I could have been a productive human. My brothers are all smart, hardworking, well-rounded guys. Actually I gave that stuff a try for a few years but it just wasn't meant to be.
I guess it all went to hell when I was about seven years old. We lived in a little town in Kentucky. My Grandfather was a rabbit and quail hunter but his first love was fox hunting. Not shooting foxes, but running them with hounds. He had some really fine hounds over a 70 year fox hunting career. Won the Kentucky State Fox Hunt (with my help :-). But he never was a dedicated duck hunter. My Father was. He loved to shoot upland game as well, but he liked duck hunting the best. So when I was big enough to keep up with him he took me along and ruined me for life.
We went jump hunting on the North Fork of the Licking River in Mason County, Kentucky. It was one of Dad's favorite places. We snuck along the creek looking far ahead to spy out some ducks and finally Dad saw some. My woodcraft skills were probably not the best at that early age, so Dad told me to wait while he snuck up on the ducks. He tied our retriever (my Uncle's totally untrained Chesapeake Bay dog) to a tree and told me to turn her loose when he shot. He told me to wait where I was and not to go any closer to the creek. At least he didn't tie me to a tree as well.
After a few minutes I heard him shoot so I turned 'Boo' loose. I was just standing there when I saw a flash through the trees on the creek and a Mallard drake fell right at the edge of the water. I wasn't sure what had happened exactly. Dad was 200 yards down the creek, and I didn't know that sometimes a duck would fly a little ways after being shot, but I saw the bird there and the dog was gone who knows where, so I decided to ease down the bank and retrieve that beautiful bird. I got to it easily enough, but was having some trouble getting back up the bank when I heard Dad crashing through the underbrush hollering for me. I answered back and he came over to the steep bank where I was and helped me up. He scolded me for going too near the water but I didn't care. I was holding the prize of my young life, that big fat Mallard. We hunted on a bit farther and I got to see Dad make a high passing shot on a Black Duck. But that paled in comparison to the Mallard I was holding. I don't remember anything else about the hunt, but it doesn't matter. The damage was done.
Here I sit 50 years later, Mallard feathers in the trash can from a duck I killed yesterday and gave to my Father for his supper last night. I have forgiven him even though he is the one to blame.
I guess it all went to hell when I was about seven years old. We lived in a little town in Kentucky. My Grandfather was a rabbit and quail hunter but his first love was fox hunting. Not shooting foxes, but running them with hounds. He had some really fine hounds over a 70 year fox hunting career. Won the Kentucky State Fox Hunt (with my help :-). But he never was a dedicated duck hunter. My Father was. He loved to shoot upland game as well, but he liked duck hunting the best. So when I was big enough to keep up with him he took me along and ruined me for life.
We went jump hunting on the North Fork of the Licking River in Mason County, Kentucky. It was one of Dad's favorite places. We snuck along the creek looking far ahead to spy out some ducks and finally Dad saw some. My woodcraft skills were probably not the best at that early age, so Dad told me to wait while he snuck up on the ducks. He tied our retriever (my Uncle's totally untrained Chesapeake Bay dog) to a tree and told me to turn her loose when he shot. He told me to wait where I was and not to go any closer to the creek. At least he didn't tie me to a tree as well.
After a few minutes I heard him shoot so I turned 'Boo' loose. I was just standing there when I saw a flash through the trees on the creek and a Mallard drake fell right at the edge of the water. I wasn't sure what had happened exactly. Dad was 200 yards down the creek, and I didn't know that sometimes a duck would fly a little ways after being shot, but I saw the bird there and the dog was gone who knows where, so I decided to ease down the bank and retrieve that beautiful bird. I got to it easily enough, but was having some trouble getting back up the bank when I heard Dad crashing through the underbrush hollering for me. I answered back and he came over to the steep bank where I was and helped me up. He scolded me for going too near the water but I didn't care. I was holding the prize of my young life, that big fat Mallard. We hunted on a bit farther and I got to see Dad make a high passing shot on a Black Duck. But that paled in comparison to the Mallard I was holding. I don't remember anything else about the hunt, but it doesn't matter. The damage was done.
Here I sit 50 years later, Mallard feathers in the trash can from a duck I killed yesterday and gave to my Father for his supper last night. I have forgiven him even though he is the one to blame.
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