Birth Of a Hunter (part 2)

 I remember another hunt when I may have been seven or eight, down by Uncle Joe's Pond. This time,  I had a gun of my own. It was a Daisy spring operated BB rifle. Barely strong enough to take down a sparrow, but it was mine and Grandpa said I could bring it.
You couldn't tell me I wasn't Daniel Boone's second coming.

I know for certain we didn't kill anything this trip. But I had fun. I always did when I went places with Grandpa Lewis.
I remember we found a tree with a hollow space and opening about two feet tall at its base. I cocked my little Daisy and fired right up into that space. Heard no sounds, but a feather floated down from above. Excited now, I cocked the Daisy again and fired, again. I was disappointed that no birds or animals fell to join the lone feather. But I was happy like nobody's business that I had gotten to shoot my rifle "out in the woods", not just in the back yard.
Since nothing happened at that tree, we moved on.

In one of the soft, springy areas close to the water, we saw raccoon tracks. At the top of a tall cypress tree nearby, my grandpa pointed out a rounded mass of moss, sticks, and pine needles. Said it looked like the perfect place for a 'coon.
He let one fly from his old over and under 12-guage. He hit the bottom of the nest right where it nestled in the fork of two big limbs. And nothing happened.
He said the nest looked too plumped up to be empty. So he let another shot fly.
The whole nest lifted up about three inches. A piece of moss and some twigs flew off to one side. One of the smaller branches near the nest hung, swinging and broken.
Still nothing fell dead from above or made a mad dash for a safer haven.

I heard my grandfather swear loudly. I thought it is because no animals had appeared. When I looked over to him, he was massaging the front of his shoulder and looking angrily at the shells in his broken open shotgun. He pulled the top casing free and began swearing again. "Goddamned Magnum rounds! And buckshot on top of that! How in Hell did this get into my damn gun?"
Wasn't me. Touching a gun without permission was a guarantee of the worst whoopin ever. Of course, he didn't look my way when he asked the question anyhow.
He growled out "Knowed better than to just grab some shells outta that bag without looking first. That shit hurt like a Sonuvabitch! Hurts even worse cause I wasn't holding the damn gun tight enough in the first place."
"Tifton", he said, " wanna shoot? " I ain't answer with my mouth but shook my head so hard it shoulda fell off.
After a moment of silence, he said, "Damn, maybe I am dumber than I thought. Tifton, this is a perfect example of what not to do on a hunt."
Then he chuckled to himself and again reminded me to be careful when I started hunting by myself.
I'm ain't do no laughing.
It wasn't funny to me. I was scared to death.

He talked about the pain from that shot for a couple of weeks afterwards. I spent a few years after that afraid of shotguns because I thought the recoil would knock my arm off. Anything that could hurt my grandpa would just kill me.
Grandpa and I hunted quite a few times after that. But those early two had already set the tone and cemented my destiny.

I have hunted with my brother, my cousins, my ex-wife (brave of me, eh?),  and numerous friends. But none of these hunts carry the same value to me as when I was a crying little boy who wanted to kill a squirrel with a stick or a brave and scared BB gun-toting little Daniel Boone.
I remember those two trips more fondly than any others. They were definitely the most influential.
Love you, Grandpa.
I do miss you.

I have not yet hunted with my thirteen year old. But I have taken her shooting. She has the gun safety rules down well and she is a decent shot. That makes her way better than I was at her age.
I'm sure she'll do well when she gets the chance to hunt food.


P.S.  My thirteen year old from above is now 21. She's an even better shot and has been in the woods with me numerous times. I do believe she likes it too. With the aforementioned five year old (now thirteen) and some eight year old cousins, we tested the human squirrel dog theory often. And she has somehow managed to lay claim to one of my favorite rifles. But I'm glad I could teach her the respect for weapons and wildlife and herself that Grandpa Lewis taught me.