Sometimes it makes no sense to me either. I spent the past three days in the Maine North Woods, miles from any cell towers, fishing for late-season brook trout (landed a beautiful orange-bellied male with a kype), practicing my moose call (still needs considerable work), and bagging two ruffed grouse (called "pa'tridge" here) in the rain. I arrived home grubby, stubbly, and glad for a shower. Tomorrow I have a long day at the office preparing to ship the November issue of Down East to the printer. And within thirty-six hours I will be at the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention in Cleveland where I will appear on a panel titled "Murder in the Great Outdoors." Somehow it all ties together, but as I wash one set of camouflage and blaze orange clothing and pack another outfit of black blazers and Blundstones, it all feels very haphazard, frenetic, and definitely unplanned.