It may have been the weather.
Following two months of sunny days and balmy temperatures, fall abruptly turned the corner toward winter last week.
Then the general hunting season closed and it was time to put away the rifle.
Whatever the reason, I was at the computer Monday making reservations for a campsite on Tampa Bay.
Salt in the air.
Palm trees on the horizon.
Fish on the line.
Have I become such a wimp that the first snowflakes of the season send me packing?
Not quite.
There’s a month left to hunt pheasants, follow wild-flushing sharptails into the next county and shoot a ruffed grouse or two in the foothills of the Beartooths.
I may even pull out those plastic grocery bags in the pocket of my hunting coat and use them to try to lure a white goose into range.
But when the mercury drops out of the thermometer and my hands are too stiff to feel the safety on the Browning my thoughts will head south, to sea trout and redfish, bars accessible only by boat, and sunburned feet.
Although I never considered myself a snowbird I find I’ve become one. For years now, my wife and I have hitched our boat to the truck and driven to Florida for the month of March.
Maybe it’s because we live out of a tent when we’re there, avoid retirement communities and don’t play shuffleboard that I consider what we do different.
However, it’s really not. While we endure most of winter‘s wrath, we don’t stick it out until spring. We flee Montana unashamedly on March 1, driving as fast as the law allows to reach a warmer clime.
And even though our departure is months away, I’ve already refolded the tent and readied the boat for the road.
It’s hard to embrace winter in northcentral Montana. Unlike the mountainous regions of the state where folks enjoy months of skiing and snowmobiling, winter recreation up here is limited to ice fishing on windswept lakes and trying to stay on your feet as you cross the frozen Albertson’s parking lot.
Fortunately it’s not winter yet. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
There are still roosters to roust out of the cattails and Hungarian partridge huddled together on the edge of the stubble.
There may even be a late elk hunt in the mix.
It’s been a spectacular fall and a change in weather was long overdue.
So what do I have to complain about?
After all, there are palm trees on the far horizon.
Parker Heinlein is at pman@mtintouch.net