The morning of October 3, 2020, dawned cool, clear and calm, a perfect day to begin squirrel season. I rode my 4-wheeler to my favorite woods, parked it and walked over to a log to sit and wait for daylight.
This is something I have done since I was a kid, being in the woods at first light on opening day of squirrel season. My dad engrained in me my love for hunting squirrels when I was just a little tyke, following him, watching him and learning how he did it so that a few years later, I could go out on my own.
This morning five years ago was different. Back and leg pain that had gotten worse limiting my mobility but it was opening day and I was determined to give it a go. Having already crossed the 80 year threshold a couple of years earlier meant I was experiencing what happens to most guys my age. I still had the want-to; it was the get-it-done thing that was superseding the desire to do as I had done opening day in previous years.
I watched the cool clear dawn slowly transition into daylight and began scanning the acorn-laden oaks for movement that would indicate that squirrels were ready for breakfast.
As I sat and waited, I remembered opening day in times past when I would be watching the trees as daylight approached. I recalled that first shaking of an oak limb that indicated a squirrel was up and moving, how I would ease up, sneak quietly to within gun range of the feeding squirrel, waiting until it gave me a clear shot before drawing a bead and hitting the trigger.
If all went according to my plan, I’d watch the squirrel tumble to the ground and feel a real sense of pride – one squirrel spotted, one shot and one cooling in my game bag.
After the woods quieted down, I’d watch the trees from more movement and if I saw another on the move, the sequence would be repeated.
If not, I’d carefully and quietly pick my way through the woods to the next grove of hardwoods, keeping my eyes alert for movement and by the end of the hunt, I would hopefully have enough squirrels in my game bag for a squirrel mulligan or enough young ones for a squirrel fry that would beat anything Col. Sanders could do with his fried chicken.
A favorite thing was to go back to camp, clean the squirrels, select the younger ones to fry alongside a plate of Mary B’s biscuits and homemade gravy. It really doesn’t get much better than that.
On that morning five years ago, I soon spotted four squirrels moving in the oaks 150 or so yards away across a little drain. In order to get within shooting distance of them, I would have to ease down a slight hill using trees to cover my movements, cross the drain to get close enough.
I started my stalk to head in their direction and after sneaking a few yards, I stopped and pondered what I would need to do to cover the distance, and I decided to do something I had never done in all my years of squirrel hunting. I turned around, slowly walked back to my 4-wheeler and left the woods. I never went back.
My final squirrel hunt ended getting to experience being in the cool quiet woods one more time, seeing some squirrels and facing the decision that this sport I love was something I cherished but simply could not do anymore.
I’m okay with that as I have a storehouse of memories I can rely on when the weather cools down as opening day in October rolls around.