I am going back 32 years…

I was 13 and only one picture survives from that day and my grandma had that photograph. I’ve not seen it since she passed away nearly 25 years ago. I wish I had that photograph today. It was a photograph of my first deer I harvested. In the photo I stood proudly next to my buck. Stripped faded key overhauls with itchy white long johns…

The old well house could be seen to the left of me and the deer hung from a tree with a basketball rim nailed into the tree. I remember seeing myself standing there beside my buck with high water hand me down overhauls, I looked so young. I was just a kid.

My nickname was chitty, chitty, bang, bang because I could empty my gun every time and never hit nothing and an old tobacco farmer in the Tennessee hills give me that name when I was 11.

Do you remember your first deer? That feeling of accomplishment that welled up inside of you?

The feeling I had while looking down in the grew up field at the buck that now laid dead in front of me is impossible to describe. As a boy I dreamed of killing a deer. Much like the feeling a small child has around Christmas. It’s a magical feeling. Many nights I would lay in bed and I would pray that the next morning’s hunt would be the day I killed my first deer. I would stare at the ceiling while all others were asleep. I would ask God to send me a buck. Visions of big bucks chasing does or just appearing like a ghost out in front of me. Them were the days.

Each year we would transform an old horse trailer into a camper. We would take army tarps and hang over the sides to keep the wind out and fill the inside with bunk beds and hang a sign from the horse trailer that read, “The Hilton”.

For me it was the most magical experience you can imagine. I would literally count down the days. My room always smelt like gun and mink oil and orange vest and orange hats gang from hooks in my room.

Standing there that morning as the sun came up and the area covered in frost I stood in anticipation. Excitement that just can’t be explained. Holding my open sited 30:30 I was a site for sore eyes. Little did I know that the morning I am describing would be the morning that I graduated. I Would become a part of a world of deer hunters. All my dreams were about to come true.

The first shots were a few ridges over. Gosh the excitement. Was it a buck? Did he hit it? Who was it? Better keep my eyes peeled. Then I heard it, nearly shaking out of my boots and sounding like a heard of elephants I turned to see a little Grey squirrel jumping up out of the leaves onto a stump. My heart sank, it was only a squirrel. Back in them days around these parts of the Ozarks the sound of deer dogs was a common sound and off in the distance I could hear the race taking place. I prayed that God would somehow turn the dogs my direction. They would go down into the hollow and out of hearing and then up out of the hollow. The wind would carry that sound to my ears and I could only hope they’d come my way. Every sound I hung on. Even the riffle in the little Winnyham creek, the morning ruckus of the crows as they woke up and started their trouble making for the day.

Bang! All at once I was snapped out of my trance. Down the creek came the shot. Bang, bang, bang. The old tree I was in had a fork and the wooden stand was rickety bit I stood up as the stand creeks and there he came. Bouncing through a chest tall grew up field was a buck lunging through the brush my way. As he crossed the creek out in front of me I took careful aim. I intended to no longer be called chitty, chitty bang, bang. I pulled the trigger, Pow!!! I reloaded, the buck was hit. He got up, I settled back on him, Pow. I missed. Quickly I reloaded, Pow. Down he went. The woods fell silent. My uncle from the side of the ridge yelled, did you get him. With a frog in my throat and tears of happiness running down my cheek.

Carefully, I began climbing down the old wooden boards that were barley attached to the tree and I walked over to my prize. I poked him with the end of my gun barrel. He was dead. I collapsed on the dead animal hugging him. I wasn’t going to let him go. He wasn’t leaving my site.

That has been many years ago and I often think of that moment and I have relived that moment through my two sons a few times.

I’m convinced that it’s the greatest feeling a young hunter will ever have. I can’t imagine life without that memory, without them roots.

No longer was I called chitty, chitty, bang, bang.

You can join Richard on his hunts by checking out his blog:

https://ozarkriverman.wordpress.com/