Best Christmas Ever: Return From the Amazon

Christmas Day, 2000

Christmas is here again. As is our family’s tradition, we all awaken early and gather around the beautifully decorated tree in our living room. I play Santa, passing out gifts to my wife Theresa and our sons. Everyone smiles as they open presents.

There’s nothing really different about this particular Christmas. We exchange our gifts, and later in the day, we’ll eat our fill of a huge holiday feast.

This Christmas feels different to me, however, because, for the first time in my life, I realize how truly blessed I am.

Forty-eight hours earlier, I was awakened by the raucous calls of parrots outside. I was in my berth on the mothership Yanna, and the final day of a week-long fishing trip in Brazil was about to begin. I had only a couple hours left to fish before the ship took us back to the city, so I hurried outside and met my guide Alamao. He greeted me with a big smile, as always.

“Bom dia, Senor Catfish,” he said. “You are ready to catch one more grandé pirarara?”

The pirarara is the redtail catfish, and with Alamao’s help, I landed a beautiful specimen less than an hour later. It seemed appropriate on the eve of Christmas Eve to catch a fish with a Christmas-colored tail. For me, there could have been no more perfect way to end seven days of incredible fishing.

Alamao and several other guides on the Yanna live in the town of Autazes on the Madeira River. A few hours later, the boat docked there so the men could disembark and go home to their families. When we arrived, Alamao asked if I would walk with him to his home. He wanted me to meet his wife.

Alamao’s tiny house had only a single room and no furniture. Two hammocks hung in one corner. There was no running water, sewer or electricity. An open tank on the rooftop collected rainwater for cooking, drinking and bathing.

Alamao’s wife hugged me when we met, as if she was greeting a long-lost brother. She had in her arms a baby less than six months old. He appeared very ill.

“He has malaria,” Alamao told me. “The doctors do not think he will live very long. Two more of our children have died because of the mosquitoes. We have no medicine for them.”

As the Yanna pulled away later that day, Alamao and his wife smiled and waved goodbye to us from shore. The other guides were there with their families, too.

In his hand, Alamao clutched a bag full of pills. Every angler on the boat had contributed the last of their malaria medicine to the children of Autazes. And money several of us had brought to buy Christmas gifts for our families was given to Alamao so he could buy more medicine.

As Autazes faded slowly in the distance, the eyes of every man on board the Yanna were full of tears.

We live in a country where it is easy to forget, especially around Christmas time, how fortunate we are to have everything we need. But on Christmas Day, 2000, with memories of Autazes still vivid in my mind, I was keenly aware of how blessed my family is.

I hugged my wife and sons tight and said a prayer of thanks for the best Christmas ever.

Why I Love Timberdoodles

“Why is it you like hunting woodcocks?” a friend asked me. “You wear yourself out wading through mud and vines, hoping to find some little brown birds that may be there and may not. And if they are there, if you somehow miraculously timed it right, then every bird you find will flush right under your feet and scare the wits out of you. You’ll twist yourself into a knot trying to shoot them before they sputter away through the timber, and if you’re really, really lucky that day, you’ll actually kill one or two.

“When you come crawling out of the thickets with those two little gooney birds,” he continued, “you’ll have so many briar scratches, it’ll look like you fell in a nest of bobcats. And what do you have to show for all this effort? Enough meat to feed a shrew.

“I just don’t understand it,” he said.

“It’s fun,” said I.

“Then maybe it’s not just the birds who are gooney,” he replied.

I killed my first woodcock when I was ten. I was hunting a tract of swampy woods near my home when this strange-looking, quail-sized bird with a long beak flushed right under my feet. It startled me, for I was not expecting to find any birds on the ground in this bit of mucky bottomland. But it didn’t frighten me enough to make me miss.

It took a long time to find the bird, camouflaged as it was on leaves blanketing the ground. When finally I had it in my hands, I admired this unusual woodland ghost. Its bill was like a knitting needle, its legs weak and squatty, the tail just a little tuft of stubby feathers. The soft plumage was a warm earthy brown flecked with black and cinnamon. Broad black bars passed over the crown between big ebony eyes.

I took the bird to my next-door neighbor, a young man who was a more experienced hunter than I.

“Do you know what it is?” I asked.

“A timberdoodle,” he replied.

“Are they good to eat?”

“Better’n anything else there is,” he said. “I’d trade ten quail for one timberdoodle any day.”

That night, my grandmother cut the meat away from the bird’s keelbone, dredged it in flour and fried it in butter. And from the moment I ate those flavorful morsels of rich dark flesh, I was a full-fledged, go-get-em-every-chance-I-got timberdoodle hunter.

The timberdoodle’s proper name is American woodcock. Some folks know it by unusual monickers like mudbat, bogsnipe or bogsucker. By any name, however, the woodcock is a curious bird. Its too-long bill has a hinge near the tip that lets it extract worms from the soil without having to open its mouth. Its ears are in front of its eyes. And, if that isn't enough, the woodcock has an upside-down brain that is unknown elsewhere in the world of birds.

It's difficult to explain why anyone would want to hunt these comical birds, even for a longbill fan like me. It's a self-punishing sport where hours are spent busting brush and tackling ankle-deep mud. Tangles of briars and vines eat at your clothes and skin. And while buried to the ears in a latticework of vegetation, you must try to snap-shoot a crooked-flying, brown-feathered blur that has the nerve-jangling habit of flushing directly underfoot. Tough hunting like that discourages many people.

Woodcock populations have declined in recent decades, too, because the densely understoried bottomland habitat they require has been drained and cleared in many areas. As a result, bag limits are small—as few as three birds in at least part of the country—and some hunters just don’t think it’s worth the bother unless you can bring home more than a trio of small birds to eat.

There are some people, however, who can’t get enough of hunting these wondrous bottomland gamebirds, including me and a handful of my friends. Every autumn, when the weather man announces the first cold front blowing down from the North, we get woodcocks on our minds. The woodcocks migrate ahead of the fronts before the ground freezes and the worms they eat become inaccessible.

"Did you hear the weather report?" Jim asked recently when I answered the phone. "There's a blue norther coming down. The timberdoodles are probably flocking into Lost Pond already. I'll pick you up at five tomorrow morning. You bring sandwiches, and I'll bring the coffee. Patterson's going with us."

At seven, we were making our first push through a tract of bottomland timber along an east Arkansas river. This particular covert is a classic woodcock hospice of dense sweetgum saplings and honeysuckle thickets. A beaver slough slashes the edge, feeding water into the spongy ground beneath the canopy of oaks and tupelos. The territory is thick and uncivil; it's hard to find space between the tangles of vegetation to set down your feet.


As we waded into the thicket, I saw the first signs that our timing was right: white splatters on the leaves and little holes in the mud, like someone had been poking around with a stick. Then 10 yards out front, from the depths of the sweetgums, came a sharp, ascendant twittering. A brown, fist-sized bird spiraled skyward through the branches.

I lost sight of the bird almost immediately in the crisscross of leafy limbs, but by some fluke of luck, it presented Jim an uncommonly clear shot, and he killed it.

"In case you didn't know, boys, this is what we're looking for," he said, holding the timberdoodle up for us to see.

The second bird came out low and fast. I shot, missed, and it flew into the nether reaches of the covert. After it we went, and when it flushed again in characteristic fashion, Gregg mounted, swung and fired in one quick fluid motion. A detonation of feathers showed he had found his mark.

My friends and I wound up our morning of woodcock hunting with a grand total of eight timberdoodles, an average of almost three apiece. That doesn't sound like many, and it's not. But like most woodcock fans, we don't measure the success of our hunt by how many birds we shoot.

That being said, however, I must admit to being stingy when it comes to the woodcocks I kill. A limit of three birds is enough to make dinner for me, and me alone, if I’m lucky enough to kill a limit in the first place. So despite the fact that timberdoodles are the best of the best when it comes to game, I never serve them to dinner guests, and rarely share them even with my wife and sons.

This is disturbing behavior, I know, but I often prepare them for the table Old World style—with the head and entrails intact—just to discourage my family and friends from eating them. I tell them how the traille—the intestines, still full of digested worms—are considered the best part by many connoisseurs when finely chopped and spread on a piece of toast. And I make sure they all see the bird when it is ready to be served, staring up from the platter with its big dead eyes, the long knitting-needle beak tucked under its wing. Invariably, they screw up their faces and make gagging noises. And I smile, knowing the woodcock I have prepared will be mine and mine alone to eat.

I just hope those I love never catch on.

Ducks The Color Of Autumn

Shooting a wood duck in flooded timber is like trying to gun down a stone released from a slingshot, only more difficult.

I came to this conclusion while hunting late-season ducks in a green-tree reservoir near Stuttgart, Arkansas. Mallards were scarce, but wood ducks were buzzing through the pin oaks like bumblebees around a flower garden. (Photo above courtesty of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service)

My purist waterfowling companions, who hunt only mallards, agreed that the lack of greenhead action made woodies fair game—for me. They wouldn’t join in my follies, but I was told I would be “allowed” to try pass shooting some of the birds streaking past our blind.

The wood ducks usually appeared in pairs, squealing loudly as they flew past. Oo-eek! Oo-eek. Their distinctive flight calls left no doubt how they earned the nickname “squealers.” Those that weren’t calling still were audible on their approach. The noise made as air rushed through their pinions closely resembled the sound of a bottle rocket fired on the Fourth of July.

It seemed that shooting one of the woodies would be an impossible task. And in several instances, my assumption was correct. Many birds passed at such breakneck speed, there wasn’t time to shoulder my shotgun and shoot. No problem, I thought. I’ll just keep my gun at the ready and take the next one that comes by. But after 15 minutes waiting, I no longer could maintain a shooting stance. And, as one might expect, the instant I brought my shotgun down, two woodies flashed across the opening in the timber right in front of me.

My hunting companions found all this rather humorous. “You might as well give it up, Sutton,” one of them said, chuckling. “You’d have better luck hunting quail with a pea shooter.”

Undaunted, I continued my quest. And at 10 o’clock, almost four hours into the hunt, everything came together—sort of. I shouldered my shotgun, and almost immediately a pair of woodies came into view, flying fast from right to left, my favorite cross-shot swing. I aimed ahead of the lead bird and fired. The rear bird fell.

“That bird out front was moving too fast for me to draw a bead on it,” I told my hunting buddies. “So I had to take the one behind it.”

“Well, lucky for you,” Bob said as he waded back with the duck in hand. “The one you got was a drake. It sure is a beauty.”


Bob held in his hand a bird more beautiful than any I had ever seen, a bird of such gorgeous coloring, it hardly seemed real. Its glistening green head was crowned with a short rakish crest; its back was a blend of magnificent blues and purples that shimmered and glinted like gun metal; its breast was rich chestnut, and its sides the color of marigolds. The bird’s glossy bill was painted with broad brush strokes of red, black and white, and the large crimson eyes bore likeness to the glowing coals of a campfire. So brilliant were these colors, and so sharply contrasted, that the bird appeared to be painted. It was as if some skillful artist had spread upon its plumage the richest and most vivid pigments at his command; and yet there was nothing artificial in the effect produced, but, on the contrary, a perfection of beauty as natural as the beauty of a flower.

When I was a youngster hunting ducks along east Arkansas’ L’Anguille River, we rarely saw wood ducks and never shot them. They were scarce then, victims of market hunting and destruction of their bottomland hardwood habitat. Populations were protected by law. Fortunately, in the 40 years since I started hunting ducks, the wood duck has rebounded remarkably and now ranks among our most plentiful game birds. We can hunt them without fear of harming the population, and for that, I am glad. I did not mind passing them by when they needed protection. And when mallards are plentiful in the woods I hunt, I probably won’t give a second thought to taking wood ducks. But on days when mallards are scarce, the abundance of wood ducks gives me opportunity to take home game for the table. And for me, that, as much as anything, is the reason I hunt. I see beauty in wood ducks, but when I am hunting, my eyes follow them through the timber like a cat watches a canary. I hunt wood ducks because I know they provide the makings for memorable dinners.

And so, after admiring the wood duck I shot that morning, I returned to my hunting. And by noon, when our hunt ended, I had one more wood duck for the dinner table.

“You should be glad, Sutton,” one of my companions said, “that you don’t have to rely on your shooting skills for everything you eat.”


Woodies can be hunted by floating small streams and river backwaters in a canoe or johnboat, or by sneaking in to jump-shoot them on ponds and sloughs. In my experience, however, to enjoy wood duck hunting to its fullest, one should don waders and camouflage clothing and be waiting, waist-deep in the water of a flooded pin-oak flat, when wood ducks come roaring in at dawn or dusk. Decoys are unnecessary, although a half dozen mallard sets may serve to put the birds at ease and coax them to circle overhead before pitching in. There’s no need for fancy calling either, so even novice waterfowlers can go it alone.

Quick instinctive shooting is best, especially during the first few minutes after legal shooting time. Woodies are on top of you in flooded timber almost before you can spot them, especially on foggy mornings. The ducks appear out of the mist and vanish quickly if you react too slowly. If you miss your first few shots, however, don’t despair. Odds are you’ll be able to adjust your shooting in time to bag some woodies.

Like me, many waterfowlers remember days when wood ducks were illegal game. But thanks to intensive management and protection, hunting opportunities for these home-grown ducks are plentiful in many areas again. Hunting this autumn-colored bird is a magical experience not to be missed.

Waterfowling Words

When I read a book, I often turn down the corner of a page where I chance across some magical combination of words, some wonderful passage, that says something special about the pastimes I love. Then later, I transcribe passage into a computer file so I might enjoy it again or share it with others.

With waterfowl seasons now upon us, it seems appropriate to share some of the unforgettable passages about hunting ducks I have thus collected over the years. They say much about the reasons we hunt. I hope you enjoy them.

“I suppose it may seem like a strange sort of lullaby to some, but I have never heard sweeter music than the muffled report of duck guns on a distant marsh, and I know that others share my feeling.”
--Burton Spiller, More Grouse Feathers, 1972


“There is … a deeper sense of understanding, accomplishment and downright pleasure that accompanies the ability to look at a knot of birds on the horizon and say with conviction, ‘Mallards,’ or ‘Brant.’”
--Norm Strung, Misty Mornings and Moonless Nights, 1974

“There are no bad days in a duck blind.”
--Charles F. Waterman, “Duck Blinds,” The Part I Remember, 1974

“… a lone black duck came out of the west, … set his wings and pitched downward. I cannot remember the shot; I remember only my unspeakable delight when my first duck hit the snowy ice with a thud and lay there, belly up, red legs kicking.”
--Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac, 1949

“I intend to learn to call waterfowl even if in the process I offend every ear in the country—and I just might.”
--Gene Hill, “Calling Ducks,” Mostly Tailfeathers, 1971


“… the best duck blinds are those designed to give us a chance to think, for the periods between flights were meant for musing …”
--Matthew B. Connolly Jr., in the foreword to Wildfowler’s Season by Chris Dorsey, 1995

“When done under the rules of good sportsmanship, duck hunting is a culmination of art, skill and scientific endeavor. It is also an act of love, for who loves the birds more than the hunter?”
--Bob Hinman, The Duck Hunter’s Handbook, 1974

“A day in the blind is a delightful occasion. If there are ducks to be shot so much the better, but even a day in the open watching the bobbing decoys and the changing weather, with the good companionship of friends, is in itself a more than worth-while experience.”
--J. Kemp Bartlett Jr., “Chesapeake Bay,” Duck Shooting, 1947

“To the avid waterfowler, no moment of truth can match the instant when a flock first responds to his call and decoys, the time when this wild, free bird of unsurpassed grace begins a descent from the sky down to gun range. It is a stirring spectacle …”
--Grits Gresham, The Complete Wildfowler, 1973

“A duck call in the hands of the unskilled is one of conservation’s greatest assets.”
--Nash Buckingham, De Shootinest Gent’man, 1941


“When a duck hunter gets it all right, the satisfaction is sublime. When he picks the precise spot, fashions a good blind, sets his decoys to look like live ducks on the water, calls convincingly and makes a clean kill … he has reached a high pinnacle of achievement.”
--Wade Bourne, A Ducks Unlimited Guide to Hunting Dabblers, 2002

“Duck hunting gives a man a chance to see the loneliest places … blinds washed by a rolling surf, blue and gold autumn marshes, … a rice field in the rain, flooded pin-oak forests or any remote river delta. In duck hunting the scene is as important as the shooting …”
--Erwin Bauer, The Duck Hunter’s Bible, 1965


“A duck hunter is a man who finds value in a pair of patched waders that should have been replaced years ago, a wooden decoy with the paint worn off and a Labrador pup that might make a retriever … someday.”
--Larry Dablemont, Memories from a Misty Morning Marsh, 1999

“Still in waders, with the string of ducks across his shoulders, he stood hesitating on the sidewalk in the cold November wind … Today, all day, he had been alive; now he was back ready to be dead again.”
--Wallace Stegner, “The Blue-winged Teal,” Harper’s Magazine, April 1950

“Out of small game came flights of … ducks, and I came to see, through them, that my attraction was not, above all else, to the killing, but to the sighting of the animal, the ‘reading’ of his flight, the knowing of where he would be …”
--Thomas McIntyre, The Way of the Hunter: The Art and Spirit of Modern Hunting, 1988


“The joy of hunting was beyond accounting, once I was old enough to be trusted … with my father’s old shotgun. I loved to bring birds down, to take quick aim at mallards, pintails, teal … and feel the twelve-gauge bounce against my battered shoulder ...”
--A.B. Guthrie Jr., The Blue Hen’s Chick: A Life in Context, 1965

“What finer recreation could fall to the lot of any boy than to tramp with his dad, gun in hand, through forests ablaze with autumn leaves; over pungent marshes where swift-winged quacking waterfowl await his coming?”
--Raymond S. Deck, “Take Your Boy Hunting,” Parents’ Magazine, October 1942

“… the magic visitation of ducks from the sky to a set of bobbing blocks holds more of beauty and heart-pounding thrill than I have ever experienced afield with rod or gun.”
--Gordon MacQuarrie, The Stories of the Old Duck Hunters & Other Drivel, 1967


“Without hesitation, [the ducks] swirl and funnel into an opening in the trees and, as needles to a magnet, drop quickly and quietly into the water, rafting and crowding as though surface rent were a thousand dollars an acre … It is a never-to-be forgotten sight.”
--Edgar M. Queeny, Prairie Wings, 1946

“Grand ideas can be born in duck blinds, for many of America’s leading conservationists found both inspiration and motivation from what they saw and felt as they awaited encounters with wildfowl. Leopold’s ‘land ethic,’ Darling’s determination and Teddy Roosevelt’s vision likely owe their genesis to the same wetland cathedrals …”
--Chris Dorsey, Wildfowler’s Season, 1995


“When blizzards and storm winds strike, other hunters curl up by the hearth. Waterfowlers go forth.”
--Zack Taylor, Successful Waterfowling, 1974

“… duckhunting stands alone as an outdoor discipline. It has a tang and spirit shared by no other sport—a philosophy compounded of sleet, the winnow of unseen wings, and the reeks of marsh mud and wet wool. No other sport has so many theories, legends, casehardened disciples and treasured memories.”
--John Madson, The Mallard, 1960

“It’s during duck hunts, and particularly at private duck clubs, where young boys first see how their fathers move among other men. Not how they act at work or at church or at home being ‘dad,’ but how they really are.”
--Steve Wright, Arkansas Duck Hunter’s Almanac, 1998


“Like a largemouth bass or a brown trout, a wild duck is too valuable a creature to take just one time—but that’s the way we have to do it. Much as you’d like to, you cannot release this light-yet-heavy, this common-though-exceedingly-rare, this simple-but-complex creature of the wild yonder we know as a duck.”
--Jim Spencer, “Why You’re a Duck Hunter,” Arkansas Wildlife, Winter 1997

“Duck hunting is conducted in a pleasurable and paradoxical atmosphere of relaxation and anticipatory tension. You never know what is going to happen next—but something usually does.”
--John G. MacKenty, Duck Hunting, 1953

“A symbiotic relationship exists between waterfowl and the waterfowler. The birds provide sport, relaxation and that indefinable something that comes over anyone who’s ever watched a flight of canvasback against a gray sky. The hunter, in turn, provides for the well-being and very existence of the birds.”
--Norm Strung, Misty Mornings and Moonless Nights, 1974


“…at least half of the fun of a duck shoot is the company and work of a good retriever.”
--Edgar M. Queeny, Prairie Wings, 1946

“… we have placed before us a wet lunch bag, complete with Lab teeth marks. Inside … there is a jelly sandwich, a wilted pickle, three stale and somewhat soggy cookies and an apple that had seen its best days sometime before the Truman administration. A typical waterfowler’s lunch.”
--Steve Smith, “The Duck Hunter,” Outdoor Yarns and Outright Lies, 1983


“... any meal of wild duck is a special treat, special enough to make even the most resolute complainer forget about how frustrating it was to pull those pinfeathers, or how cold the pond was as it came in over the top of his hip boots when he reached for the prize.”
--Russell Chatham, Dark Waters, 1988

“You know, Dad,” he said …, “the funny part of it is that I really got as much of a wallop out of seeing you get those last mallards as though I had done the shooting myself.”
“And that my boy,” I answered, “is the mark of a duck hunter.”
--Sigurd F. Olson, “Mallards of Back Bay,” Sports Afield, October 1939

Letter to a True Sportsman

Dear Lewis,

Forty years is a long time. I was thinking about that today while I looked at the photos I’ve shot on our many hunting and fishing trips together. The first was taken four decades ago when we became friends and first started enjoying the outdoors together.

In all that time, I can’t remember a day we spent together I didn’t enjoy. We’re different in many ways, but we both care more about why we are together outdoors than how much game we shoot or how many fish we catch. That makes each trip special.

You’ve always made me welcome in your home. There’s always a bed for me to sleep in and a hot meal come dinner time.

When we hunt and fish, not once have you complained when I brought along my sons or the boss or a friend. You always make them feel welcome. When we reach our chosen coverts, you let them take the choice spots and often pass up shots in hopes a rabbit or bird will turn their way. When we are fishing, you share your honeyholes and are always the one paddling the boat and putting guests in the sweet spots. When the day ends, you’ve become their special friend as well.

You’re one heck of a good hunter and an excellent marksman, but you never brag on yourself, even when you have a right to. You’re quick to boast about the few things I do more or less well. You do more than your share of the little things that make each trip memorable, regardless of the game or fish we’ve found, if any.

You always know where I am in heavy cover. You are careful to let me know your whereabouts as well, and I have never, not once, looked down the end of your gun barrel. Nor do I ever expect to.

You always take some pleasant time to chat with the men who own the land where we hunt and fish. You make a point of saying hello in the local store. You always volunteer the use of your boat, your motor, your tent and truck and gear. You’ve let me borrow your favorite gun and your best dog. You always have things packed and ready when it’s time to go.

You always seem most pleased when I’ve had some sort of outstanding day. You never complain about being tired, unless you think I might feel the need of leaving early, and somehow you make it easy then for me to say “let’s go.” If you think I’m just plain worn out, you say you are and suggest we sit and talk.

It seems you clean more than your share of the fish and game, and then offer the whole lot to the rest of us. You keep the camp cheerful with good conversation. You’re always optimistic but never make guarantees. And no matter what, you’ve always been there.

You helped me train old Judo, the beagle who ran rabbits like the best of them and helped us take twice as many cottontails as we would have if we’d clumsied through alone.

We took your hound Smoky squirrel hunting on the ridge and you always let me have first shot when he treed.

When we went dove hunting, you marked my birds down in waist-high Arkansas milo and never failed to say “nice shot” when I took a single and I think you might have taken two.

I remember a time you offered me your coat when the wind on the river turned cold and the catfish wouldn’t bite. More than once, you’ve paid for all the gas, all the meals and the motel rooms to boot. You always remember to bring an extra lawn chair, a Thermos full of hot soup, a few extra sandwiches and an extra poncho for when it rains. You’re an outdoor gentleman and generous to a fault.

And just in case I never said it to your face before, you’re as big a reason as I know to spend a day outdoors. You make the days seem all too short and too few and far between, my treasured friend. You are everything that puts meaning in that simple phrase “a sportsman.”

Thanks for all you do, my special companion. We’ll get together again soon and I’ll be the richer for it.

Your best friend,
Keith

Giving Thanks

I drove to the old deer camp last week. It looks nothing like it did then. The field where we pitched tents is overgrown now. Most of the woodlands we hunted are bean fields. When I arrived, though, a big buck bounded away, and memories came flooding back.

I was twelve when my best friend’s older brother Jimmy took me there for my first deer hunt. That was forty years ago, but I can recall every detail.

A dozen men were there -- relatives, neighbors and friends. We set up camp and then ran nets in the river. The catfish we caught were our supper.

I remember how warm the cook tent felt on that cold November night and the coolness of my hand-me-down sleeping bag when I climbed inside after dark. We woke before dawn on Thanksgiving, and an hour later I was sitting on my stand -- a 5-gallon bucket beneath a big oak.

I fidgeted, sighting down the barrel of a borrowed 12-gauge, booming away at imaginary bucks with hat-rack antlers. Then, suddenly, a hullabaloo rang through the bottoms. The dogs had struck; a race was on!

I hoped they were chasing a big buck. One of the men had killed an eight-pointer from my stand just the week before.

“After I shot that buck, his grandpappy ran hell-for-leather out of that thicket over there,” Wilson told me when we arrived at the stand that morning. “A ten-pointer at least. Sit still this morning, and when the dogs strike, be ready.”

The bawling pack was in full chorus now. Then a gunshot rang out and a yell. The beagles veered away from me. In the distance, I saw a deer’s white flag and the dogs in hot pursuit.

The chase had passed me by. I slumped on the bucket and breathed easy again.

Near lunch time, I decided to head back to camp. As I stood, a movement caught my eye. I slowly turned and saw a magnificent buck walking out of the thicket Wilson had pointed out earlier. The deer stopped, looked back and then continued its unhurried advance. I picked an opening and braced myself to shoot.

The buck was more spectacular than even a young boy could have imagined. I was overcome by a sickening feeling. Try as I might, I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. The old whitetail walked away and disappeared.

My first deer hunt was over.

I hunted with the same men at that same camp many times. But as all good things do, it came to an end.

As I stood at the campsite this Thanksgiving, however, I was filled with the spirit of the holiday. You see, I was raised by my mother and grandmother. I had no father or grandfathers to hunt with. But thanks to the many good men in our community --relatives, friends, teachers, clergymen -- the hunting tradition was passed on to me.

It started on that first deer hunt, and as I stood at the old camp last week, I gave thanks for the generosity and compassion of those men. Because of them, I am a hunter. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.