A late January thaw offered an ideal opportunity to hit the local woodlots in search of snowshoe hare. So I grabbed my 20 gauge, the one with the side-by-side barrels, hopped into the truck and headed for the local woodlot. Driving along I passed the field where we’d hunted geese in early September. Back then the air was warm and the was grass tall and green. Now it lay under a foot-thick blanket of powdery snow and the birds had headed for the coast, or south to somewhere warmer.

I pulled into the usual parking area then struck out, first for the alder patch where we hunted woodcock in early October. The dense foliage made visibility and shooting challenging for those few early season flushes. Our success rate improved when the leaves fell and the flight birds arrived later in the month.

As expected, there wasn’t much hare sign until I approached a stand of young firs on the far side. The trails became thicker and more numerous, and peppered with round, brown pellets as I ventured into the copse and slowed my pace. Without a dog, it would take a keen eye to pick the white bunnies out of a white background. That wasn’t the case when the lack of snow in early December betrayed their presence against the greens and browns. Unfortunately, I was toting a muzzleloader instead of a shotgun.

Tired of fighting the firs I worked toward an opening ahead. There I found the tree stand where I sat in on opening day of archery season. Three does came by within the first hour and I was content to watch them go on about their business. When a week went by with no further sightings I wondered about the wisdom of that.

Cutting across a stand of poplars I recalled the grouse, at least I assumed it was the same one, that flushed nearby as I walked to and from that stand, startling me every time. It was as regular as clockwork, until I went in there looking for it. Then it was nowhere to be seen, or heard.

Further along I came to the stream, now frozen over enough to walk on, though I opted not to. I remembered paddling up in October. Though narrow with mostly steep banks there were a couple shallow pools green with duckweed and emergent grasses that the wood ducks sought refuge in when the gunning got hot on larger ponds and marshes.

Seeking more productive ground I turned back and up, toward the hill where I’d seen that big buck in November. He took his time coming through the thick stuff but when he finally stepped into the open, he sauntered by nonchalantly, totally unaware of my presence. Or maybe he knew I’d already filled my tag with a smaller buck.

I was working back downhill toward another stand of new growth when the sound of a distant motor caught my attention. As my hunt had turned into more of a walk, I headed over toward the pond and the expected sight of someone drilling holes in the ice. “It must be a sign,” I thought. “It’s been a great hunting season, but it’s time to put the guns away and go fishing.”

Bob Humphrey is a freelance writer and Registered Maine Guide who lives in Pownal. He can be reached at: bhunt@maine.rr.com