Having a hard time sleeping tonight listening to Turnpike Troubadours hunting songs.

I remembered my first hunting memory.

I was four years old. We went up to my biological mother's family. They owned a tobacco farm. My adopted family, particularly my adopted father, made sure I was part of their family.

We went up and got there the evening before muzzleloader season. My biological mother, her brothers, and my Pa were going to hunt that weekend.

I watched as the muzzleloaders came out of leather and canvas cases. I am sure the rifles were some version of Thompson Center. I remember the brass, the wood, and octagon barrels. I did not have any concept of a Purdy. However, a couple of decades later I remember the feeling of reverential respect being the same emotion when I saw my first Purdy or Norte Damne de Paris as those muzzleloaders.

I cannot remember the conversations. I can remember the feeling of the conversations. I can remember watching the rifles being oiled. The being removed and inspected. I can remember everyone getting their possible, kit bags, in order.

I can remember the powder charges being judicious measured. I can see my Uncle Mike setting a preluded conical and starting it with a wood ball starter.

I can see the game of Rock and pork tenderloin dinner.

I know I asked so much that my Uncle Mitch finally spoke up, "Can he go?" The consensus was, "No." I remember the plan was to still hunt from the ridges into bottom land. Uncle Mike killed a doe that weekend. These were long walk hunts. I had no comprehension then of a long walk. I remember saying, "I can walk."

I came to realize as a version of this day replayed itself out over the years that I was witnessing a ritual. The also came to realize the ritual was what I wanted to be part of, to partake in.

Grandpa Glen gave me a squirrel vest when we left to go home. That vest is long lost after many tragic events.

My Pa took me squirrel hunting the next weekend. It was just a little walk up a fence line that had a wild pear tree growing in it. We killed 4 red squirrels. I killed two. Pa killed two. He and I did not get to hunt together often due to his health. I remember he used a long barreled single shot 12 bore. I know in the family we called it a Cherokee. I have no idea if that was the real maker. The gun was burned up when my childhood home was burned a couple years later.


I remember my biological mother skinning and cleaning those four squirrels that night. Ten years later my biological mother and I were hunting the ridges along a holler. I killed my first deer a basket, broken ten point. Those are stories for another day, and already told.

What is your first hunting memory?

I was out and about with my BB gun at the age of five.

Mother had a Blue bird house.

She notice a starling on it. She said shoot that starling. I pulled up shot and the starling fell down.

Mine was a goose hunt. My uncle and dad were hunting geese and unfortunately for them, took me with. I do not know how old I was; probably 4 or 5.

I remember there being a lot of snow, which is rare for Utah, in that area of Utah. We got to the blind and my dad or uncle shot a duck. They tried to send me to get it but the snow was too deep for me.

A short time later, I started to get cold. I kept telling my dad I wanted to go back to the truck. He kepttelling me to wait but I kept arguing. I’ll never forget him telling me that as soon as we would leave, the geese would come.

He finally gave in and we left my uncle in the ditch, at the decoy spread. Sure enough a group of geese came in when we were near the truck. I’ll never forget watching them circle the decoys. My uncle shot and didn’t get any of them. My dad was not happy. I guess he forgave me as we have been on too many hunts to count, since then. He will soon turn 75 and I will be 53 in about a month. Hard to believe it’s been that long ago……

My first was when my father had me shoot a groundhog on the farm with his .22-250. I was probably 8 or 9 years old. I rested the rifle on a fence rail and followed everything he taught me at the range. The groundhog blew apart at 100 yards. My father yelled "great shot!" and slapped me on the back so hard it almost knocked the wind out of me. I've been addicted to hunting ever since. I spent the rest of that summer shooting mice in the chicken house with a Crossman pellet pistol. If I got even one mouse, it was a great day. Many hunters have great childhood hunting memories thanks to their parents. My father gave me too many to remember them all. Hopefully others will share their memories on this thread.

What a great thread, thanks LHeym. Most my days are spent surrounded by people who have no concept of any of these things.

Brad,

I couldn't agree more. Living in Las Vegas the people are just so far removed from the wild world. I find little to talk with them about.

I was 9 and on my first real hunt with my Dad and uncle Clyde. I took a step off the wood road we were walking on and a young buck jumped up almost at my feet. I was totally mesmerized and didn't even raise my 22. The sight of that buck implanted an itch in my brain that has never been satisfied even after 65 years and many hunts later.

Mark

quote:

Originally posted by 505 gibbs:
What a great thread, thanks LHeym. Most my days are spent surrounded by people who have no concept of any of these things.

Great point! We should all be so fortunate to
have grown up hunting…..

my first hunting memory is wrapping myself around a coldass piece of sagebrush shivering to death trying to hold some sort of body heat in right before the Sun cracked the mountain over Farmington Bay.

I don't remember any other part of the day, but I remember not being able to stop shivering there in the cold.

a few years later I was able to actually hunt, and made it 25 years in a row back to that marsh before leaving the state for good.

She’s 27 now and killed a zebra with me lat October in The Caprivi.

Would have been in Wyoming in the 1970's. I remember going with my grandfather after antelope and with my father on antelope hunts. I remember sitting in the truck with that vial woman (my mother) while my father went for a walk on deer hunts. I remember elk hunts near Dubois.

My mother always made any event a shit show. Still does. She has dimensia now, and I have been telling her off for over 30 years.

My father was a police officer, county sheriff and eventually a federal agent. He was rarely home. So she had the majority of the task of managing me, which she was downright evil at.

My older brother had started hunting at a younger age than me. My dad had bought him a 20 gauge Remington Wingmaster. We were at Possum Kingdom lake here in Texas. It was dove season and I was posted under a dead tree with the shotgun and a dove landed in it. I got the dove and was hooked. Dad bought me a Winchester model 12 in 20 gauge which at 80 years old I still have. This started an argument with my brother until his death as to which was better the Wingmaster or the model 12. I still can't believe my brother could not easily see the difference in a work of art machined piece and a stamped run of the mill offering.

Dogman, where’s the pic of the young lady with her zebra?

quote:

Originally posted by Big Wonderful Wyoming:
Would have been in Wyoming in the 1970's. I remember going with my grandfather after antelope and with my father on antelope hunts. I remember sitting in the truck with that vial woman (my mother) while my father went for a walk on deer hunts. I remember elk hunts near Dubois.

My mother always made any event a shit show. Still does. She has dimensia now, and I have been telling her off for over 30 years.

My father was a police officer, county sheriff and eventually a federal agent. He was rarely home. So she had the majority of the task of managing me, which she was downright evil at.

I hate to hear that. Life is the hand you make and not the hand your dealt. I guess.

quote:

Originally posted by Dog Man:
She’s 27 now and killed a zebra with me lat October in The Caprivi.

I never had a BB gun. Yes, please show the zebra.

Not my first memory but my funniest. MY dad loves to hunt waterfowl. For college graduation he gave me an amazing guided duck hunt for the two of is in Arkansas at a great lodge. The lodge was amazing and the drink and food the first night was great. Day 1 of hunt we are up at 3AM and standing in chest deep water freezing. I was miserable and my dad was talking about how great it was. I love to hunt but I am still not a waterfowl guy.
First memory is with my the same dad, hunting dove. I had a Stevens SXS of his that kicked like a mule but at 10 I actually got a dove or two and I was hooked.

Dogman, if that memory was mine, I would have those 2 pics framed side by side. Ps. You need to buy her a set of gators

I grew up in rural Massachusetts and we had lots of stone fences in my neighborhood. When I was 10 I got a Daisy BB Gun and I practiced with it religiously in my basement. I devised a primitive BBtrap out of a large cardboard box and newspaper. I got pretty accurate out to about 25-30 feet. With Daisy in hand I became a Chipmunk Assassin. I learned that only a head shot through the eyes would drop a chipmunk in its tracks. Since my Dad was the local Chief of Surgery he taught me how to skin them out and I salted the skins to preserve them. I told my baby sister who was 6 years old that I’d see the skins together and make her a coat. After about 20 skinning jobs I realized it would take at least 400-500 skins to make a coat and I gave up. My sister still asks me where her Chipmunk Coat is 65 years later.

quote:

Originally posted by Bud Meadows:
I grew up in rural Massachusetts and we had lots of stone fences in my neighborhood. When I was 10 I got a Daisy BB Gun and I practiced with it religiously in my basement. I devised a primitive BBtrap out of a large cardboard box and newspaper. I got pretty accurate out to about 25-30 feet. With Daisy in hand I became a Chipmunk Assassin. I learned that only a head shot through the eyes would drop a chipmunk in its tracks. Since my Dad was the local Chief of Surgery he taught me how to skin them out and I salted the skins to preserve them. I told my baby sister who was 6 years old that I’d see the skins together and make her a coat. After about 20 skinning jobs I realized it would take at least 400-500 skins to make a coat and I gave up. My sister still asks me where her Chipmunk Coat is 65 years later.

You actually sound very similar to a young Theodore Roosevelt.

Zapper did you kill any ducks?
This year my waterfowl buddy and I were out in a severe storm. The temp was around 20 degrees (very cold for us). The wind was gusting 40 mph. Trying to set the blind up in the dark was like steering a sailboat. We got in right at shooting light. Here came the mallards. They hung just nicely trying to drop in that wind. We shot a two man limit in 20 minutes.

When I rattled nice 4x4 whitetail for junior when he was 12 and he nailed him
It was cold, freezing and downright miserable evening but at the same time a blast and the drag, being 2 miles was fun
Damn near frozen after we got home, hot chocolate never tasted better

quote:

Dad bought me a Winchester model 12 in 20 gauge which at 80 years old I still have. This started an argument with my brother until his death as to which was better the Wingmaster or the model 12. I still can't believe my brother could not easily see the difference in a work of art machined piece and a stamped run of the mill offering.

I have owned and shot many examples of both.

The model 12 is more prettier and better machined.

The 870 is tougher and far easier to repair.

I shot a lot of jackrabbits with a spotlight from a pickup bed. Didn't really count, I figure. Driver and host was my grandfather's "chicken man". Yes he raised fighting roosters, and Tom was his handler. Interesting people !!

But my first real hunt was in the Organ Mountains in New Mexico (Cox Ranch). I was 13 and had my newly gifted 308 lever action. And I was excited. REALLY excited. Up jumped a mule deer buck at about 40 yards. I emptied the magazine and never touched him as he trotted away. He stopped and looked back at about 100 yards but I was out of ammo.

I recall telling my Dad that what I needed was a spare magazine. He smiled and said, "No, what you need is to make the first shot count".

I love that memory....and the patient father who was very king so his very green son.

I'm not sure how old I was, but probably 5 or 6. My dad took me squirrel hunting with him. The woods of western Pennsylvania were full of colors on a beautiful October afternoon. I can still smell the wet leaves. I remember watching the American Sportsman on Sundays with my dad as well. I clearly remember him smiling when I said that someday I was going to take him hunting to some of those places we would watch on TV. That loving smile probably had no expectation that it would ever happen. God smiled on me, and although I'm not rich by any stretch of the imagination, I was able to take him to many places a coal miner with 5 kids could only dream of. Thanks, LHeym500, those memories made me smile on a cold Saturday night.

My first hunting trip was with my Dad. He drew an antelope tag (Montana) and I got invited along. I'm sure my Mom had something to do with the invite. I was under the hunting age, so I was just along as company and for the learning experience. I managed not to mess up his trip and we both had a good time. It was a lot of spot and hike.

Dad shot a pretty nice one and had it mounted. The antelope hung in the folk's living room until Dad passed. The mount is the only one in our house and I think of that trip every time I'm in my gun room.

quote:

Originally posted by Dog Man:
She’s 27 now and killed a zebra with me lat October in The Caprivi.

Now if she would give you a bunch of grand kids it would be so much better.

My first hunting memories were of going out duck hunting with my dad.

My family was sticklers for the rules and my mother refused to contemplate us kids shooting until we had hunter safety.

Dad would take us one at a time out in the duck boat with him. We would get up early and I don’t remember how the order was picked, but basically it was until whichever of us kids got cold, then he would boat back and take the next of us.

I remember that in the good hours I couldn’t see anything because of the reeds and the ducks decoying, and I was kept pretty busy grabbing the old paper hulled empties from the water next to the boat. That smell still comes back to me…

Anyhow, the first time, it was a bluebird day and pretty warm, and I had not seen any ducks at all. A lone high mallard came over us and dad took a shot at it. Dad was not much of a wing shot normally but this time… I can still see that white/gray belly, brown chest, and green head…. One shot and it folded up and fell like 30 yards from us. We went and picked it up and that was the first duck I got to grab… geez it was big!

I had to have been like 7-8 years old then.

I was hooked on hunting from even before that and remember throwing tantrums that I was not allowed to go as I was too little before then.

I was the first of us kids who was allowed to shoot. As I said, my dad was not much of a wing shot, and part of that was he didn’t practice much if at all…

For my 13th birthday I got a smith and Wesson 20 ga. auto loader. That first season I went out with the rule of one shell in the gun at a time. I did not get one that year, and I think I shot like 2 boxes of shells.

The next year I was allowed to shoot some clay pigeons before the season with my grandpa and his buddies and did better, usually hitting the clay bird with the second shot.

That year on opening day, I shot my first duck, a redhead drake.

Duck hunting was always a family affair, either a men’s outing only with my dad, brother, grandpa, and his group of friends who were in a hunting shack together; or dad and mom would haul all of us kids out to the shack later in the season.

Mom never liked hunting from a boat, and thus it was usually pretty rare that she would hunt with us, but she did on occasion. One time she hit a duck while on shore… dad was not able to find it and she still tells the story about how she finally shot her first duck, and dad couldn’t find it….

Good times!

Now, I’m the only one who lives and breathes hunting. Mom and dad will come out to the cabin, but mom is not interested in trying to hunt anymore, and dad has balance issues and poor sight, so has not gone out in the boat for a few years. At 85, he says he would just rather watch us.

My brother and I hunt together 1-2 times a year. My sister is just not interested.

My brother’s wife didn’t want his kids hunting when they were little, and now they don’t have any interest…

It’s kind of sad, that way.