A Primal Return

The outdoor writer Patrick Durkin once said, "Hunting is no longer a necessity. It's a choice requiring explanation."

While the question of whether the choice to hunt should require explanation may be an issue for debate, the fact that one is indeed often demanded today is inescapable.

I have chosen to hunt. I don't know if what follows from here will be an adequate explanation. I do hope, though, that it will be avenue of enjoyment for those that choose to follow my adventures and thoughts as I chronicle them.

As a child I often longed to, but I didn't grow up hunting. Sure, I spent most of my boyhood wet and muddy, fishing in creeks and ponds or exploring the woods and swamps. I recall being enchanted by the stories in the Field and Stream magazines in my fifth grade classroom and I tuned in on Saturday mornings to watch the hunting and fishing shows. But, my childhood circumstances never offered me the chance to really learn to hunt.

I did manage to do some target shooting with an old Savage 22 rifle and a Stevens .410 shotgun that I inherited, but I didn't buy my first hunting shotgun, a Remington 870 Express, until I was 20 years old. Soon after, I took to the Wolf River bottoms and sloughs of West Tennessee chasing wood ducks, teal, and the occasional groups of big ducks that would show up when the water would get out into the surrounding agriculture fields. I'll never forget the the first wood duck that I swung through and scratched down as he screamed across the tops of the bald cypress trees I was wading in. He dropped so close that I got a good face splashing when he hit the water. His exquisite colors and the unique flair of a drake wood duck's feathers left an indelible mark in my chest.

From that moment an obsession took hold in me. For the next decade I was directed by a singular drive to hunt ducks, quail, and turkey; my mindset was the byword "if it flies, it dies!" When I couldn't hunt them because of season dates, I was buying gear, training dogs, and scouting spots. Despite the limited season dates, I made hunting a year round and daily lifestyle. But, from November to February, I was a ghost to those that knew me, but that didn't hunt with me, most notably my wife.

And, it went this way until not long after the birth of my second daughter. I don't really know what happened then. I don't know why the flame snuffed out. The year she was born, I just stopped. I can't say precisely why. It was probably a culmination of circumstances including tight fiances with two small children, the guilt of leaving a tired wife to solely care for them while I was gone playing hours and days on end, and just a general burnout of the passion.

Another decade has since passed. There must have been an ember smoldering somewhere within me, because I am starting to feel a burning flame rekindling. I again don't know what has bellowed the spark, but I undoubtedly feel a primal compulsion to return to hunting. For me, it may not be a choice, but, rather, a necessity that I can't explain.