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Opportunities to hunt now come few and far between. Such is life and the results of decisions one makes. I'm not complaining, not at all, just stating the facts as they are. And yet, in spite of the lack of opportunities, hunting is a part of my life. The opportunity to go afield and to become part of the natural order of things is specially wonderful because it is now so rare. Since we were in the US for the first time in years and would qualify as legal residents of the state of Missouri, it was with eagerness that I looked forward to the opportunity to once more go in search of game. Eight years had passed since the last time I was able to take rifle in hand and go afield to provide meat for our table. Over the months I talked and planned with my brother and my cousin. Both my sons took their hunters' safety course, passing with flying colors. We loaded ammunition, made trips to the range, sighted in, practiced and gathered information about our intended hunting area. Since the last time I'd hunted the area with my father (1990) technology has come a long way. A Microsoft GPS unit was plugged into the lap top and used to trace our path as we drove through the Mark Twain national forest. We'd park, scout, make notes and then move to another area. The US Forest Service maps that we'd acquired helped, but it was the GPS unit that showed us what part of the map we were on, allowing us to make sure we stayed away from the patches of private land scattered through the Mark Twain forest. As we scouted we also hunted small game. Squirrels were plentiful, but offered few chances of a safe shot. I had not remembered that the Mark Twain was so heavily populated. Shotguns would have been better for the purpose than the rifles and revolver we carried. Finally the day arrived. We'd found a good place to camp near the end of a Forest Service "road", in a beautiful green meadow. We gave instructions to those who'd be coming in later and set off to set up camp. The tents were pitched, a fire ring set up and firewood scrounged from the surrounding forest. Dark fell and first one and then the other late comer managed to reach the campsite and we dined on "whatchagot stew" as we planned the next day's activities. Finally we headed for bed, where sleep eluded us for some time as we settled in for a cold night. Frost was on the pumpkin the next morning, or would have been had there been any pumpkins around. The whole area was blanketed with shiny white crystals as we each made our way to our stands. Dawn was saluted by the rattle of rifle fire all around us. The peace and tranquility were shattered by the chatter of hunters along the trails and the roar of four wheelers moving men and boys from place to place. I saw one deer, only briefly, as it passed through a corner of a meadow I was watching. With all the movement in the woods the scrapes and trails we'd found during scouting were abandoned as deer scrambled for safety all through the area. We each saw deer, but only my brother got a good shot, bringing in a large dry doe. Due to the distance from home and the high cost of travel we didn't make it back to the Mark Twain before the end of the first season. We only filled one tag, but we filled our memories with fond remembrances of a special family time in the Missouri woods.
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