The October morning breaks clear and crisp, like an aged Riesling, pungent with the bouquet of dying leaves. Mist curls from the lake. Jays chatter in the bronzing poplars. Under my feet, the porch groans and mutters as a sharp north breeze cartwheels a handful of leaves across the floorboards that catch in the rockers of an ancient rocking chair. Inside, the cabin lies bleak and silent, the cot long empty, the coffee gone, only a trace of wood smoke and must clinging to the chinked walls and twig furniture and knee-high stacks of National Geographic. A half-dozen empty 30-30 shells eye me with disapproval from the mantle where Dad's old Winchester is conspicuously missing. I lift his camera case to my shoulder, tuck the tripod under my arm, and just wish I'd had time to say goodbye.