First Hunt

First Hunt

All of my family are hunters; my dad, my uncle, both of my granddads, even my mom. Every year they bring home at least half a dozen deer. Most of them own black powder guns. My dad and uncle even have bows.

I got a .22 rifle for my eighth birthday. It was just a few inches shorter than I was. The mandatory hunter safety course was a snap. Not only had most of the stuff been drilled into me all of my life, but the teacher was one of Grandpa's fishing buddys.
So it was natural enough, that the fall after my 16th birthday I was handed an Orange hat that looked vaguely like something Robin Hood would wear, and Grandpa's old double barreled shotgun. They placed me in a prime location, right on a game trail. They made a point of making sure everyone knew where everyone else would be. Then I was on my own.

I was excited, but it was not a totally new experience. I had hunted plenty of rabbits and squirrels. Thus I knew just what to do when I heard a rustling in the bushes. I raised my gun and sighted along the barrel. Sure enough the signs were all there; the brown hide, the proud head ornamentation, the distinctive tail. It was a cow.