“There are two kinds of hunting: ordinary hunting, and ruffed-grouse hunting… There are two times to hunt in Adams: ordinary times, and when the tamaracks are smoky gold. This is written for those luckless ones who have never stood, gun empty and mouth agape, to watch the golden needles come sifting down, while the feathery rocket that knocked them off sails unscathed into the pines.”

“The very word October, to most of us inhabiting these northern climes, is evocative of the bracing glories of autumn-colored coverts under the intense blue of northern skies. Shimmering golden coins on aspen branches all too soon drop their mintage to the forest floor; liquid amber tumbles in the cascades of a northern trout stream. These are the Octobers that woodcock hunters remember.”

“He is the original brown bomber. He is the fan-tailed drummer who gets on a down log and beats his short wings in a kettle drum roll. He is the shawl-necked grouse, legs feathered like fur chaps. He is born and mates and lives and dies usually within an area a mile square. He is the gourmet’s delight and the gunner’s Nemesis. He is as American as pumpkin pie and hickory smoked bacon.”