Every time I go for a walk in the woods, it happens. Some little thing. Like today I see a bird under a tree, my instincts are alerted. It reminds me of the first time I shot a partridge.
I was 7. I was a fair shot with my .22 rifle at targets, but now it was hunting season. I'd seen dead partridges and help clean them. Now dad tells me "walk quietly"--"no your still to noisy, they hear every branch break under your boots"--"like this'' He tiptoed. We both tiptoed. Then he whispered" there, under the spruce". But that looks like a tiny dark chicken I said. It moved like we were, tiptoeing and pecking the ground.
"That's a partridge, aim carefully" Dad said. One shot in the head and I got it.
So grateful my Dad grew up on a homestead farm in the depression. He had to use the skills his Dad and brothers taught him to survive. Every time I'm out doors some echo of Dad's knowledge passed down to me runs through my brain.
Thanks Dad!