Having done this before, I convinced myself that nerves were unusual but not unexpected.

I started the Buick after prepping the pots for another round, and then dressed. First long underwear, then T-shirt and sweatpants. Third, long shirt and jeans. Finally my orange bib overalls and orange camo overcoat, followed by hat, boots, etc. I save my gloves and facemask for when I’m actually in my blind. Thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit was actually remarkably warm for opening day, but layers were still very much required. One grows especially cold when sitting still in the elements.

It was still dark when I set out from the cabin. It would remain dark for another hour or so. I took the track south across the tile and over several sandy bends. It was less than a mile, but moving slowly in the dark it felt more like six.

I parked where dad and I always park—a scrubby bank that marks the beginning of the ridge. Dad and I always hunted the ridge. Beside, the track beyond the ridge becomes a bit too much dicey—too washed out and greasy—for a lowriding LeSabre. The other guys’ trucks could clear it much easier.

I turned the ignition off to the White Whale (as I called it), and shut the door lightly. A barred owl greeted me as I stepped out and into the dark wood. We were regularly greeted by barred owls at the onset of the ridge. Sometimes they hooted gently, sometimes they screamed a cantankerous wail not unlike what some consider the whoop of a North American Sasquatch (according to those silly cable programs). It reminded me of the night dad died, and how I’d heard the hoot of a barred owl mere minutes after giving up on cpr while smoking a cigarette and awaiting the paramedics.

“You too, old friend,” I whispered back. “It’s good to see you too.”