The Dog Days Of August

There's something about August that feels different.

The mornings still arrive early, but the air carries the faintest hint that summer won't last forever. The afternoons can still be hot enough to make even the most dedicated outdoorsman look for a little shade, yet every sunset reminds us that another season is quietly waiting just around the corner.

For most people, August is about one last family vacation before school starts.

For sportsmen, it's something entirely different.

It's the month of anticipation.

The month of preparation.The month when our minds begin drifting toward crisp mornings, changing leaves, bugling geese, flushing grouse, screaming drags, and campfires shared with good friends.

While many people are enjoying the last days of summer, I'm already thinking about autumn.

August Belongs to Phinnigan

This year, August belongs to Phinnigan.

He's growing into a fine young English Setter, and every walk through a field is another lesson. Every whistle command, every retrieve, and every new scent lays another brick in the foundation for seasons yet to come.

Training a young bird dog isn't measured by perfection.

It's measured by progress.

Some days everything clicks.

Other days remind you that patience is every bit as important as persistence.

This month will also be about introducing Phinnigan to wild birds.

There is simply no substitute for the lessons that only wild birds can teach. We'll spend time working on his steady to point, allowing him to build confidence while learning to trust his instincts. Just as importantly, I'll let him do what he was born to do—run with enthusiasm, use that incredible nose, find birds, and simply enjoy being a young setter.

There will be plenty of time to polish his training in the years ahead.

Right now, I want him to fall in love with the game.

Those quiet mornings may not end with birds in the game bag, but they build something far more important—a partnership built on trust that I hope lasts for many seasons to come.

Waiting for the Call

Between training sessions, my thoughts begin drifting toward Cape Cod.

Soon the first reports of false albacore will start appearing, and with them comes one of my favorite phone calls of the entire year.

It's usually my longtime friend Vinny.

The conversation is never very long.

"Ray...the albies are busting. Get up here."

That's all it takes.

Within minutes I'm checking the weather, loading fly rods, organizing tackle, and pointing the truck toward Cape Cod.

For many anglers, the arrival of false albacore marks the unofficial beginning of fall fishing. Their blistering speed, selective feeding habits, and drag-screaming runs make every hookup unforgettable.

When a school suddenly erupts on bait just inside casting range, there are few experiences in saltwater fly fishing that compare.

That phone call from Vinny tells me one thing.

Summer is over.

One of my favorite seasons has arrived.

The Best Time of the Year

Autumn means hunting season.

For me, it begins in the Pennsylvania deer woods.

The first cool mornings of archery season have a feeling all their own. The woods are quiet, the leaves are just beginning to change, and every hunt carries the promise of crossing paths with a mature Pennsylvania whitetail.

This year will be especially memorable because my good friend Jim has invited me to hunt a farm that he and his buddies have been fortunate enough to gain access to.

I'm looking forward to the hunting.

But even more, I'm looking forward to sharing another season with good friends.

From there, my attention shifts north to one of my favorite traditions of the year—our annual grouse camp in Maine.

If I had to choose one place that feels like home every autumn, it would be Maine.

The camp is rustic.

No frills.

No cell service.

Just good friends, simple meals, stories around the wood stove, and long days wandering endless coverts in search of what I still believe is the king of all game birds—the ruffed grouse.

There are no crowds.

No schedules.

No distractions.

Just bird dogs, wild country, and the unmistakable thunder of a grouse exploding through the timber.

This year will make that trip even more meaningful.

It will be Phinnigan's first season in the grouse woods.

I'll probably remember his first point as vividly as I'll remember the first grouse I carry back to camp. Watching a young setter discover why generations of bird dogs were bred for this work is one of the greatest rewards in all of hunting.

November brings another adventure I've been hoping for over the past several years.

My good friend Bobby has invited me to join his longtime pheasant hunting crew in South Dakota—a trip I've wanted to experience for a long time.

South Dakota's endless prairie grass, shelterbelts, and cattail sloughs are legendary among upland hunters.

This year I'll finally get to experience them.

Even better...

Phinnigan will be making the trip with me.

From his first grouse coverts in Maine to his first pheasant fields in South Dakota, this fall marks the beginning of what I hope will be many seasons shared together.

He's becoming much more than my hunting partner.

He's becoming family.

And Then the Stripers Arrive

As autumn settles in, another tradition begins.

The striped bass migration.

There's nothing quite like standing on a beach or rocky shoreline before sunrise, listening to the surf while waiting for that unmistakable strike from a migrating striper.

Whether I'm throwing a fly, a topwater plug, or a soft plastic, every cast carries the possibility of a fish I'll remember for years.

Like so many parts of the sporting life, it isn't just about catching fish.

It's about being there.

Watching the sun rise over the Atlantic.

Feeling the cool air replace the heat of summer.

Knowing that another season has come full circle.

The First Chapter of Fall

August asks us to slow down just enough to prepare.

To spend extra time with a young bird dog.

To introduce him to wild birds.

To tune our bows.

To clean our shotguns.

To organize tackle.

To tie a few more flies.

To replace worn boot laces.

And to dream about the places we'll soon be standing.

Before long, the first cool front will arrive.

The leaves will begin to turn.

The marshes will wake with the sound of wings.

The grouse woods will once again echo with flushing birds.

Pennsylvania whitetails will step quietly through the oaks.

Cape Cod will come alive with racing false albacore.

Striped bass will push bait against rocky shorelines.

And another season of adventure will begin.

Until then, you'll find me working with Phinnigan, waiting for Vinny's phone call, and counting the days until autumn.

Because every sportsman knows the Dog Days of August aren't the end of summer.

They're the first chapter of fall.

And for many of us...

The best chapter of the year.

Where the journey matters as much as the catch, the flush, or the harvest.