothy Hamill enjoyed the frozen parking area...
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