I grew up hunting.

I remember watching my Dad and Uncle Park leave the house in the wee hours to either sit in a blind, or walk the farmers’ fields around Burlington, Wyoming with the Springer Spaniels to hunt up grouse or pheasant.

It felt like I was always too young to join in, but then the glorious day came when I made it through hunter’s safety, must have been fifth or sixth grade.

Hallelujah, I was now an orange card carrying member of that adolescent right of passage.

Now when the alarm clock went off at 4 a.m. on Saturday, I had my thermas of hot chocolate right next to my Dad’s coffee, and something in a little silver container with a very small lid which I didn’t figure out the contents until later.

Gleefully, I’d jump in the back seat of the truck with the dogs and just listen to the stories being told in the front seat as we made our way down the Greybull highway to catch the pheasants just as they were filling their craw with stones from the road.

I have very fond memories of those cold October mornings, just me and the guys. You earned a level of respect at a young age when people trusted you to hunt next to them without pulling a Cheney. I honestly don’t even think I got a shot off that first year.

I was just happy to be out with Dad and Park, walking the fields and looking at the crystal clear sky, watching the dogs do what they were trained to do.

It had been a while since I’d been out with the 12-guage though: college, career, kids, other sports. So, I welcomed nostalgia to finally get the call to go on my father-in-law’s annual opening day goose hunt in Cassia County, Idaho. I broke the Weatherby out, made sure it was clean, grabbed some new steel shot, an Idaho non-resident license, and hit the road.

The experience took me back to a simpler time: get up at dawn, get the decoys ready, sit in a muddy hole in the ground, drink coffee, and talk about things that only guys holding shotguns, wearing silly clothes, and drinking brandy at 7 a.m. talk about.

The first day was rough: low clouds, rain, wind, and a flight pattern that never seemed to bring the birds over our blind. I got a couple shots off, but definitely was a bit rusty. By Day Two, the weather was better, the fog was rolling off the river, and I felt I knew what I was doing again.

The geese would fly straight up from the river and come in for a landing right next to our dekes. My precision was still off a bit, but managed to get two geese and a pintail that day with my brother-in-law Todd. It definitely took me back, and I may even try and get out again this fall.

And, maybe someday I’ll be driving down the road with my son, who will be hunkered in the back of the truck, wide-eyed with excitement but a little unsure of what that first day will hold.