The air outside is in it's semi-annual turmoil. Vestiges of Indian Summer are being blown eastward under the uneven assault of late November winds. Shadows borne of slate gray skies exist only in the most remote corners, under vehicles, and in assorted burrows. Over night frosts are waiting for drivers in the morning, and I'm in the throes of buck fever, again...

The jet stream is dipping southward, turning the Midwest and Canada into meteorological twins. My summertime game of choice,...