Chapter 1: Vietnam?
I was old.
I had gotten no more than a hundred yards away from the cabin, and every bone in my body was already protesting. The cold morning air did not help, creeping through my joints and adding to the pain. For a moment, I thought of going back. Many had told me that hunting alone at 75 years old was not the best idea.
The thought did not last long in my head, and I chuckled to myself. I had become weak, not only in body but in will. I knew someone well into his 80s who was still dropping deer. The joint aches could be ignored... I had endured more in Korea and Vietnam.
I held my old rifle closer to my chest as the cold made me shiver. My Pre 65 Winchester rifle was the most prized gun in my collection. I had inherited it from my father, who told me he got it the same year I was born. And as soon as I was old enough to hike the Appalachian woods, it had been my meat getter and my constant friend.
And what a good looking friend it was. Nothing was more handsome than a vintage bolt action rifle.
I was sad again, and I was to be blamed for it. Thinking about the good old days always plunged me into melancholy.
The needed distraction came from a crackle.
Whether it was from a twig breaking or the crackle of a dried leaf being stepped on, I could not tell. But that meant movement, and movement meant potential prey.
The last time I had ever brought home a deer was five years ago. What a messy shot it was, having hit the animal in the gut. The poor thing had to scamper away with some of its entrails out. It took me more than an hour to track it down.