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Soon a lot of us will be trading in our fishing rods for our shotguns and bows.
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As the boat came up out of the water and I tightened the stern strap to secure the trusty Grumman for the ride back into town, I felt it.
Maybe it was the odor of freshly cut grain mixed with the smell of dying algae. Perhaps it was the wispy cirrus clouds streaking the sunset in the western sky. Whatever sensory signal tipped me off, I knew it was there, hiding under the guise of a temperate late-summer evening.
That unmistakable feeling of fall was in the air. Though temperatures were near 80 degrees during the day, the evening had cooled off rapidly and the slightest chill hung around the boat launch.
I think the birds felt it too; for there was little singing or flight, save for a flock of white birds above the green water. This unidentifiable group across the water added to the mystery of the twilight, and the feeling that change, no matter how much I planned on resisting it, was in the air.
Perhaps too, the deer were affected by the feeling of summer's approaching end. Six or eight were in the fields along the river road where in the past, several dozen could be seen grazing in the corn, beans and alfalfa plots that broke the short drive home into distinct sections. With them came a sense of adventure, as the upcoming season had made its approaching entrance onto the nature's stage apparent.
Visions of roosters breaking from the cover of dry brown cattails and a shotgun rising to the occasion flooded my mind each time I sniffed the air.
The scene of blaze orange figures walking a leafless snow-dappled shelterbelt waving to the two orange-clad sentries on the end of the treeline as a trio of deer broke for the nearby cover of Conservation Reserve land interjected as I struggled to retain the images of the white bass of summer.
Days of cool grey-blue skies spent on a local lake with my dad and brother surfaced. Much like the jumbo perch and the occasional smallmouth bass had cracked the mirror-like shine of a favorite fishing haunt many falls ago. The golden-brown battered perch fillets in the frying pan, and the memory of a great late-season experience, and strangely enough, a Vikings loss that evening completed the remembrance as I half-heartedly tried to think warmer thoughts.
In place of a spent box of fishing line and a bag of jigs, I saw fingerless camouflage shooting gloves lying on the floor of the truck. Alongside them, a thermos-top-cup, steaming with red-can-promised mountain aroma sat on a Remington shell box.. I could almost reach down and take a sip but my senses were then flooded by another sort of steam.
By the time the Hi-Line Bridge came into view, the summer was back. The valley was humid, hidden from the idle threat of fall by the misty promise of a dew-soaked night and a bright sunny morning. The idea that autumn was just around the corner slipped from my mind.
On the radio, Clint Black dispelled any rumors of a seasonal shift as he sang the last chorus of his warm-weather anthem "Summer's Comin’." The idea of the recent heat wave returning certainly put the wandering dreams of fall to rest.
There are still plenty of summer days left, and still many of those temperate evenings on the water to come. However, each night that passes puts fall one day closer, and resistance is not only futile, but silly as well. Summer is still my favorite season, it's brevity and spirit-lifting warmth make it a treasure in these parts.
However, that's not to say fall can't offer up some great angling; and certainly hunting behind my dog has quickly become one of my favorite pastimes. The memories made in recent autumns are clearly enough to fill a column - or at the very least - my mind, when the weather hints at autumn's arrival.
The change is inevitable and while I spend the last few waning days of summer on the water, I know deep down I will enjoy each day of another fall season full of great memories and fun activities...in our outdoors.
