The leaves were clinging to their branches in defiance of the upcoming autumn, trying to prolong their time swaying to the melody of summer’s last breaths. The last year’s fallen crop was still scattered below, and the dry weather had left a few able to crunch underfoot as I tried to shuffle silently behind my dad.
“Pick up your feet and step easy,” he explained.
I began to quietly march like a slow-motion soldier in a parade. This squirrel hunting safari was my very first time hunting, and I was trying to figure things out.
The adventure started with an interest in going hunting — something that came naturally to a rural upbringing and with a father who enjoyed the field as much as his easy chair. After tagging along on long walks and getting to shoot a little out back, Dad declared I was ready to attend a hunter safety class.
“A class about hunting? Could there be an entire school like that?” I wondered.
Safety course
The course was led by a volunteer instructor at a scout camp near New Waterford, Ohio. He wore a felt fedora, which today would inspire thoughts of the yet unknown Indiana Jones. Back then, it was the increasingly famous archer Fred Bear that came to my mind. He also sported a jacket with a protective shooting patch on the shoulder with “safe hunter” embroidered above a pocket.
I’d never listened to any teacher more intently as I scribbled copious notations in my workbook. I circled gun part names, animal tracks and safety hints and glared at any kid trying to look over my shoulder. My plan was to get the best grade in the class.
Dad, who had volunteered to sit in and “keep an eye on the kids,” sat in a corner nursing his pipe, the cherry blend tobacco mixing with the musty old cabin’s smell and that of the oil and solvent infused rifles and shotguns setting on display — an aroma I’ll bet even Daniel Boone would’ve recognized.
Game warden
The class was to last most of the day, and at about the midpoint, a local club hosted an outdoor picnic of hot dogs, Wise potato chips and cider donated from a nearby orchard. As we were munching on the best-tasting hot dogs ever, another car pulled into the lot. A man dressed in green and tan climbed out, and all chomping stopped. It was the game warden! I’d never seen one before, but I’d heard the stories. I couldn’t remember his name, but I did recall a few of the descriptive adjectives. My dad looked at him and said, “That’s how you bait a game warden … free food.” I was mortified. To my surprise, he went straight to MY dad and the course instructor and shook their hands — then he got the free hot dog.
Soon, we were back in class. I learned that the proper name for an Ohio game warden was game protector. He carefully walked us through the ideas of being an ethical hunter. He told us that while part of his job was to catch bad guys, his most important task was to keep people out of trouble.
I remember that he held up the rules pamphlet and said that “Anybody can make a mistake, but don’t make it because you’re lazy. Read your laws every year because they change. And don’t be crooked, either. You may not get caught right away, but people will know. Eventually, I’ll come knocking.” I believed him!
He then took us outside for a shooting demonstration before returning to take the final test. The game protector and the instructor walked around the room, glancing over shoulders. At one point, I felt the uniformed sleeve brush my arm as he reached down to tap on one of the questions.
“Think a little more on that one,” he said quietly and then walked on to stop at another bowed head.
In the end, I’d passed the test — not at the top of the class, but that was okay. The game protector took his place at the front of the room and handed out an iron-on patch and our hunter safety card, shaking each of our hands.
One lone boy sat by himself, silent tears rolling down his face. He hadn’t made the grade, but the game protector and the teacher called him up front and gave him a safety patch and a study book. They announced that this kid had worked the hardest of all and would easily pass the test next time.
I remember the boy smiled wide as they took a group photo with him in the center beside the kneeling officer whose hand rested on his shoulder, a photo destined for the sportsmen’s club bulletin board.
Never forget
The next morning, Dad took me to buy my first hunting license. He told me to remember the number in case I lost it, so I could get a new copy. Then it was to the mushroom-hunting woods, which had magically transformed into a squirrel-hunting woods. That’s how this young marching soldier ended up following along to look for fox squirrels on a waning Indian summer day during a long-ago September. Two squirrels later, we were done, and I was happily exhausted.
“Next time we’ll bring Cricket,” he said as he stoked up his old briar and began our drive home. As I leaned back and daydreams drifted, I thought about the little black spaniel — and of schools that teach hunting and what it might be like to be a game protector.
While that old hunting license is long gone, the number was BZ1484. Dad told me to remember it — and I always will. Dad and Cricket now only hunt with me in my dreams, but I did find out a lot more about being a game protector and have even got to eat my fair share of free hot dogs — maybe Dad was right about the baiting thing.
Ohio’s squirrel and dove seasons open Sept. 1, so it’s time for prospective new hunters to get ready for that first experience in the field! Hunter and Trapper Education Class information and registration is found online at www.wildohio.gov or by calling 1-800-WILDLIFE or visting www.hunter-ed.com/ohio.
“So many of our dreams at first seem impossible, then they seem improbable, and then, when we summon the will, they soon become inevitable.”
— Christopher Reeve
