Parked before the sturdy yellow steel forest-road gate which never seems to open anymore, I leave the engine running as I slip the barrel of the old .410 into its rust-pocked receiver. The air coming through the vents is warm, smells just slightly of burnt oil, and feels good on my fingers. Somehow, the drumming of the raindrops and the tick-click of what I suspect is hot exhaust through a cracked manifold fall into a loose rhythm. Sliding the wooden forestock into place against the base of the barrel, I remember watching my father’s hand show me this motion as he taught me how to put together the little Springfield crack-barrel when I was just a boy. Feeling at home where I am, I pause to breathe, to listen to the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, to notice the goodness of now.
As I stuff a handful of shells into the pocket of my canvas work pants, my attention shifts, and I catch the altered scene of the roadside understory through the blurred lens of the Raider’s windshield. Smudges of fiery red and fluorescent orange reveal what must be patches of vine maple foliage. Something dark and finger-like rests on a fallen log – could be a crow or perhaps a stone left standing on end by some passing hunter. I find it perfectly relaxing to watch as the water which washes continuously over the glass changes the nature of the world I see from one moment to the next. Turning the key to kill the engine and placing my hand on the door latch, I pause to breathe, to listen to the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, to notice the goodness of now.
Outside, crossing the line of the gate, I move up the road, across the flooded ditch, up the muddy cut, and into the shadow of the canopy just as I have on so many wet Cascadian autumn days before. My feet and legs move without thought as my eyes scan the near-distance for the outline of a ruffed grouse perched on a branch, for a flash of color where a cluster of girolles has broken the crust of the duff. I feel a kind of electricity flowing through me as I wander these secret places, keeping company with myself alone, seeking nothing more than unimpeded motion and a shot at something to take back for dinner. Hours pass interrupted only by the occasional stoop for wild mushrooms and the thwumping report of a missed wing-shot now and again. Miles up the canyon, finally feeling the call to turn, after taking a last look toward the high peaks out east, I pause to breathe, to listen to the sound of my heartbeat in my ears, to notice the goodness of now.
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