Hang'n 'er up

Along the back trails of my memories this time of the year was all the hunts and the desire to gather winter's meat. Didn't seem to matter the weather in them there days, hunched up near some cover wait' n to surprise ol' mossyhorns.

It all started when I was twelve. Traded an otter hide for an ancient single barrel 12 gauge Stevens. The only way you could open the barrel was drive the pin out, so I left it loaded unless I shot a grouse. Mom was scared to death I'd shoot myself. Told brother James to find it and get rid of it. But I had it hid out n' the woods. Anyway gettin' back to my story...

Sometimes the wind cried and wailed but be'n cold was a state of mind.

I'd learned from the best teacher there was – Uncle George, the long hunter and ex Marine –whose patience was legendary. Like I said before he stalked through the woods with no more disturbance then the rattle of a leave from autumn breezes.

Recalling some of those great times like sett'n near a swamp runway, I was wearing a fur hat-muskrat, I recall. As evening shadows fell all of a sudden out of nowhere a great horned owl grabbed my hat but he didn't bargain for what was under it. He went away empty claws.

Or, be'n 14 years old, sitt'n with gramp's 86 Winchester hand loaded black powder shells and out bounded a big doe. I was so excited I don't believe I even saw the sights. Just blazed away. The air full of smoke and never cut a hair. Uncle George didn't say anything but his look said it all.

But I learned and at 15 got a spike buck. Boy I was so proud of that deer. You'd think it was a 6x6.

And at 16 there was the big 5x5, yup there was a reason for sights.

So now the 5x5 I got last fall was my last buck. I'll hang up the ol' shoot'n iron and take out a grandson where at 28 finally decided he wants to hunt. I'll pack the camera and look forward to his memories.