What's Your Dream Hunt

            As a hunter I am often asked by fellow hunters and non hunters a question. It’s the one I have heard hundreds of times and if you are like me, you have heard it too. If you have ever sat around a campfire, or stared into the sparking night sky, the question has been asked. If you have ever been drawn into conversation about hunting with non-hunters you have been asked directly. What is your dream hunt?

            The question lunges into our mind as we spit our verses of animals on far away continents that we want to chase. Stanzas of species and locations roll from our tongues as we recite a chorus of adventures we long for. There are species whose heads we would like to grace our trophy rooms, or whose hides we want covering our floors. We discuss length of horn, size of skull, beards, spurs, and leg bands. I have heard them all, or at least close to them all. Leopards in Namibia, elephants in Botswana, doves in Argentina, Red Stag in New Zealand, Grizzly bear in Alaska you name it and there are some who want to hunt these marvelous animals. As long as there have been hunters there have been dreams of hunts to come.

            Perhaps you too have been asked this question and you conjure dreams of the Dark Continent or 180” whitetail bucks. Flashes of skies filled with waterfowl of every species. There are thoughts of bugling bulls, gobbling turkeys, and thundering herds. Shots that are true and adventures achieved. If you are like me, you have spent hours perusing the internet looking for opportunities. Back country elk in Montana, pronghorn in Wyoming, Impala in South Africa, the list is never ending and is as diverse as hunters themselves.

            Recently I had this question asked of me again, and it occurred to me, that while I would love to go to Africa and hunt plains game or New Zealand for Red stag, I dream of chasing big grizzly bears in the Alaskan tundra. The reality is that my dream hunt is – the next one.

            Whether it’s chasing squirrels through oak ridge’s, or bow hunting whitetails in a hardwood bottom. The thrill of the hunt isn’t defined by the quarry rather by the experience. Memories made, moments cherished. I have hunted many different species in several states and one thing is constant, whether it’s after moose in Alaska or feral pigs in my native South Carolina, the thrill of being there is equal. Hunters know that while taking game is part of what we do, it is only a part. The real thrill comes with the experience. So the next time I am in a conversation about hunts, places and species, and I am asked what my dream hunts is, I will look simply and honestly and say,  “The next one.” What’s yours?

The Day's Finally Here

          This hunt was a little over thirteen years in the making. To the casual observer, it would seem pretty uneventful and nonchalant. But for me, it was a difficult day that took over a decade to achieve.

       

   It started on September 17, 2000, the day my father died. While he wasn't what you would call a hunter, he did own a shotgun and used it occasionally at the dove fields near our home. A Remington Sportsman 12 gauge with two matching barrels, and while he seldom used it, it was still his and it became mine on that day. With little fanfare I brought it home, made a simple rack for it and hung it above a closet door in my office where it has stayed ever since. Its annual cleaning notwithstanding, it has never loaded a shell, fired a shot, or see the out of doors since I brought it home.

          There were many occasions when I thought about it. Many opportunities to take it down and carry it afield but it just never felt right. I resolved that when the time was right to take it afield I would know, and then I would honor him and the moment appropriately.

          The day arrived shortly after Christmas. My youngest son received his first shotgun for Christmas. A hunt was planned to take his first gun on a squirrel hunt, I knew instantly that this was the occasion I had been waiting for. While it was a pretty uneventful day, as hunting goes, the emotions of the day ran as deep as a river carving through an ancient canyon, I knew it was time.

          In the predawn light we walked, cradling our guns like a new father holds his first child. A rush of memories flooded my brain as we plodded to our destination. My mind hastily sprinted back to the sights, sounds and smells of our last dove hunt together. I could smell the tobacco that penetrated the faded dukbax vest. Its stretched shell loops and baggy pockets held his brier safely, smoldering with its last puff.  Visions of the old Remington sounding off in the dove field as the doves piled up. Seldom needing fifteen shots to reach his limit of twelve, he was indeed a fine wingshot. Something I most certainly didn't inherit with the gun.

          On this day, we gathered against an ancient oak, sitting side by side as the day awakened. I found it hard to concentrate on the moment at hand, instead finding myself flooded with emotion, missing deeply my dad while embracing the moment with my son. How I wish dad could have lived to see my son. This gun and a few stories are the only things my son has of his grandfather. It was fitting that we were here together, on this day, at this moment. While I am not sure Ridge understood the emotion I was feeling, he welcomed the opportunity to try to connect with his grandfather. Even once offering me the chance to shoot a squirrel first before him so I could feel my dad’s gun recoil once more. After all, this was the gun I used to kill my first squirrel, my first turkey, and many other animals. Smiling I thanked him and told Ridge this was his day, and his grandfather and I were more than happy to yield our opportunities to him. Nothing would thrill me or him more, than for Ridge to get his first squirrel with his new gun on this day.

          As the day lingered the squirrels didn't cooperate well at all. We hunted hard for several hours covering a lot of ground in search of some willing participants. Finally, just before noon, we topped a ridge and saw four bushytails scampering around below us. Unaware of our presence, we made our stalk. As fate has its way of working things out, each of us got a squirrel at this encounter.

          Indeed the moment was right. We paused hugged one another took a few pictures and cherished the moment. To be sure, the timing was right, and dad’s gun etched into the timeline of our family a moment that will last for another generation. I am confident it won’t be long before I once again get down the ole Remington and escort it once again into the fields and forest. And cherish the opportunity to carry my dad along as we continue the legacy.