I drove west of town along the paved, curving, narrow, and dipping road that passed the cemetery and the small house of the people I knew from the coffee shop. I passed a big hill with maple trees past their peak of color and now red-brown, yellow and beige. The trees looked like an aged artist’s palette.
I took a hard left at the road leading to the greenhouse that was now closed. I drove straight, past houses so small they seemed unlivable. I turned right and drove past posted land and down to where the dirt road started that led to where I hunted grouse.
I parked the car on the grass beside the pavement. I got out my shotgun and loaded it. I began to walk into the woods.
I could tell from the tracks leaving the puddles that the road had been driven the day before. There were rocks in the road. The road curved through the woods past a small duck pond and between low banks and up to a junction. The road led across a clear-cut to the right and through another clear-cut on the left and into the woods again. I went left through the high grass of the road between the poplar saplings of the big clear-cut.
The road re-entered the woods. A small road cut off to the right. It was overgrown and covered with yellow leaves and surrounded by pine trees on the right and hardwoods on the left. The sun was out, and streaks of light cut through the leaves.
The road went uphill past a fallen white pine and leveled on a ridge of oak and maple above a floor of saplings and yellow and red leaves. The road ended at a big, packed-dirt logging road. I took the logging road north to where I knew there would be grouse.
I found the road I was looking for and cut onto it, off the logging road. The small road became dense. The trees were close on the side; the grass on the road was high, and green clover grew close and tight in the ruts. The road had not been driven.
The road fell away and took a sharp left at a swamp of cattails surrounded by jack pines. Brown, withered ferns covered the road. A big rock like the prow of a ship stood alongside the road. The ferns continued. Thorny, red-leafed branches on the road tore at my pants. A big clearing of brown ferns appeared at a bend. A partridge exploded out of the clearing.
Gray and brown, the bird flew straight up, wings whirring like a helicopter, toward a stand of pines. I carried my gun loosely and fumbled to get it up for a shot. The bird made it to the woods before I could aim.
A shot rang out, reverberated through the woods, and the bird dropped. A man in a red and black wool shirt stood in the road, looked at me for a moment, then walked into the woods to find the grouse. The bird flapped in the brush, its wings fluttered furiously, and the man reached down to pick it up. He wrung its neck and put the bird in the back of his shooting vest.
“Nice shot!” I called to him.
“You were behind him.”
“I couldn’t get my gun up in time.”
“Let’s see if there are any grouse up ahead.”
We walked along the road and he introduced himself. “Are you the owner of the Johnson Wax Company?” I asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’ve lived here 10 years and never met you. My name is Chris Bremicker. I am Anne and Paul’s son.”
“I know who you are. I saw you once with your parents at Metro’s Ski Inn.”
“You are a good shot.”
“You have to swing with the bird,” he said and demonstrated with a swing of his gun while he swiveled at his hips.
“I’ll try it,” I said, and practiced a swing or two with my hips.
“You drink too much,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“You have a reputation in town. I’m glad you are doing something besides sitting on a barstool.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me.”
The road continued past a black mud puddle and up a steep hill with small pines and tall grass. I caught the silhouette of a grouse in the grass, aimed at its head, and shot. The dead grouse was a warm clump of feathers in my hand, and I put it in my shirt. The tail feathers stuck out between the buttons. I looked around to show Sam Johnson my grouse, but he was gone. I figured he went back along the road.
From a hill, the road dipped down through fallen yellow leaves and then up a slow rise. Two partridges broke from beside a tree near a clearing in the road. They were in the open. I shot at one and missed.
The road continued through more small pines and high grass and up a very steep hill. I was near the end of the road. On the left was a large park-like woods of old white pines and a few tall, thin poplars with leaves at the top and fallen trees overgrown with grass. A steep ridge formed an amphitheater.
A grouse flew up from behind one of the white pines. It flew through the amphitheater and I shot and missed. I stepped into the woods. Another bird flew out of the leaves. It swerved through the trees and slanted up into one of the high poplars. I missed that one, too.
I waited. A third bird took off and headed for the ridge. I was unprepared for it and did not shoot. I took another step, and another grouse flew up and headed for the opening in the amphitheater to the left. I aimed, shot, and the bird fell dead. “Nice shot!” someone called, but I turned around and saw no one. I put the grouse in my shirt with the other bird. The road was one mile long.
At the café, I told my story about running into Sam Johnson while grouse hunting. Bunk Knudson and Myron Nelson looked down the counter at me in amazement.
“Sam Johnson’s been dead 10 years,” Bunk said.
“He was one of the richest men in the state,” Myron said.
“His wife killed him, but they could never prove it,” Bunk said.
“Never found his body.”
“Why did she kill him?” I asked.
“Wanted to leave town with her boyfriend.”
“Who was her boyfriend?”
“Ron McMillan, who owned the gas station.”
“Did they leave town?”
“Went to Mexico.”
“Made the New York Times.”
“They say he comes back to haunt us. Makes sure everyone behaves.”
“Then why don’t we?”
“Our behavior is too much for him.”
“Poor Sam.” I went back to the road but never saw Sam Johnson again. On a brighter note, I stayed out of Metro’s Ski Inn forever.