This trip taught me more lessons than any one adventure in my life ever could have.
By Adam May courtesy of CFI website.
Eleven years ago this month I got in my grandpa’s truck and embarked on what would be my first hunting trip – I was thirteen. I had prepared for this trip for months before, taking all the necessary courses and tests to become officially licensed. At that age I could merely become an apprentice limiting me to be with a partner and only have one firearm between us. That was of no concern to me or my grandpa.
The Highland Hunt Club (located outside of Vankoughnet, ON) was founded by my great grandfather and a friend, and was to be passed down throughout the two families. I went to camp with my grandpa the day before deer season officially opened in the area, and an afternoon before the rest of our gang was to join us. I was itching to get some hands on experience, and my grandpa wanted some alone time with me free of distraction.
We set up a makeshift target range, and I was handed a 30/30 bolt action rifle. He told me that gun had been passed on throughout the family, and he couldn’t be any prouder giving it to me to continue the tradition. I was honored. I tried to remember my training. I showed proper muzzle.
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