The woods are waking up from last night's cold rain. Bright morning sun envelops the landscape, warming us and the golden leaves as we stride down a muddy logging road. Ahead, the dog's bell tinkles as a weaves through the aspen thickets.

The dog's nose pulls us away into a small clearing. He pauses, tail wagging on scent. Tracking carefully, he pushes into the dense understory on the meadow margin. Now frozen, the dog waits. Content to observe, I listen and hear the beat of wings, then the crack of a friend's 20 gauge across the glade. The bird falls, only to be swept up and brought to hand. Perfect grey phase camoflauge, so invisible on the forest floor, now enthralls us as we inspect the king of the forest.

This is the classic eperience of the Northwoords, a hunt in the glory days of bird season, except, we aren't in the Northwoods. We aren't in the forests of northern Wisconsin or Minnesota. We aren't hunting a clearcut in Maine or a logging road in Pennsylvania. We are standing on a mountainside in Montana...

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