This is a more interesting thread than I thought it would be back on page 1.
Some of the posts here are near poetic, little 5-sentence short stories sometimes.
I think we should tell more stories here. Not just what we like to hunt, but why, embellished by stories.
Here, I'll start.
My fondest memories of hunting are from kidhood, especially when I was around 13 to 15. I lived in a small town on the outskirts of Memphis (now surrounded by that city, one of its burroughs). Train tracks ran through it; the easiest way to get to woods and fields from downtown where I lived was to walk up the tracks. That was in the early 60's. No one there took a second look at a kid walking up main street then up the tracks with a .22 rifle or a shotgun. (Today, they'd probably call in SWAT.)
So, Saturday mornings at daybreak, I'd walk up the tracks with either the .22 (Rem Nylon 66) or my Rem 870 in 16. I knew where the pecan trees were. I'd find an elm or oak near one of those pecan trees, and just sit quietly at its base, leaning against it, long gun in my lap, looking up, listening for barking. I'd breath deep of morning air, admiring the color of the sky, watching spiders make webs, the trees rustle in a (hopefully) gentle breeze (or better yet, no breeze at all) until mr/s squirrel came along looking for breakfast. I'd rarely see them approaching, stealthy as they were. Instead, I'd see some jiggling leaves up high as they jumped across to another branch. I'd ready the gun, wait for the shot. Sometimes, took two.
I often walked back home near 9 am with lunch, already skinned.
Mom would oil and flour them, fry them up with mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, beef steak tomatoes from dad's garden and cornbread.
There just wasn't any better food.
Nem