Maine. Hunting season. Black powder muzzle-loading season to be precise. Up at the crack of dawn, temperature hovering a few degrees above zero. Fresh black coffee warms the joints and soothes the chills. Long drive, talk radio. Racing against the rising sun. Trailhead by daybreak.
Fire up the Swishers, long pull. Head out into the wilderness. Head full of dreams, shaking off sleep. Trudge forward. Step, step, step. Look. Listen. Watch. Breath cold and foggy in the morning air. And the woods are full..., of nothing but shadows and bird calls.