It never happens on an exact day each year but there is a moment between seasons when summer turns the corner into fall. When I was younger I divided my days by terms and semesters. Later fiscal quarters tried to rule my time, but it is by the seasons that I have always lived my life. Blue and I were on that same schedule, especially in the fall. He was a German Wire-haired Pointer I had years ago. Sporting a natural goatee, more like a van dyke, that gave him a scholarly appearance he tried to theorize why I stacked firewood or mowed the lawn or spent so much time knee deep in a stream flipping flies. Maybe I gave him too much credit but he always knew when fall was in the air. During that time when the green of summer turns to a thousand shades of red, orange and yellow, Blue would raise his nose to the air and curl his tongue to take in the scent. I’d stop what I was doing and sit down on the porch next to him and I too would take in the smell of change. He would look into my eyes as if to say, “It’s almost time to hunt.” A few more weeks, I would answer. Confident I knew bird season was coming, he was off to catch the last bull frog of the summer or he would wait in playful ambush for the cotton tail and her kids as they feasted on clover at dusk. Down the creaking wood stairs into the basement, Blue would follow and watch me trade my fly fishing vest for my bird vest. He knew the change made it official. Fall was coming. Sticking his nose in the game pocket, he’d breathe in the scent of past hunts, soft feathers sticking to his muzzle. I often wondered if he remembered the points, the flushes, and retrieved birds. I like to think he did. When I’d pull the gun case off the nail in the wall, Blue knew the moment had come. He would shake with anticipation as I slid a pump or over and under into the case. Driving in the pickup to our favorite covert, he’d drink in the smells. The leaves are busting with color, shells are in my vest pocket and Blue is twitching with excitement. We’ve all been waiting for opening day with child-like glee. Other hunters and dogs are always friendly in the first few days of the season until the birds have been pushed around and coverts become secret spots whose locations are only shared between a hunter and his dog. The air is crisp. Blue hears the gun being loaded and looks up at me. Removing the leash, I pet him on the head. It’s time, boy. Hunt ‘em up.
Earlier in the week, I asked the landowner permission to camp and fish on his property. He was glad I asked. Years ago he and his boys cleared a campsite. You can’t miss it, he said. I drove the truck down through the hardwood, skirted the edges of the open hay fields and stopped in the vicinity the landowner described. Walking toward the river searching for the campsite and not 10 yards into the woods Josh stumbled—literally—across an old headstone. It’s common to come across old family cemetery plots in New England woods for what is now second- or third-generation forest growth was cleared farmland centuries ago. The plot no doubt belonged to the original owner of the property and I hoped Josh did not disturb old Jonathon’s rest, I joked. The campsite was nearby.
The river was low. Rocks hidden in the spring now afforded steps to pools that held fish. At dust I cleaned the smallmouths and perch; my son, Josh, started the fire. Dusted in flour and fried in a bit of butter in a cast iron skillet over the coals, the fish hardly satisfied my teenager’s hunger. He opened a can of beef stew and placed it next to the fire. The slow moving Quinebaug gurgled as the night sky grew inkier the campfire glowed. Night creatures began their serenade.
Josh stirred the stew with a spoon. Did I ever tell you about—Josh finished my sentence—the story of Three-Finger Jack who preys on unsuspecting campers? I’ve heard it few times, dad. And as if on cue, the propane lantern died. How about the Jewett City vampires? In the firelight I could see Josh roll his eyes. I took that as a sign to continue. Years and years ago—before cars and iPods—across this river in a town called Jewett City there was a family burial plot. A lot like the one we found today. People reported strange things. It was said a family of vampires slept in the plot during the day and at night roamed the country side looking for victims to feed on. There were very few who lived to tell the story of their glowing white faces or their screech like an owl just before they pounced. I jumped toward Josh for dramatic effect. Josh acted nonchalant. Yeah, right, dad.
Then the screeching sound started in the distance. We saw spots of light moving through the woods. They were coming closer. Josh, wide eyed and mouth gaping dropped his can of stew. The lights grew brighter. The sound deafening. I’ll admit my heart skipped a beat. The landowner and his boys parked their ATVs next to the fire and switched off their headlights. I thought we’d stop by and ask about the fishing said the landowner. Josh, visibly relieved the Jewett City vampires had not appeared, salvaged what he could of his stew.
