There are times every bird season when I sneak out on my own to enjoy the woods Robert Frost called “lovely, dark and deep.” These are special days when time slows down enough that it almost stops, and every moment is etched into a memory I can recall, as needed. With every passing year, I seem to have more days when I hunt alone. That condition is not necessarily due to choice, mind you. It just seems to come with the passage of time.