highway. From there, nature took its course.
The hazels probably came back first, knee-high and thick. Even a
year later it would have been difficult to walk through. After three years
there were head-high aspens and baby spruces, and in less than a decade
they grew to be as thick as broomsticks. Raspberry canes started wherever they found an opening, often on old skidder trails and where the saw
logs were once stacked. After fifteen years, when the place had become a
young forest again, the cut was probably thick with grouse.
These days, the creek along the edge of the covert hosts several
active beaver colonies. An old maple stump near one particular dam
affords a fine view of a little pond. I stopped there on my last hunt at the
end of that road, just to watch the water and let the dog rest. I like to look
at the pond. The dog, of course, would rather not rest at all.
I’ve heard old bird hunters say that they count their seasons in
dogs. One autumn, resting their feet at the end of the day, they think
back on all the gun dogs they’ve hunted with, and suddenly they realize
their own age. Old hunters, just like their English setters and German
short hairs, cannot chase grouse through the brambles forever.
A beaver, sensing my presence, slapped its tail on the water. The
crack echoed through the woods and made the dog jump. I smiled.
I’m still a young man, though it doesn’t alwa \