The Little Hunter

The Little Hunter by James L. Bruner
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Though many days had passed spent fishing, I often wondered just how much of the outdoors I had instilled in my daughter. At 6 years of age she was as good with a rod and reel as many twice her size and enjoyed watching the fish swim away after we released them as much as catching them. Proud to show off her tackle box to anyone who happened by, she would pry open the tiny lid and spread the trays out revealing her meager fortune of assorted tackle. In a gesture that reminded me of a grown up, she would clench a can of soda in her tiny hands, lean back, and swallow a large drink as the fellow fisherman gazed at the tackle she so proudly displayed. Always courteous the fisherman would compliment her on the arsenal of lures she possessed. One can only suggest that the lures must have looked like precious jewels of many shapes and colors to such a young girl.

Through the course of the afternoon the interest in fishing would fade as the sun would begin its descent for another nights rest. We would spend the last minutes of light trying to catch crayfish as they back peddled to the safety of the nearest rock. The ducks that were lazing the afternoon away would begin to fly down the river to the open waters of the lake. I noticed a glimmer in her eyes as each duck passed and her body turned to follow the ducks out of sight. I placed a hand on her shoulder and explained the naturally poetic flight of the ducks in great detail. Was she merely showing an interest in the wildlife or had the stories I told of hunting waterfowl come to life as the ducks raced past us.

Fall grew near quickly and the changing of the leaves were as spectacular as ever in the Michigan forest. Our newly developed one-acre pond provided many hours of watching the local wildlife make use of this new resource. Ducks, geese, whitetails, and an occasional bear, all brought endless questions from my little comrade’s inquisitive growing mind. As we sat watching a lone doe sip from the ponds cool waters the little hunter leaned back to me and explained what she was seeing. “Daddy, do you see the trees reflecting in the water?” “I wonder what the deer thinks when she sees her reflection.” “I wonder where she’ll sleep tonight.” With that the sun faded behind the horizon and the doe disappeared into the brush. We sat for several minutes in silence before walking back to the cabin, hand in hand, taking in the beauty of the outdoors. As we rounded the corner near the old basswood tree she stopped and looked up at me. She asked, “Daddy, why do you hunt?” I explained that I enjoy the outdoors and the meals that are provided by hunting. It’s something that makes my heart pound like it’s going to jump out of my chest. It’s like being excited and nervous at the same time. My Dad taught me to hunt and fish when I was your age. Of all the things my dad taught me, this is what I still cherish most. It’s why I enjoy teaching you.” She replied, “Daddy, can you take me hunting with you?” It was hard to hold back my emotions. I realized that the tradition had come full circle and I was ready to pass onto my child a gift that had been given to me by my father. I cleared my throat and answered, “Of course honey. I’ll take you hunting.”

We spent the next day brushing in an old forgotten deer blind that we would use for the upcoming rifle season. We adorned boots and gloves to minimize our impact in the area. As quickly as I snipped twigs from a nearby balsam she wove them carefully into place. As we stood back and looked at our finished product she instructed me to stay there while she fumbled a few more loose twigs and branches into the cluster. I gave the “thumbs up” and hoisted her to my shoulders. We made our way back home ducking the lower branches and playing the occasional “cover daddy’s eyes” with her sap covered gloves. It was a productive afternoon with plenty of learning and a little bit of fun thrown in for good measure. I’ll never forget her laughter as she slid off my shoulders and her sticky gloves securely held tight as I began to walk away.

Time seemed to slide by slowly for the next week. My new hunting partner had reverted back to her video games and cartoons. She wrapped herself in any chance she had to play with the new kittens, laughing as she made them dance for a string she dangled overhead just out of their reach. Their antics of tackling one another and jumping sideways brought plenty of entertainment on those late October evenings. Her days were filled with gathering rocks and leaves as I worked on splitting the firewood and rescuing the occasional kitten that climbed too high in the tree to come down on it’s own. One law of physics that I quickly learned is: “While rescuing a kitten from a tree, you’re sure to have more scratches than if you had actually fell from the tree yourself!” Let’s not forget that there will be a kid of some sort, with tears in her eyes from laughing so hard, waiting at the base of the tree to comfort the kitten. Not you! And that same wildcat of a kitten that nearly shredded you to bits will now be as gentle as…well, as gentle as a kitten.

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