Those memorable days...

[kjohn]

Every once in a while, I think back to days of hunting that stick in my memory. As a kid, I spent many hours hunting along a creek on my Dad's farm, carrying my Cooey 39. I don't recall ever shooting anything, but I loved to walk along on a nice sunny day. I spent hours walking after a huge flock of Prairie Chickens. There probably 100 birds in that bunch. I won't ever see that again.

One nice fall day, I was walking around the end of a small point of small poplars on one of Dad's fields when a Ruffed Grouse flushed! Scared the pants off me! That was the one and only "bush partridge", as we called them, that I ever saw on that farm. More by example than by lecture, my Dad taught me that I didn't have to shoot every bird, that it was just fine to watch them fly away. I watched a good many Hungarians fly away!

Dad also instilled in me a sense of where to find chicken and partridge. I still hunt those areas. My Dad has been gone for 50 years. In my mind, I can conjure up a wonderful mix of the smells of autumn, the sound of him digging in his box of Imperial Special Long Range, and the vision of him dropping two shells in the old Tobin and closing it up. I still have the Tobin.

I remember one afternoon when I was hunting birds in a big pasture right along the top of the Qu'Appelle Valley, and a light mist rolled in from the north, coming up over the crest of the hill. It was such a pleasant thing to see and be part of that I stayed out there for an extra hour.

Many times over the past 50+ years, I have passed up taking an animal, sometimes because it was too late in the day, sometimes because I was just plain too lazy, and other times when I had to concede that I had been fooled. My old dog and I were having a sandwich in my van one afternoon when a huge whitetail buck came out of the trees maybe 40 yards away, stopped and had a long curious look at us, then slowly sauntered away. We were hunting bush partridge that day, so the deer was safe. My poor old dog nearly fell off the seat staring at the deer!

I still like to take my little Savage 24 .22/20ga., put an apple in my pocket and spend a couple of hours on a sunny Fall day wandering along the edge of a stubble field. It doesn't really matter whether I bring a bird home or not. I tramp the same fields I did when I was a young man.

 

[kamlooky]

You rascal you.
Got me thinking back to when I was a real young chap.
Dad loved to hunt and a good hunter/shot he was.
You brought me back to hunting chukars along the Thompson on the south east side
of Savona.
Old Bobo was getting all antsi and pa said to get ready.
The old dog pointed and he dint wag his tail.......never did that much.
Br....brrr.bbbrrrrrr, bang bang bang............off goes the hound.
He could count ya know............
Old boy glanced over.........'whucha wait'in fore'?
Fruck...........he was fast.
Three fer three that time.

 

[Drillbit]

I grew up with a Gevarm in my hands.

Sure been to some beautiful places, and have seen many nice sights all in the name of hunting.

Pretty hard to beat, and always an adventure.

 

[FLHTCUI]

kjohn, can smell the mist you speak of and the flushing of those bush partridge sounded close ay hand.
Thank You.
Rob

 

[c-fbmi]

You gentlemen are lucky, my father never hunted and had no use for firearms. I have no fond memories of hunting with my father.........or any elder mentor, for that matter. I guess you could say I'm "self taught" when it comes to hunting. Don't get me wrong I have many fond and wonderful memories of hunting days and camps, just none with the old man. I envy you those memories.
To be fair to him though, I have many good memories of gymkana-ing, rodeo-ing and trail rides when I was young, as the old man was a horseman. I have been riding and have owned horses since a very early age, and I always had very good horses as he was a flawless judge of horse flesh and temperment. He did impart all of this knowledge to me as well as saddle and harness making and the proper use of carpentry tools. So my childhood was not a complete loss and I did do some very cool stuff with the old man just not hunting.

 

[H4831]

Sooo many early hunting memories, but I will mention just one.
I felt handicapped because I couldn't take the 22 out on my own until I was twelve years old, while some of my friends were on their own with a 22 when they were nine or ten. But I sure made up for it when I became twelve!
A sister was married and lived on a homestead about four miles away, that was just a haven for prairie chicken, as everybody called the sharp tail grouse. I went for a weekend to stay at their place and hunt chickens, with a brothers heavy Savage 22 bolt action repeater.
When I went out of the house at daylight in the morning their shrill cry, or whatever you call the noise they make, was every where, making it hard to decide which way to go. I settled on the direction of a field of wheat that had recently been thrashed and the birds were feeding around the area of the straw stack. There was always grain lost in the straw where the chickens fed, while hundreds of small birds fed on the heap of weed seeds that had been dumped from the trashing machine. No chance to sneak up on the chickens though, but when they finished their morning feed they gathered in tall trees by the hundred.
A big old matriarch always sat on the very top of the tree, where she could watch in every direction, just to make sure that no ambitious boy with a gun was trying to sneak up on them.
Long story short, I eventually did manage to nail the old chicken on the top of a tall tree! When she rolled on down through the branches I'll bet there were fifty chickens that flew out of the tree.
My sister cooked the bird for supper and the next day I got another.
That week end stands out in memory as one of the great hunts of my life!

 

[hoytcanon]

From the time I was three or four years old, my father brought me out grouse hunting a few times each fall... it was rare to see another hunter back then in Northern Ontario. We would camp in the same three or four spots on lake shores with good walleye and pike fishing, and walk old grown in logging roads during the day... I carried a Crosman MKII .22 caliber CO2 pistol... it was rare that we didn't have a limit of grouse in a couple hours of hunting and sometimes in just minutes... and 20 casts or so would land enough fish for supper. I don't know how many hundred grouse and hares were taken with that one MKII pistol... at 8 or 9 years of age, I graduated to an old Mossberg semi .22 LR and then to a 12 gauge at 12 or 13... at 16 I went back to air pistols and rifles, mostly Benji HB pistols in .20 cal and .22 cal, and Sheridan C9 pneumatic rifles in .20 cal... 30+ years later, the airgun small game tally numbers in the many thousands... my dad was my main partner from that day until my son and daughters took over... it is a tough chore to convince dad to get out these days, and walking is out of the question... all of his guns have been passed down to my son... so last fall I convince my dad to join me for an impromptu deer hunt... I loaded up the rifles and food and gear and wood, picked up dad and headed to the hunt camp... opening morning I handed him a Ruger 77 in 7-08 and told him the scope was bang on for as far as he could see... we walked to a lawn chair I had set up behind a wind break... there was a foot of snow and a stiff northwest breeze... I trudged of to my stand and looked back to see dad huddled against the cold... I had never really though of him as "old" until that moment... it sent me into a melancholic funk... it was short lived, I had just climbed into my stand overlooking the junction of two heavily used trails when I heard a single shot ring out from dad's location... I immediately smiled... I thought I would wait a bit before heading over, when a fat doe came leaping my way through the snow from the direction of the shot... she looked healthy and uninjured, I thought, "crap, he missed." So, I let out a loud grunt stopping the doe at 80 yards broadside... my No.1-RSI 7X57 barked once (of course), the doe took two leaps and piled up... I left her where she lay and went over to collect dad from his stand... when I arrived, I found him sipping a cup of coffee sitting on a doe that had a good 40 pounds on the one I had dropped... dad said; "I let the little one go." I said, "I didn't"... no more funk.

 

[Cranky Pants]

Thanks for painting a picture of your youth that many of us can relate to.

 

[brts28]

Great stories fellas, makes me think of good times on the farm growing up, I always have it in the back of my head when I take my kids out hunting and shooting with me about how this time out could be one of the same great memories for them in 20 years that I still think about from my youth.

 

[rookie wildcat]

One of my earliest memories (I would have been about 2) is of my father coming home with a buck strapped to the roof of his yellow ford country wagon. I remember seeing the deer on the roof, my father coming in, but next I remember him washing the car and the water being red.
My next memories concerning hunting are watching my father clean and oil his firearms and telling me that you never sell a gun. He only had 3 and probably never figured I'd have more than that. 1-.22 Cooey repeater, 1-SS Cooey 20ga, 1-M94 .30-30 (I got way more).
When I was 5, I remember watching my Father pack his haversack and leaving the house, walking across the field out in back of the house we rented, going for deer. No luck that day. I remember shooting his rifle right after that, the next day, maybe?
I don't recall any further instances (when I asked, my father told me work kept him quite busy for several years) and I don't recall having my father around much for a few years then. But then we moved to the Annapolis Valley when I was 7.
I began to go walking around with my dad at about 8. Checking snares and just walking through the woods. Never for big game, though. That started me trapping muskrat and snaring rabbits. By the time I was 11, we had moved to a more rural area and I got to walk around with an old SS .22 Cooey my Dad got.
When I was almost 12, I got my Hunter Safety course and things really opened up time with my father. He helped me get a trapping gig with a friend of his and we went out all the time during the fall. He showed me where to find each animal and why they were there, their tracks and habits.
I recall be scared to death the first time a grouse flushed under me. Thought I'd peed myself and Dad laughed at me. By the time I was 14, I knew miles of crown land like the back of my hand (still didn't keep me from getting lost later in another area) and I brought grouse or rabbit home everyday.
I can't count the number of walks I have taken with my Father and by myself, and I have especially fond memories of annual family thanksgiving hunts that were mostly walks carrying a shotgun.
My first deer. My first bear. My first muskrat, an awful lot of firsts now that I think of it. And now, he is old. My father, old. Never thought I'd see that. Going back this year for a walk with him. It may be our last, since he is going to give up hunting.

 

[Neo]

Isn't it interesting how all these memories focus on our fathers. I think it tells you a lot about what hunting really is. As a kid, I thought it was all about bringing home the prize. Looking back now, all that really matters are the memories.

The funny thing is that the hunts I remember most clearly are the ones when I wasn't even a teenager nearly 4 decades ago, and the last hunt we ever shared just a few years back. Those early hunts were almost exclusively for grouse, spending long days walking cutlines and trails, starting at dawn and ending at dusk. Long hours spent just the two of us, punctuated by the occasional bit of excitement and gunfire, and the odd bit of laughter.

One of the very best memories was a grouse flushing out of a stand of poplars and levelling out in a high flight above the tree line ... Dad mounted his single shot 12 gauge, swung, fired ... and stood absolutely dumbfounded as the bird vapourized into a cloud of white, brown and grey that spread out and then started drifting back down to earth through the trees, as if it were snowing feathers. After a moment he broke upon the shotgun, took out the empty shell, and looked closely. "Imperial Polykor Slug" was written on the side

Those were the very best of times, and it was the time spent hunting and fishing that set the basis of a relationship that would last through the years ahead.

Our last trip was a strange one. Dad had driven across the country to come out and spend some time visiting friends and family, and had carved out a few days for us to go hunting together. I was busy with work and some issues brewing on the home front, but somehow figured out how to make a hunt happen despite being more than a little distracted. But after a 3 hour drive and a quick camp setup, things started to seem right as rain again. Three days later, I had the biggest whitetail of my hunting career hanging in a tree, and then heard the report of Dad's rifle as his tag got filled as well. It was probably the most fun trip we had ever had together.

Dad still had a couple days of free time on his hands, and he really wanted to stay where we were and hunt birds for a day or two. I was sorely tempted, but with the deer tags filled was now beginning to think of all the crap I had left brewing back home. For the first time ever, I was suddenly the one saying it was time to go home, not him. Had I been seeing a bit more clearly, I might have made a different decision.

On the drive back, Dad asked if I could keep his guns for him until his next visit. I still didn't get it. And I told him to take them back to PEI with him, as I was hoping to book a caribou hunt for the two of us in Quebec the next fall, and that he would be needing his 30-06 soon enough.

Nor was I able to make sense of what was going on the next morning, as Dad stood and shook my hand at the front door of my house, beaming a big smile and asking me if I had enjoyed our hunt together. It was a bit shocking, this burst of emotional enthusiasm from a man who was normally rather reserved, even with his family. All I could do was smile right back and tell him that it was probably the best trip we had ever done together. "Yes, it was, wasn't it?" he said with a rather satisfied look about him. He was smiling as he backed his truck out of my driveway and started his journey home.

It was only 22 days later that it all fell into place, and I finally understood what had happened, as I got on the plane to Charlottetown to bury him.

 

[Squamch]

My first hunt. Maybe 5 years old, no gun, just walking with dad. Indian summer, it was cooking hot. We didn't see a thing, there was guys everywhere, we walked back into the bush and he showed me a single clear print on top of a water main, or big pipe of some sort. I look for tracks everywhere, all the time. Don't know if that's why but I'll never forget that single print on top of that mossy pipe.

Then a few years later, we were out with an old buddy of dad's and his son. We left the campers together and split at the first fork. We heard a couple shots and turned back...his buddy had missed two shots at a little spike, at what he figured was 200 yards. Dad layed out, rested over his pack, taking time to tell me that a good rest and a good shot were important. Took the shot and said the buck was down. I still hadn't seen it...it started pissing rain about then and all I had for rain gear was a typical 8 year old's anorak jacket. It was soaked through in no time. We finally found the deer out in the slash and I was trying really hard not to cry. I'd never seen anything dead up close before. I remember dad telling me not to be ashamed of feeling like that, you're supposed to feel like that. He told me to always take a minute and give thanks, appreciate that something has just died so that we can eat.
Thats stuck with me ever since. Last season I had a similar conversation with a good friend of mine when he saw me shoot a deer.

 

[the spank]

My father rarely hunted once he reached adulthood so I have few memories of hunting with him though I have many memories of us having shooting contests with an air rifle and Dad's Cooey bolt repeater at his parents cottage. My hunting memories are of my Grandfather mostly, of my trying to keep up as a little fellow as this big man walked along some old grown in logging road or trail to some small lake with his 4:10 single looking for Ruffed Grouse or partridge as my family referred to them as. After him and Grandma moved to Vancouver Island my memories again are the two of us negotiating old mountain logging roads and trails with me now old enough to have my own license and gun shooting Blue and Ruffed Grouse while my Grandfather slung his Model 71 over his shoulder for Blacktails. Great times and great memories.

 

[kamlooky]

I can remember trips up from the coast to the interior on the old canyon highway.
Leave after dad got off work on Friday afternoons.
Me, pah and my old uncle with the peg leg.
Two wheel drive 1966 GMC pick up.........tree awn the tree.
I got the middle seat............pmo..........all the time.
Going up a gravel road outside of Spences Bridge and grouse were plentiful.
Dad would stop, ole peg leg would open up the door and spin sideways and break open
that side by side of his. Two shells in and he' lift the barrels.
Then click, click, symotainously, two shells would bounce awff the rocker sill and plop on muther nature.
I tern and look at pah..........shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, he'd whisper.
What was about to unfold was nothing short of comical.
Dad opened his door and let me out with me .410 pump. He'd point on the driver's side of the road
and say to crouch down there and shoot them thar feathers.
I herd click, click, then a whole bunch of cuss'in. My uncle couldn't figure out what was wrong with his
side by side. Round two and deja` view.
Me pah nodded at me and I ker-powed three grouse, then a kupple more all the while listening to some
kuss'in going awn.
My uncle wanted to use my .410 and pah said, "no way, use your shotgun".

Yes, this is a true story. Four shells in the dirt, me lawrd, funny chit.

May they both rest in peace.

 

[canthitathing]

Like someone else has said, I envy you guys a bit with such stories to tell. Nobody in my family hunted and we lived in the suburbs of Toronto. I don't know where I got the hunting bug from. We all fished at Grandma's cottage, but no hunting. In fact, my Father forebade me from having a gun in the house. I bought a modified recurve when I was 16, then bought a bolt repeater .22 sometime later and arranged with the local sports store to store the gun there. When my Dad saw it and I told him my arrangements, he relented and just said to keep it safely stored. The only other member of my 'growing up' family to ever be interested in hunting has been my youngest brother. We've been on many hunting outings here in Ontario. Nothing grandeos, waterfowl, small game and deer only.

My son hunts now, so I guess it's up to me to try and provide a few "memories" and eventually with his kids who will likely become interested since he is so inclined.

 

[the spank]

Like someone else has said, I envy you guys a bit with such stories to tell. Nobody in my family hunted and we lived in the suburbs of Toronto. I don't know where I got the hunting bug from. We all fished at Grandma's cottage, but no hunting. In fact, my Father forebade me from having a gun in the house. I bought a modified recurve when I was 16, then bought a bolt repeater .22 sometime later and arranged with the local sports store to store the gun there. When my Dad saw it and I told him my arrangements, he relented and just said to keep it safely stored. The only other member of my 'growing up' family to ever be interested in hunting has been my youngest brother. We've been on many hunting outings here in Ontario. Nothing grandeos, waterfowl, small game and deer only.

My son hunts now, so I guess it's up to me to try and provide a few "memories" and eventually with his kids who will likely become interested since he is so inclined.

Yes get out there with them and create memories for all of you to cherish. It's not about the kill, the kill is just a bonus for all to share at the table. It's about quality time, teaching, enjoying each others company, instilling good values and most importantly having fun.

 

[driftpounder]

I only have two memories of hunting with my dad. He enjoyed to hunt birds as a young man, but after he got married he wasn't allowed to have his guns in the house or cook any of his kills there. He basically stopped hunting at that point, until I was 11 or 12. It was after my parents had divorced, dad decided he was going to get an upland and migratory birds license that fall. We went out one weekend and walked miles and miles of stubble fields. We didn't shoot anything, but I learned a lot those two days. Since then I have had to learn most of the things I have about hunting on my own.

 

[Raton57]

I grew up south of Calgary and in the 60's there were very few deer or elk around and it was a big event to see one. Then they made it a bow only zone and the game exploded . There were lots of grouse thou and I ate many of them but not one was ever shot. Dad was always hitting one with the car and we always ate them. Dad only hunted deer once in his life back in the 30's and shot a mule deer and his dad canned it and of course did it wrong and it all spoiled as grandma was away for a few months for some reason so he never bothered to hunt again.Except gophers. He always could out shoot every body as long as I ever knew him. He also actually hated deer meat as it's all he ever ate as a kid because grandpa poached deer all year round instead of working. I had to learn to hunt all on my own and was in my 30's before I ever got a white tail as all we had around was mule deer for many years.