The Feeling

By Ronald Fenner

A true story, The Feeling follows my early learning years in the sport of hunting. it chronicles my mistakes, successes and failures. No technical knowledge is offered here, just an honest account of how it happened for me. I punch myself in the nose, tumble down the side of a mountain, nearly drown myself and at one point, I find myself in the crosshairs of another hunter's rifle. Eventually I succeed in my quest to feel the rush associated with harvesting an animal, a rush packed with excitement and adrenalin but it didn't come easy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronald Fenner
• Release date: Aug 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301095858

Book preview

The Feeling

Published by Ronald J Fenner at Smashwords

Copyright 2005 Ronald J Fenner

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Feeling

Ronald J Fenner

Chapter One

Huntin’ Camp

Look, it’s a bobcat! I said, and I was excited. As fast as the movement caught my eye, the animal was gone. It was November, a few days before hunting season, and the camp had to be readied. My time had come. Entry into the world of huntin’ camp. The years of a missing father had passed. Starting on November fifteenth every year, for a weekend, or maybe even two weeks, he was gone. Thirteen seasons had passed during my young life, and though I was not old enough to carry a rifle, I was old enough to spend the weekend at huntin’ camp.

The bobcat was the first bit of wildlife we had seen that day. I’m not sure who spotted it first, but all of us - Dad, my brother, and I – watched as it darted from the old barn that we were searching through. It crossed the lawn, and ran behind the cabins on the other side of the road, then he was gone. The animal seemed huge: adrenaline pumped through me, and a feeling overtook me. A feeling that is known to some, most of whom are unable to explain it. A feeling of wildness, fear, excitement, and more. Though the sighting was over quickly, the feeling stayed with me for some time.

We had found what we were looking for in the old barn, and returned to the big house. There was much to do, as no one had stayed here since last hunting season. The place had been locked up, turned off, and ignored, like an encased hunting rifle that had been stuck in the back of the closet…waiting.

Dad struck a match and the old stove took off. By tomorrow the place would be warm. The next job was to go into the basement and start the pump for water. To a thirteen year old kid, the basement was a scary place. It smelled of wetness, dirt, and age. As Dad led the way, I wondered if any animals had gotten in down here. Except for mice, there was nothing, and Dad went to work on the plumbing. Meanwhile, my brother and I explored. Camp was old, decrepit and falling apart. It was once called home by many. This was their stuff down here: books, clothes and antique items. Junk ranging back to vaudeville times. All of it old, most of it useless, cast into this dark place, never to be retrieved. With the pump running, the water tank filling up, and Dad’s hands cover in grime, we left the basement. As I closed the door, I paused to read the Hunter’s Crying Towel tacked to it. More like a poster than a towel, it was covered with pictures and clever sayings about a hunters luck gone bad. Hunting – that’s what this whole place was about. From the Field and Stream and Outdoor Life magazines that filled the bookcase, to the old fashioned hunter’s hat hanging in the back bedroom. Everything here was for hunting.

Our work for the day was done. The sleeping giant of a house had been awakened, and in a few days, my father and brother would return for this year’s deer hunt. But this year, I would return with them.

Chapter Two

There is an unwritten law around huntin’ camp, which was explained to me Friday evening, shortly after my arrival. It’s simple and to the point: What’s said here, stays here. With that rule instilled upon me, huntin’ camp began. During a large dinner, the stories of past hunts were exchanged. Deer that were dropped on the spot, and some that were gut-shot and running for hundreds of yards. Everyone had a story except me. My hunting days were just starting. I listened closely to each person, hoping to gain some insight as to what the hunt felt like, to succeed or to fail, to fill your tag, or add another adventure to your memories of hunting. Men came for hundreds of miles to be here, they had been coming for years. Some were too old to hunt anymore, but they came none the less. They came for that feeling.

After dinner, while helping to clean up, I recalled the bobcat sighting. Although their stories had seemed more exciting, and had contained more than a moment of exposure to a wild animal, I felt as if we had a lot in common. I too, would become a great hunter.

Breakfast on Saturday was early. The hunters wanted to be at their stands before daylight, with time to spare. While the cars and trucks idled outside to warm up, the hunters got ready. Long-johns, heavy socks, wool clothing, the works. It was cold this morning, and to sit all day in the woods comfortably took some preparation. Hand warmers, hot seat, hats and gloves. These guys were serious.

Then the guns came out. 30-06’s 300 Savages, 7mm’s, shotguns, and more. The guns were beautiful, and each one was a prized possession of its owner. Within a year, I, too, would own a firearm. It was still dark when the last vehicle left camp, and left me to clean up from breakfast. I didn’t mind at all. I poured hot water from the stove into the sink in the cabin, and started my duties. Everyone has to do this their first year at camp. I took my time at cleaning up the place, and then went over to the big house until lunch.

None of the hunters returned until lunchtime, meaning no one had gotten a buck. Still, I raced to the first vehicle back, waiting impatiently to hear about opening morning in the field. As it turned out, no one had seen any deer that they could get a shot at. Lunch was fairly quiet, and soon all the hunters were gone again, leaving me to take care of the cabin once more. While I washed the dishes, I daydreamed of being in the woods, on the hunt. My dreams were interrupted though, by the sound of rustling leaves behind the cabin. Immediately my thoughts went to the bobcat that we saw a few days ago. It had disappeared behind this very cabin. I could hunt it, there was a .22 caliber rifle in the cabin, and the shells were on the bookcase. Without hesitation, I loaded the rifle and stepped outside – into the woods – on the hunt.

Ever so slowly, and as quietly as I could, I snuck around the side of the cabin. Adrenaline again pumped through my veins, my heart raced, the feeling was back. This was the hunt, exciting, frightening, and wild. I looked all around the cabin, but found no trace of my target. It was then that I started toward the river. Not more than forty yards from the cabin, fright became the only thought in my mind. I had stumbled onto the resting place of two partridges, who flew up right in front of me. Their element of surprise, and the terrific beating of their wings when a partridge takes flight, scared the heck out of me. I was totally unprepared for this, and could do nothing as the flew away. Twenty yards ahead, and at least forty feet up they landed in a tree with at least ten more. They must have caused the noise, I thought to myself. I had never seen so many partridge in one spot. Carefully, I raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. Down came the bird I had aimed at. It hit the ground and flopped about. I knew I was supposed to go stomp on its head to finish it off, but to my surprise, none of the other remaining partridges had flown off, I aimed again, pulled the trigger, again, and again. None of them flew away. They only watched as I picked them off with the 22. When the rifles magazine went empty there were four birds on the ground. Adrenaline still pumped through my veins, the air smelled of gunpowder, and I had that feeling. Intoxicating, energizing, I wanted more. Running back into the cabin, I once again loaded the rifle. Back outside I flew, emptying the gun once more into the sky. Two more birds hit the ground, and I felt wonderful, victorious and proud.

When the hunters returned that evening, their rifles unfired, I took great pride in providing game (the first of the season) for dinner. My hunting history was in the making, and it was the tastiest partridge I have eaten to this day.

I gained something by providing that meat. Respect, admiration, or the coming of age of a hunter. I'm not sure which, but the next morning I was putting on the heavy clothes of a hunter.