6th Prize
Hunting Journal with Weatherby Logo (100 awarded)
James Campbell, Missouri
”My dream hunt is the one hunt you could never grant me. It wouldn't be extravagant or located in a remote location of the African Safari. No, it would be quite simple in fact. No exotic game or rare beast to complete my trophy room. It would be simple and pure, back to the basics of hunting, back to the reasons why most of us fell in love with the sport in the first place. It could be squirrel hunting with my single shot 12 gauge in the spring, rabbit hunting in the snow in December or pursuing whitetail in mid-November all in the southwest Missouri Ozark Hills. A place where no real trophies are taken. Its not a place where people come from all over the nation to hunt, in fact most from here travel somewhere else for their hunting desires, but this is my home. This place is where my fondest memories were created. These hills are where I learned most of what I know, what signs to look for, which sounds to pay attention to, and even to listen to the sounds you can't hear. To rely on all of your senses, not just one or two.
So far, my dream hunt may sound simple, I could drive 15 or 50 miles and experience everything in which I have just described, but it wouldn't fulfill my dream. My dream is to have one more deer season with my dad; he passed away four years ago...three months after his last deer season. That season is one I'll never forget and may never be topped. No huge trophies were bagged, just one group of four hunters and an old 4-wheel-drive. It was no secret that my old man had only a few years left in him. He wasn't old, 62 when he passed, he had health problems and it was just a matter of time. He wasn't the world's greatest hunter, he didn't believe in scents and scent blockers. His rifle of choice, the tried and true Winchester model 94 30-30 no scope, just open sights. Nothing special at all, clean and simple, the way it should be. I knew that season was different. I felt it the first time I went out scouting for sign in mid-September, my brother-in-law and I were wandering through the woods looking for a location to set up a deer stand for my dad. We topped a small hill that opened up to a patch of oak trees. We both just knew that this was the ‘spot.’ We set up and left it undisturbed until opening day.
The weeks leading up to opening day were different then in years past. There was more excitement than normal in my dads eyes, like he knew this was his last year and it would be special. There was a look of anticipation like I had never seen before. It reminded me of a five-year-old waiting for Christmas day.
The first morning was like no other. It wasn't extremely cold, mid- 30s maybe, no frost and a slight over cast. Everyone knew where they would be sitting at first light, everyone but me. I'm rather impatient and prefer to walk and sit in many different locations rather then wait for the deer to happen upon me...if they're out there I will find them. It was a quiet morning; you could hear a few shots in the distance but very little activity from any wildlife. It was relaxing just to be able to take it all in, to get away from the normal day-to-day life...see grass, trees and the sunrise instead of traffic and asphalt. Then the tranquility of the morning was disrupted by a single shot. It was difficult to explain, but deep in my soul, I knew who had fired it and I knew what had fallen. It was the last of many last things and I could feel it. I was more excited then if I had shot 150 class buck and I hadn't even seen or spoke to him for confirmation yet. I just knew it was the last of many things, the last season, the last deer, and the last time the old Winchester would ever have the trigger squeezed. I still have that gun but it has its own story and its own legacy. I respect the gun's last memory it made for me and have no desire to create new ones with it. I will keep it until I can pass it on the next generation, tell its story and then it will be allowed to help make new ones.
I was already making my way to him when my old man called me on my walkie talkie, all he said was ‘I got him!’ I arrived at his stand and it couldn't be more perfect, 30 yards away, clean shot, no tracking. It wasn't the biggest deer ever...lucky to score 120, I'm not sure, but he sure was beautiful. My dad never had a deer mounted before so we checked it in and I made arrangements to have it done for him. In all my 24 years, I had never seen the man more excited or happier. He never got to see it done...he passed away three months later. I inherited very little from the man but what I did, no amount of money could ever buy. I have one picture of the four of us and the deer, which I look at everyday, one 30-30 that I look at and clean periodically, and one modest 8-point buck on my wall. Those three things and all my memories are my most valued possessions. You folks can't grant me my dream hunt, I guess maybe because I have already experienced it. It's all about the camaraderie of the hunt, experiencing nature, gaining knowledge each year and passing it on to others. It's about the stories and the myths. It's the legacy created and passed on through the generations. Each time I step in the woods regardless of what tag I'm trying to fill, the memories I've made and/or about to make, each hunt is my dream hunt.”