Some people were talking about Oktoberfest

Today was a chilly day, internet. I knew this when I stepped from my bed. It is a true fact that I am a huge fan of robes, and so today, when it came time to pick one, my hand passed over my thin summer cover, and instead went with a thicker, terrycloth option. Knee-length wool socks were added.

It was the kind of morning that fires up a part of your brain, if you were born and/or raised in or near the country. Long-dormant instincts kick in, and you start noticing things. When was the last time I put mink oil on my boots? Has that wood been drying long enough?

The part of my brain that lights up the most, though, is the part that knows about shotguns. During the spring and summer, there is little use for a shotgun. Groundhogs are taken with a rifle that spends most of the day slung across your back. When walking along the edge of an alfalfa field, the thought of lugging around a fourt-foot-long over/under in the July sun is just an awful proposition. But now, on a cool morning like this, it seems to make a lot of sense.

So you take it down off the wall and give it a looking-over. The extra-thick layer of oil you put on it last winter is still there. You push the lever to open it up, and peer down the barrels. Shiny and bright. Of course, you'd expect nothing less of yourself, but there is always the fear that a spot of rust might have formed where an errant finger laid months ago. There are all kinds of shotguns, but cool weather always makes you think of your favourite.

As you look your gear over, you don't really think about squirrels and rabbits and pheasants. Sure, you know they play a part, but more than anything else, you think about the time in late December, when you were walking through a pine bottom, and a snow squall blew in. The way that to this day, you've never seen or felt anything so quiet. The snow fell so thickly that you couldn't hear your footsteps, or even your breath. Or you think about walking across a field of corn stubble, the ground thawing slightly with the morning sun, footsteps becoming softer as you near the treeline, on a day where even your lungs remind you how bright and clear it is every time you take a breath. That shotgun, that pair of boots, that vest were all there with you.

So you snap the gun closed and put it back up on the wall, make some coffee, and put the mink oil on your boots. It isn't time, yet, but you know it isn't far off, either. The short days and cold wind make us all, in this part of the country, turn inward a little. But it isn't always a terrible thing. A pot of squirrel stew wouldn't taste the same if you'd been out carousing with your friends at the lake all day. Winter will be long, but at least you know it's coming. And you know where you'll be.