A Boy Who Loved the Woods—Just Not the Hunt

Given the culture I grew up in, anyone would assume I’d be a devoted hunter. But truth be told, the bug never bit. Fishing, though—that was my world. I spent countless hours on the lake with my great-uncle, Jimmy South, catching bluegill and heading straight back to his house for a feast of fresh fish,  vegetables from his garden, and a hot pone of cornbread. 

That was heaven.

But in this edition of “Something I’ve Never Told Anyone,” I must confess: at sixteen, I decided to give hunting one honest try.

The Thanksgiving Morning Experiment

Armed with my dad’s Winchester single-shot 20-gauge, I headed into the sprawling woods behind our house. I was determined to bag a squirrel and prove I could be the kind of hunter my friends bragged about being.

The woods were familiar—quiet, peaceful, full of memories—but absolutely devoid of squirrels that morning…until I turned back toward home.

Half a mile from the edge of the woods sat my family’s abandoned barn. And as if on cue, the biggest gray squirrel I’d ever seen darted out from underneath it and walked right across my path. An easy shot, even for a novice like me.

But I couldn’t do it.

My dad’s health was rapidly declining at the time, and one of his few pleasures was taking a bag of walnuts into those woods and feeding the squirrels behind that barn. Shooting that one would’ve felt like killing one of his friends. So I unloaded the gun and walked home empty-handed—and strangely content.

Would I have shot a different squirrel deep in the woods, far from Dad’s stomping grounds? Who knows. But it wasn’t going to be one of his buddies.

Another Attempt at Hunting

I only went hunting one more time as a kid. My lifelong friend, Kenneth Adkins—now an avid bird hunter—took me quail hunting. But, the only birds we saw that day were of the yard and songbird variety. We came home with no game, and honestly? I wasn’t disappointed.

My Son the Deer Hunter

My son Will, though—he loves to hunt deer. My late father-in-law gave him the hunting bug, and for a few years, they were inseparable during rifle season. After his Papaw’s health began to decline, Will only got to hunt with him once more before he passed away, and they had no luck on that trip.

Finding a hunting partner for him since then has been tough. Recently, though, a man in our community took him out, and he’s taking him again later this week. Lord willing, we’ll have venison in the freezer soon.

But that’s all just the warm-up to the real story.

The Thanksgiving Tradition

Every Thanksgiving weekend, our family destroys every pumpkin that decorated our yard throughout the fall. It’s stress relief, clean-up, and entertainment all in one. Will picks the weapons; this year he chose his .410 shotgun and his .270 hunting rifle. 

After saving humanity from the evil pumpkins, we went back inside my mother-in-law’s house to get warm. That’s when Will hit me with:

“Dad, you’re going hunting with me tomorrow, right?”

I had no idea he expected that. My first response was a twist on an old golf quote (wrongly attributed to Mark Twain):

“Hunting is a good walk spoiled.”

But he asked again. And again. And finally, I caved.

Two Cold Mornings in the Woods

Day One: Peace and Zero Deer

We hiked deep into the woods—very cold woods—and sat in peaceful, motionless silence. We saw absolutely nothing. Not a single four-legged creature.

But honestly? It was nice.

Day Two: The Almost-Buck

The second morning took us to a different location, and our luck finally changed.

First came two doe, crunching their way through the leaves. Then two more—one so big she deserved her own zip code. Still, no buck.

Time passed…then more movement.

A deer stepped into view—broadside—and finally turned enough for us to see its rack. I counted four points; Will counted six. Either way, it was buck. It was beautiful. And it was close.

Will raised his .270, so I plugged my ears with my fingers. 

And that’s when disaster struck.

Something—my hoodie, my jacket, my blaze orange vest, or maybe all three conspiring together—made a loud scraping sound as I moved. Loud enough to spook a deer...

Just as Will squeezed the trigger, the buck bolted. Will fired, but the shot zipped harmlessly through brush and probably lodged itself in a tree somewhere up the hillside.

We tracked him for a bit, but his escape velocity suggested we were wasting our time.

Will was…irritated. And rightly so.

But he got over it quickly and began telling the whole family about my “legendary” hunting skills. It’s a story he’ll no doubt share with his own kids someday.

A Father–Son Memory That Won’t Fade

As we walked out of the woods, I thought of a diary entry from 19th-century diplomat Charles Francis Adams:

“Went fishing with my son today—A day wasted.”

That same day, his son Brook wrote in his diary:

“Went fishing with my father. The most wonderful day of my life.”

Perspective.

I still prefer fishing. Probably always will. But I wouldn’t trade those two cold mornings in the woods with Will for anything.

And I can’t wait to go again.

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