My dad recently told me a story about his little brother who, on his first gun season in Southern Minnesota, was dropped off in a tree grove before sunrise, given a couple slugs for his shotgun, and was strictly told to sit here and wait until someone came to get him. When the rutting buck c…

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By Nick Simonson Beyond the usual celebration of dog and bird and of field boots and swinging shotguns, this year’s pheasant opener was highlighted by another frequent autumn occurrence in the upper Midwest: gusty conditions.  In the gales that topped forty miles per hour on one stretch of my first weekend walks, the pines around...