No Really, I'm not Crazy!

A few years ago, in the heart of a dense and mysterious forest, I encountered a bird like no other. She was a creature of wonder, her feathers rich and warm like the golden hues of a freshly minted penny.  She was, in fact, a ruffed grouse, but I decided to name her Penny the pet Partridge.

"One wild and stormy afternoon, the winds howled fiercely, and the earth groaned under the weight of fallen trees. Determined to clear the trail, I ventured into the woods, chainsaw in hand. The forest was heavy with the rich aroma of damp earth, mingling with the crisp, natural scent of moss and fallen leaves, the chaos of the storm still fresh in the air. As I worked, I heard a soft rustling nearby, like a whisper of feathers in the wind. Then, to my surprise, out from behind a fallen log appeared Penny, flapping her wings and strutting right up to me!"

"She wasn’t frightened at all. In fact, she followed me around for hours as I worked, like a silent companion on a grand adventure. Her curiosity was endless—so much so that she wandered so close to my chainsaw I had to stop and double-check she was safe. It was as if she wanted to be part of the action, contributing in her own peculiar way. We didn’t share the same language, but somehow, we communicated. There was something magical about those moments, as though we were two beings from entirely different worlds, yet understanding each other in ways words could never capture. Penny has a delightful repertoire of at least three distinct sounds that she uses to communicate with me, each one as unique and expressive as her lively personality."

"I couldn’t help but share this magical connection with my wife. One day, I invited her to the forest to meet this wonderful bird, hoping to prove I wasn’t simply off my rocker."  My wife was amazed by how her feathers shimmered with a radiant, coppery glow. Overcome with wild curiosity, I reached out to pet her, but she spread her wings, uncertain of my intentions. I didn’t try again—after all, she’s a wild spirit, untamed and free, meant to soar on her own."

What an incredible, unexpected friend she has become—an adventure in her own right, a companion who adds a touch of magic to every trip into the woods. With each step we take together, she brings a   certain energy and a sense of wonder, making even the simplest journey feel like a grand exploration. 

Dedicated to Whitey Shaw

Photography by Bill Hilly

 Where the Colors Live

Fall is settling over the land, and while many people in the town might be disappointed by the muted colors this year, Billy knows that down by the swamps and ponds, the season is about to reveal something magnificent. This is a time for Billy to reflect on the year—how things have shifted, and how he has changed—as well as how the land itself, though often overlooked, has its own subtle beauty.

The wind was cool this morning, brushing through the trees with a crisp edge. The sun, bright and high in the sky, bathed the land in a warm glow, casting soft shadows as Billy made his way down to the swamp. The swamps and ponds were different this time of year—peaceful and serene, almost still, save for the occasional movement of a duck or a gentle ripple across the surface.

As he walked, Billy reflected on the town. People often talked about the fall, how the leaves were turning, but he knew something they didn’t—something they couldn’t know because they never ventured down here, to the heart of the swamplands. To most of them, the fall colors were dull this year—muted oranges and browns, a haze of gold here and there, but nothing spectacular. Just another season shifting.

But Billy had learned something over the years that they didn’t understand. He had learned to look beyond the surface, to wait for the moments that were often hidden from view. In the swamps and near the ponds, there was always a hidden brilliance waiting to be discovered, tucked away in the quiet corners of the land where few people cared to look.

The leaves along the edge of the pond were deepening into brilliant reds and golden yellows, their reflections dancing on the still surface of the water. There were patches of rich amber from the birch and oaks that surrounded the swamp—more vivid than anything he had seen in the higher lands. To anyone else, it might have just been another small pond, another place in the swamp that people rarely noticed. But Billy knew better.

Every year, at this time, the colors by the swamp would come alive in their own way, hidden from the town, from the world that didn’t understand the subtle beauty of this place. People were too busy looking for the obvious, the loud and bright colors of the forests up on the hills, where tourists took photos and walked the paths. But down here, in the quiet, away from the crowds, nature revealed something different.

Billy knew it wasn’t just the colors that made this moment special—it was the way the landscape had its own kind of hidden grace, unappreciated by most. It was a place that hadn’t been molded by human hands, a place that hadn’t been disturbed by the rush of the world. And in that, it was perfect.

The sound of the swamp was different too—there were noises from creatures preparing for winter, the rustle of leaves, the splash of a frog, but it was softer now. More reflective, like the earth was taking its own quiet moment to prepare for the long months ahead.

He sat down on a large rock near the water’s edge, pulling his camera from his bag. But today, he wasn’t going to rush to film or capture the scene. He had done that countless times before. Today, he simply wanted to be part of it—to feel the quiet shift of nature around him. The camera would still run, but he allowed himself a moment to just take it in without the pressure of capturing it for someone else.

The air was growing colder now, but the pond held its color, the reflection of the trees shimmering with every small breeze that passed through. It was a reminder that even as the days grew shorter, even as the world seemed to quiet down, there was a vividness here that few people would ever see. The swamp, the ponds, the forest—they held their secrets, their beauty, and for those who took the time to look, it was all waiting to be found.

Billy stood up after a long time, brushing the dirt from his knees. He didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to walk away from this moment, but he knew there would be more. There always was. The seasons would continue their slow shift, and so would he.

The camera clicked on, the lens focusing on the vivid colors and reflections in the water. Billy knew he would return here again someday.

"He has yet to realize that the winter landscape will be even more stunning."

Photos by Billy Hill

The Thump of Feathers

"It feels like ages ago when I first crossed paths with Gary, the friendly grouse. His feathers were a blend of soft browns, beiges, and light grays—not as vibrant as Penny the Partridge, but he had something special—he loved to chat. While Penny was always friendly, Gary was a bit more reserved at first—like someone unsure about making a new friend."

"Over time, though, he warmed up to me, and I decided to call him Gary the Grouse. Now, whenever I venture into his part of the woods he’s there, eager to chat and showcase his trademark shenanigans! He doesn’t mind me getting close either. Sometimes, I can get within a foot of him before he hops up on a rock or heads down a path, his tail feathers flicking in the breeze. His curiosity is endless, his gaze locked on me with deep, dark brown and amber eyes that seem to pierce right through me—as if he's silently trying to decipher the very essence of who I am."

"While not the best at long-distance flight, Gary excels at short bursts, especially when making dramatic take-offs. At times, he perches on a twisted, gnarled branch of an old oak, his keen eyes fixed on me as I split firewood for the approaching winter. I can't help but think he's there simply for a better vantage point. With a sudden flap of his wings, he launches into the air. His flight is quick—almost a flash of motion—before he lands with a perfect thud just a few feet from where I stand."

Now let's go back to that memorable day when I met Gary for the first time. 

It was a chilly autumn morning as I made my way across the main ridge and descended toward a beaver dam below.  As soon as I placed my backpack on the ground, I heard it—a sharp thump. The sound emanated from the thick ferns ahead, a spot I knew well but had never really focused on.  Then, I heard it again, an unusual sound that always makes me stop and listen intently.  It was the soft yet unmistakable thump of feathers, resonating from deep within the trees.  I crouched low, peering into the underbrush, but saw nothing.

"Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there it was—its feathers perfectly blending with the soft sunlight filtering through the canopy. The bird was still, only its tail feathers twitching now and then. But each time it shifted, there was that thump again, like the soft landing of something heavy. I watched for a while before deciding to circle back to the other side of the pond, where I planned to set up trail cameras, hoping to capture more activity over the coming days."

"To my surprise, Gary appeared on my camera the very next day and continued to show up throughout the following week. Over time, I was able to identify him by his unique song and dance."  

"Over the next few years, I carefully earned his trust, and now, without fail, he seeks me out whenever I step into the wild, as if our encounters have become an unspoken ritual of the forest."  Gary and Penny both react the same way when I start heading home—they get excited and even chase alongside my ATV, as if they believe I might never return.

Dedicated to Whitey Shaw

Photography by Bill Hilly