Author: Guest Speaker
I am 12 years old. It is 1958. This is my second year of deer hunting. Last year, I came out a few times, but never pulled my rifle. This is the fourth ride this fall. However, this day is different. It feels as if it was made for me, the way the morning started with the men and the babbling creek including me in conversation, and the way we ride the narrow trail in silence, patiently intent on getting somewhere.
The year is 1958. I am 12, going on 13.
Bang! Awakened by the sound of a slamming screen door, my eyes open to see a thousand stars through limbs of a giant pine tree.
Where am I? Oh, yeah, Carl’s ranch. Dad drove us out here last night and we slept in the back of the pickup under the pines. It smells good. We’ve been coming here three years, since we moved to our new ranch on Mojo Lane in Redding’s Churn Creek Bottom.