The lure of November

November mornings in the Carolinas have a way of wrapping themselves around you. The air is sharp enough to make you zip your coat up tight before sunrise, but you know by midmorning, when the sun starts filtering through the bare hardwoods, you’ll be down to just a hooded sweatshirt. Watching that change right before your eyes is part of what makes this month special.

One particular November morning stands out to me more than the rest. I had slipped into the woods just after daylight, the frost still clinging to the leaves. The world was quiet except for the distant chatter of squirrels shaking acorns loose from the oaks.

Solitude

I moved slowly, careful not to crunch too loudly. A gray squirrel flicked its tail high in a hickory, and I waited for it to make a move. When it finally stretched across a limb, I steadied my .22 and took the shot. The sound echoed through the still woods, and the squirrel tumbled into the leaves below.

The feeling I get when hunting alone on a morning like that is a mix of peace and purpose. The cold air on your face, the smell of gunpowder and hickory bark, the simple satisfaction of being out there. It’s all part of what keeps me coming back every November.

By the time I walked back to my truck, the sun had climbed enough to melt the frost. I tossed my coat in the seat, traded my rifle for an ultralight fishing rod, and headed toward a nearby pond that sat like a mirror at the edge of a field.

Switching gears

The chill was gone, replaced by that perfect warmth that makes a sweatshirt just right. I tied on a small Beetle Spin and cast toward a patch of weeds where I’d seen fish swirl before. The water rippled, and almost immediately, I felt that familiar tug. A chunky bream flashed gold and green as I lifted it from the water.

The rest of the morning passed in quiet contentment. Cast, reel, catch, release. The squirrels had gone silent, and the only sounds left were the occasional splash of a fish and the faint breeze rustling through the pines.

When I think about November in the Carolinas, that’s the image that comes to mind. It’s not just rutting bucks or limits of ducks, but also the feel of cool air turning warm, of the woods giving way to open water, and of the quiet satisfaction that comes from beginning the day hunting small game in the woods with a rimfire rifle, then to catching bream using ultralight gear.

Don’t let November pass you by.