"Spent Shells" (Story)

[missed mallards]

Decided a little story would help me clear my head. Wrote it, copied it, pasted it. Hope you enjoy. And I'm sure it's got errors, I'll rework it one day.

“Spent Shells”

Thumbing through this year’s hunting pictures, for the first time in many a season, I sat back with a full sense of content. One day, the pictures in the journal will be joined by my horrible display of the written language, but the stories will need to be told. The smiles themselves only go so far. The hunt, the time spent in the outdoors, and the people themselves need to be acknowledged. Until then, the pictures alone do a fine job allowing me to reminisce about the season. I guess that’s why a camera was brought on every outing. A picture is just a simple way to refresh an old memory, a thought, or a great time. It’s kind of like “Spent Shells”, for each rusted old relic of seasons past, there is a story.

Hunting is a love, an obsession, and a passion to chase game. I honestly believe it is a genetic trait. Some people are born loving the chase, some aren’t. It’s fairly that simple. I somehow was blessed by the good lord to receive that trait and have spent many an hour making memories doing what I love. My stories start way back when, when I was just knee high to a grasshopper. The journeys with my brother, dad, and grandfather all still seem as fresh on my mind as the day they happened. However, there was one person in my life that didn’t quite understand it, my mom. My own flesh and blood, the woman whom reared me, cared for me, and taught me, just couldn’t comprehend the excitement I got from chasing game. I guess for the most part, she didn’t understand it.

For some odd reason, this year, her desire to partake in a hunt came on strong. I don’t know what the switch was, nor do I honestly care, but when she called there wasn’t anything else to say but “Come on”. As luck would have it, she would have to be in town for a few days on business, and wanted to take a morning and join her boys for a morning’s hunt. It was a request I couldn’t say no to, and one I actually looked forward to. Although we had invited a many a hunter, huntress, and so on this season, in my 28 years, I had never hunted with my mom. Not going to lie, I was scared.

The morning of the hunt finally came and as I woke, the smell of fresh coffee was a welcomed fragrance. Sitting in the kitchen, dressed in head to toe camouflage, sipping her morning coffee, was my mom. There was no “good morning”, “Hey”, or anything of the sort. She didn’t even ask if her camouflage made her butt look big. She just looked at me and then the clock, and asked if we were going to be late. The previous night a comment was made about leaving at 5:15 and well, if we ever left when we wanted to the rush of getting the truck packed, drive to the hole, or setup wouldn’t be half as much fun. Nevertheless, I made my rounds to wake my brother, got everything loaded, and like clockwork, we left 15 minutes late.
Our arrival to the farm was quickly greeted by the Brown mile. The brown mile got its name early this season by making sure everything, and everyone, was covered head to toe in the stickiest brown buckshot known to man. Like a trooper thou, mom sat in the cab with an excited beast at her side for the whole journey. I don’t know when, but somehow, the dog got the seat and I got the bed of the ranger. My brother, or course, drives. Anyway, as we made our way through the mud and muck, the splashing water, and over the rutted path to the north pond, we were greeted by the eastern sun on a quick rise.

The un-load of the ranger seemed choreographed. My brother stopped at the double trees, and I feel out the back with decoys, chairs, and guns. He made his way to the parking spot, and mom, well she just stood there. As a non-licensed hunter, she couldn’t participate in any way, and boy did she take that to heart. She just kind of hung out with Henry, the wild child black lab, and made sure he was well petted before the hunt. As I tromped through the ditch, threw decoys, setup chairs, and got ready for 5 after shooting time, my brother arrived to help mom. Looking back across the ditch, I noticed she stood in what seemed like awe. I didn’t quite understand it at first, until I noticed her attention was drawn to the sky. Overhead, mallards, pintails, teal, and wood ducks swarmed the duck hole. The woodrows were dancing through the tree’s, the mallards…feet down, and the teal…mach 3! My mama said it best when she spoke “This is unbelievable”.

The hunt went off without a hitch. Birds fell into the whole like they were supposed to. Mallards would cup and fall from the heights, teal buzzed the decoys, and even pintails made their last dance above the decoys. Henry was spot on retrieving all 12 birds in true fashion with one 250 yard blind retrieve. My mom even kept her head down until the shot was called. It was one of those hunts that the duck God’s shined on. Mom got to witness it all. The colors from the working ducks, the dog work, and even the marksmanship of my brother, all made the hunt. The laughter, the smiles, and even the stories are all parts that I will cherish for quite some time. Never would of thought it, but mom finally got it! Best of all, she got to witness it, and join in on what calls to us every fall! A few “Spent Shells” are all that we left as we walked away, but the memories followed us out of the duck hole and will always be fondly remembered as my mom’s first hunt.

[msudawg8087]

Awesome story man!

[novacaine]

Ive read and enjoyed all your stories but personally i think that is your best one.............until you get to carry your own child on their first hunt.
Great storyline...........

[eSJay]

good stuff man!

[QUACKERS]

Good read !

[Trutone2]

Good Story Man!!!!

[SkippyJ]

Excellent!!

[greenheadgrimreaper]

Very, very nice.

[bustercat64]

Great job

[RedEyed Duck]

Excellent story and post MM!

[missed mallards]

Appreciate it fella's.