For the second morning in a row I sat in a makeshift blind, a pile of tombstone-gray rocks and driftwood. I was two ducks away from a limit, staring through my binocular at a basket-racked buck and three does lapping up water at Lake Huron in the orange glow of the October sunrise. Somewhere behind them, in a tangle of aspen, cedar and skeleton-white birch, that same crazy grouse was drumming at the dawn again. The pulsing, staccato_ thump! thump! thump!_ carried across the water so clearly, I wondered if it could be heard over in Canada, just across the North Channel.