It's painful to remember those who've left deer camp, never to return. My group gets bigger every year it seems like. The ominous harbinger that scares the hell out of me, is now guys my age, or younger are joining that group. When I was younger, I just didn't think about this stuff. Mortality has a nasty way of creeping up on you though. One thing is for sure. I will remember those who went before me on opening morning as I do every year. I get more enjoyment out of a beautiful sunrise, a squirrel digging for acorns under my stand than I did when I was younger. The weight of a good rifle hanging on my shoulder as I head out in the pre-dawn darkness. The welcoming smell of a hot cup of coffee out of the thermos. The chickadees that always seem to find me every year.
Here's to all those who went before us and taught us the ropes, shared a hard drag with us, or patted us on the back when we finally made our first kill. Lest we ever, ever forget.
