When I was 12 years old, I had the opportunity to go pheasant hunting with my Dad, grandpa and brothers in the fields and hills outside a small town called, Meadow, Utah.
I had played “ bird dog” for many years prior to that but this was my first year to actually carry a shotgun. I had arrived!
I remember my shotgun well: it was a long barreled, Winchester Model 42 pump .410 and I was using 3 inch shells with 4 shot.
The time was a clear, crisp November season opener and we were working a field. As I approached a fenced-in corner, I heard some rustling in the dried weeks in front of me. Suddenly a brightly colored rooster flushed. His cackling startled me as he struggled to fly in-between the wires of the fence. His struggle to free himself gave me enough time to compose myself, raise my .410, and I drop him with one shot.
I will always remember that time when I got my first rooster on that cold, bright November morning. I cleaned him and we had him for Sunday dinner.
I am grateful for the memories I have of those days so many years ago.
-Posted by Dave (09/08/13)