Another opening day of Ohio's upland bird hunting season among a long skein of many such days: the temperature was 50 degrees when I awoke at 7 a.m., and the sky was blotted with streaky clouds, a good sign that, even if rain isn't in the forecast, the cloud cover might mitigate the warm sun, still strong on the second weekend of October. Over the course of a lifetime of upland bird hunting, first in my native New England and now since 1970 in the Midwest, this is always my favorite day, my most anticipated sporting ritual, with its promise of surprise, pleasure and delight.
The moment ranks with unforgettable opening days of fishing season on the second Saturday of April in my home state of Connecticut when I was a youth. The situation is different now because most states allow fishing year-round, with no pronounced start and end dates, which explains why the annual hunt opener is still a big deal to me. Back then, excitement and anticipation made it nearly impossible to sleep the night before the trout opener, but now, wizened, chastened, even humbled by age, an impending opening day fits more easily into a larger, more accustomed portfolio of enthusiasms, though it is no less vibrant and memorable than it ever was.
I have already enjoyed a couple of my annual midsummer preview dreams about woodcock hunting, which arrived unbidden but nonetheless in vivid technicolor some July nights.
"We feel the season long before it makes sense to even think about it," Steve Smith rightly claims in Woodcock Rising (2016), so by the time the long-awaited, dreamed-about and anticipated opening day arrives, a door opens on a whole new era of possibility, and the fresh season kicks off in the blink of an eye.
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THE BIG HURTS
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Day's End
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