I decided
when going back to college that I would major in Fish and Wildlife
Biology.
Now, understand that
my previous endeavors had all been of a more academic nature—religious
studies, anthropology, English. Never before had I had any interest
in taking a laboratory course, let alone a desire to do any career
involving the outdoors. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy camping,
hiking, kayaking… in the last year I had even come to enjoy these
activities more, which was, in fact, what led to my new career choice.
I didn’t realize,
initially, what would be involved with this. For the fish and
wildlife crew at Tech, my new college, this career path was more than just
some lab courses and a little hunting and fishing—it was a lifestyle.
Many would be more than happy to become a hermit and never see another
road in their life. Now, while I can sympathize with that feeling, I
soon came to realize that perhaps this particular path—as a career—was not
one I should join. Let me explain, very clearly, what led to this.
Bugs
I think the bugs were
what really did it. It took several more events for me to actually
realize it but…well. One August day, newly returned to Arkansas from
the beaches of Virginia, I decided to go sit by a creek at the edge of the
neighbor’s property. No problem, known ‘em for years. However,
this was the first day I ever noticed…the gnats. Swarming,
attacking, unusually and unreasonably attracted to my face, my ears, my
nose—mild panic soon set in and I was racing back to the safety of the
front porch. Sadly, I met with flies, crickets, and grasshoppers in
my scurry to get out of the woods, which only fueled my urge to get to a
civilized locale. Later, in the shower, I would find no ticks.
Rest assured, the next several times I went to my favorite swimming hole,
I came back with multiple parasitic invaders. Unfortunately, they
were behind my knees of all places, so they went unobserved for 3 days
before The Itching set in. I survived with only mild trauma.
Guns
Several days later my
nephew (older by two years—don’t ask) came to visit. Now, at the
ripe old age of 20, I had still never shot a gun, including a BB gun.
Scott, in his infinite wisdom, decided that he and my blind grandfather
should remedy that situation. My Papa decided maybe he would sit
this one out. So, with that, Scott grabbed a .22 and—you guessed
it—a 12 gauge shotgun. Now to be fair, what followed was a careful
and kind first lesson.
First I got, with
demonstration, an explanation on how to load it, get the bullet where it’s
supposed to be, and discharge the shell. Scott had me go through the
motions several times. Finally, he asked if I wanted to shoot it.
Eyeing the hunk of metal with something bordering on suspicion, I told
Scott he’d better do it first so I would know what to expect.
“Ka-thow!!”
ricocheted through the trees, and with it, my suspicion turned to the
(I’ve now been told) normal thrill and an urgency to try it myself.
I could see myself with black face paint stalking through the woods for
squirrels and rabbits and other devious creatures for the good of my
stewpot and our black walnut trees. A quick couple of shots were
fired off by me, and my excitement to try the shotgun was palpable.
Now, all of you
reading this can probably see what was coming. In fact, I’m sure you
can. Because everyone but myself, I realize now, knows just what
firing a shotgun is like when compared to a .22, or to nothing, which was
my previous experience.
We went through the
loading drill again, and then Scott shot the thing for me a few times.
A bit louder…but, ok, I could do this. Scott braced himself behind
me for this one, helping me hold the stock firmly against my shoulder so I
didn’t bruise. Giddy, I squeezed the trigger—
“KABOOOOM!” went the
air, and with it, my hearing! My vision was suddenly black and I was
going down, nearly hitting the grou—
Oh. Hitting the
nephew who was gratefully there to catch the gun I’d dropped
downward in my momentary shock. I shook my head once and started
laughing. Scott just rolled his eyes in amusement and asked if I
wanted to go another couple rounds. Furrowing my brow I could only
think “Is he serious? Does he really think I should do that more than
once?” Instead, I only said no, that I thought that was probably all
the lesson I would be needing for awhile. Suddenly, vegetarianism
began to sound quite palatable—particularly after I later realized that
catfish was the only fish I knew. Bream? Crappie? What? But I
digress...
All right, there had
been a few minor setbacks, but I could do this. Really. How
hard could all of this stuff really be?
