The Kings Lane by Karl (trout whisperer) seckinger
During the historic winter logging days of yore in northern Minnesota many a horse was fed summer hay on trails throughout the boreal forest leaving regular deposits. Spring came, snow melted, and seeds spouted in the skidders ruts.
Of all the greenery so sought after by ruffed grouse it was the clover, rich full buds first, succulent tender leaves second, many a grouse chick was hen showed the promise land of a summers bounty and if by chance those same steeds harness grade drawn leather scuffed a gritted gravel ridge, well, every time we find one today, I get a bit nostalgic, excited, oh so hopeful, and my lazy fall hike suddenly takes on new attention to detail.
I slow my pace, scan the forest floor, and mid clover patch I always stop, I think it unnerves me as much as the winged woodland king because many a time, they simply explode from the cover, its not a gentle game, they mean to make a ruffed up fuss about it, and based on my heartbeat at that very moment, may I just say they ever succeed to the point of my bead being more off than on, there cousins may be known as fool hens, but the partridge of the north is anything but. He’s known as the king, for very good reason. The trout whisperer
