John Pepin, Michigan Department of Natural Resources

“Either get ready for elimination or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards,” — Bob Dylan

The warm afternoon sun lit up a clearing before me as I approached a place in the background of this seemingly summery scene – an impression belied by the height of the sun’s already sinking position in the sky.

I took a deep breath in resignation, watching a crow twist and twirl in the wind like a silhouetted kite, understanding this time and place was a long way from summertime fun time.

Instead, it was only a couple days before Halloween, the pivotal night when at midnight the barrier between light and darkness would be torn asunder, heralding in November’s bluster as a coarse welcome to the wintry winds undoubtedly soon to follow.

Tall and yellow-white spent grasses shot up stiffly from the earthen banks along a small creek. The nearer I got, the louder I heard a rushing I immediately associated with water running down grade over boulders and stones.

Tag alders stood leaning toward me over the water from the far side of the creek – their bare branches shaded half the watercourse, sunshine lit the rest.

When I got to the edge of the creek, I noticed the main flow of the water pouring into a concrete box that ran under an old road I was standing by.

As I looked at the creek and studied its flow patterns, a sudden big splash of water erupted several feet upstream from me. The sound was like that of a child swimming and kicking their legs in the water.

I turned my head sharply to find out what had made the noise. As I did, I imagined I might see a beaver swimming past me in a glide having just done a mighty tail slap on the water to warn me away from the area.

Instead, what I saw was something much more compelling and dramatic.

A seemingly black aerodynamic shape hugged the tan-sanded and cobbled bottom of the creek. When I moved a step closer, the specter-like figure moved in kind, but this time it made no splash.

It shot quickly in an effortless and fluid motion, disappearing upstream from where I stood, leaving my mouth gaping.

I felt like I had seen something incredible and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished – like an exquisite blue diamond had slipped through my fingers and rolled off a canyon ledge.

I then heard more loud splashing. This time, it was echoing toward my ears from the concrete box opening. Whatever was causing it was in the long and narrow culvert-styled water box under the gravel road.

When I moved toward the opening to the box, a swirl of three or four of the dark and streamlined submarine-like shapes shot upstream in a group from the depths of a pool swirling in the shadows of the tag alders.

Then, a miraculous thing happened.

As though the game of hide-and-seek had become a bore or the urge to rush, run and maneuver had subsided, one of the dark shapes headed downstream now slowed to a stop right in front of me.

The water was crystal clear, and I could see every detail, the figure was so close to me. It was no longer a ghost or some other fast-moving apparition I could scarcely comprehend.

This was an incredible, male chinook salmon longer than my arm, with a hooked jaw.

I was already quiet while I was observing these activities, but now I was hushed everywhere within myself, not wanting to disrupt this wonderful opportunity to observe, experience and learn.

This was a mighty creature that had survived hatching from an egg to become a fry and then a smolt when it imprinted on this creek as its home. Then for three or four years it had eluded predators and other challenges in Lake Michigan, getting bigger and stronger, before returning here now to spawn and die.

While the fish remained in front of me, I wondered if he could see me and if he was watching me. If he was, I wanted to somehow communicate to him that I saluted him and was grateful for the opportunity to see him so close to me.

The fish had a bespeckled back and fins. Parts of his tail had turned white, while overall the fish was turning dark, indicating he had already fertilized eggs for a new cohort of salmon, and he was now beginning to die.

The more I looked downstream, the more salmon I saw. Some had white along their spines and sides. At the bottom of the creek in a couple of places, there were some salmon already dead, with all their color lost, sunk to the bottom, decomposing.

Farther upstream, the top part of the tails of several salmon protruded through the water, looking like the sails of ships pointed in the same direction, lined up in a row.

I watched these fish for several minutes though I could have stayed until the sun went down completely. I left telling myself I’d be back.

Experiences like these are deeply enriching for me as I feel a gut, blood and brain connection with them as they fortify my spirit, leaving me wanting nothing but more.

The next day, the skies were fluffy with falling snow.

It was the changing of the seasonal guard — though it remained warm enough for the snow not to accumulate on the roadways, sidewalks and other places that had retained heat.

In the forest, the snow that clung to everything brought a silence with it as fell. It was as though a bedsheet of soft snow had been draped over everything, with the forest slipping off into a peaceful and restful sleep.

There was no whipping and lashing wind to stun and crunch the landscape into wintry submission. No, this was rather a quiet approach, one that left the North Country in a slumped state of resignation and retirement.

The sounds of blue jays yacking echoed through the woods, as well as the soft tapping of woodpeckers. Beyond these familiar sounds, the forest was silent.

My footprints seemed like a significant and inartful intrusion on this splendid and clean white scene. The spruces and the balsam first wore the snow well on their branches, seemingly not only ready but welcoming of the moisture.

It wouldn’t be long and most all the country would be turning the clocks back an hour, inviting the darkness of the late-year months to fall sooner and more decisively over our world.

At a big bend in the county road, six wild turkeys walked in a line across the road in front of me. When I returned home several hours later, they were in my backyard, scratching at the ground underneath our bird feeders.

Seeing me, they retreated to the back edge of the property where they continued to walk into the hardwood stand, bobbing their heads with each step forward.

By late afternoon, the snow that had fallen overnight was all but gone. The temperature remained above freezing, turning any remaining precipitation that might have fallen as snow into rain instead.

But the rain that fell was cold, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. It felt to me like those raindrops could pierce my rain jacket and even my skin.

I could feel myself getting colder inside, even while I was walking. I think the rain, while no longer snow, was trying to have the same effect on me that the snow had on the forest.

It wanted to quiet me, to lull me into a place where I would need and want to lay down to sleep somewhere on the forest floor – maybe until springtime, maybe forever.

Instead, I shook off the cold as I lifted my collar up around my neck. I kept walking until I reached a hemlock I could stand under.

This would be a place where I could watch and listen, as well as close my eyes to hear the nothingness that lifted and held me up.

Yes, it’s certain now the summertime has died, and winter has stepped a toe into the spotlight, but autumn still has a dance or two to twirl before the end of the month.

But assuredly, though not yet apparent in all ways, the changing of the guard has taken place. Soon there’ll be snow on the scarecrow and the sparkling harvest cider gone flat.

I urge myself to embrace this change and new season and to cherish those that have passed, to keep my heart in the moment while yet looking and hoping farther down the road to a springtime I know will surely come.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Outdoors North is a weekly column produced by the Michigan Department of Natural Resources on a wide range of topics important to those who enjoy and appreciate Michigan’s world-class natural resources of the Upper Peninsula.