The trials of being a son — My Little Denim Backpack
Being born in western Pennsylvania gives you a 99.9% chance of being a part of a, “Hunting” family- which I happened to be. Growing up it was assumed even expected that you would pick up the old family heirloom rifle, tromp out into the woods and shoot some antlered creature who was reduced to eating tree bark to survive the winter cold. Which, I was all for at 12 years of age.
A few days before our 4am trek into the mountains a stones throw from our back yard, we good equipment inventory and gather the necessary gear for the hunt. Among my gear was a brand new, uber cool denim backpack. Wearing that thing made me feel like Bilbo Baggins off on some epic adventure. I suppose it is because, for any adventure, the “Pack” is the home of all the gear and treasure you are bound to need and find.
On the eve of the hunt, I started packing all my gear for an 8-hour hunt in the woods.
Matches — critical for warmth in the late November chill of 1985.
Plastic Garbage Bag — Dad told me I needed it… Still not sure what this was for.
Buck Knife — To rip out the insides of the hapless animal who found itself in my cross hairs.
Box of Ammunition — I wonder if a hunter has ever actually needed more than one clip of ammo?
Bologna Sandwiches — A lot of them. I am all about food.
Can of beans — Traditional hunting food.
Pancho — Just in case the snow melted and it started raining.
Flash Light — Becuase we started walking in the woods at the witching hour.
There may have been a few more odds and ends, but this is the core of the items and the ones I clearly remember.
When my family went hunting, most of our hunting experience involved walking forever to the perfect spot deep into the mountains. I have no idea how many deer we may have passed on our way to, “The Spot” because it was so damn dark outside the flashlight had trouble making things clear.
Finally, as the sun was starting to shed it loving light and moderate warmth on our little party that consisted of my, my father and even my mother, we reached our final destination.
At this time, it seemed logical to me to build a fire and set up camp. Apparently, this is NOT what you do when you get to your hunting spot. What you do in reality, is sit. Wait. Watch. Which I did for probably a good 20 minutes… Maybe 15 but most likely 10.
A little frustrated my dad told me and my mom, “I am going to walk up over that hill to see if I can push anything down your way.”
“Ok, I will build a fire!” I exclaimed, all excited.
“Ok,” my dad laughed and started trekking through the snow further up the mountain.
All excited, I got to work. Tossing my beautiful blue denim backpack on a large boulder that circled our little camp I rummaged through it and pulled out my matches. I started gathering kindling, larger sticks and setting up my fire pit with stones and love. Even as a small kid I loved fires and I was good at starting them. It wasn’t long before I had a roaring fire setup and happily keeping the cold away from our toes and fingers.
“Let’s take a little walk around” my mom suggested.
After my amazing fire building efforts, I thought a walk was a great idea. We could see if there were any deer around who may be admiring my fire making skill. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and we started walking.
We walked all of 20 yards from our camp area and peered up the mountain looking for any signs of life.
A gunshot pierced the silence.
“That was close…” my mom said. “Keep your eyes open, you may see something coming our way.”
A second gunshot.
“Wow, that is really close.”
A third, fourth, fifth, in rapid succession.
“Take cover!” My mom pulled me down to the ground between some large stones.
More gunshots.
“Is someone shooting at us?!” I yelled.
“No Robb.” my mother knew what the issue was at this point.
Finally, after what seemed a really long time, there was a cease-fire.
My dad came striding down the top of the mountain and my mom walked me back to our campfire where… to my utter dismay, the remnants of my beautiful denim backpack were sticking out of my diligently crafted fire which it had somehow blown into. My dad had taken cover and my mom and I took cover as the rapid fire denim backpack spent its rounds of .22 caliber ammunition in a random maelstrom of lead.
While this was not my LAST hunting trip, it was only one of a few. Still, going hunting with my mom and dad are some of my favorite memories. Not because we out to kill a deer, that was actually never my dad or mom’s end goal on a hunting trip. For my dad, hunting was a way to get out and bond with family and talk to God. Of course, he happened to really like venison, so if a deer popped into view, “Good luck deer”.
Surprisingly, I didn’t get into any serious trouble either. My parents knew I learned a lesson and no one luckily go hurt. As an added bonus it gave us all a great story to tell for years to come.
