“Can we go hunting, Dad?” This, for the record, is one of the greatest things a rural father can hear from his progeny. 

“Of course,” I reply, not wanting to discourage their interest. 

“Can we go shoot a deer?” they continue. “No, unfortunately, it’s not rifle season yet, and you guys aren’t quite old enough to sit still in a tree stand.”

“How about a bear?” they insist. 

“No, it’s not bear season either.” Clearly, their aspirations are high. 

Before they decide to go lion hunting, I make a helpful suggestion. “You know, we don’t always have to go for the big stuff. Do you guys want to go squirrel hunting?” 

Their immediate jumping and excitement answered my question. We finished our meal and wrangled the mommy as we all donned some orange and warm, dry clothes for our late afternoon stroll/squirrel hunt. I opted to bring my .22 rifle since it has no recoil and little sound, and I’m still recovering from ear surgery. My wife brought her 20-gauge, which is the more appropriate option for our selected quarry. She would be our primary shooter since the boys weren’t quite old enough to do so themselves, and I wasn’t in the best condition either. 

We started off right from our house and made our way through the back woods and up one of the old rock walls of the family farm. We spent the first half of the walk discussing the importance of not being too loud, looking carefully at our surroundings, and of course looking for signs of animals, even the ones we weren’t hunting for.

By design, the first half of our trek was uphill so as to ensure that the return was not any harder on little legs than it needed to be. All the same, my three-year-old was quite focused on how far away the house was, even when it came back in view through the trees. My six-year-old, however, decided he would ignore us and take a different route over the back field toward his grandparents’ house. It was a great plan until he realized we weren’t going to chase him, and he found himself alone in the middle of a great big field. It was at this point that we were weighing whether or not to walk back to fetch him, when we turned around and spied his frantic little uncoordinated legs making a beeline for where we stood from where he had gone. 

It never hurts to let their curiosity be their teacher—at least in this instance, as we knew exactly where he was and there was nothing around to hurt him.

Distractions aside and energy dwindling, we neared the end of our hunt, which would have been a great walk and a good time together on its own, but nothing quite makes a hunt like doing what you set out to do. 

As we neared the woods around our house, a sudden movement in the trees caught my eye. I quickly pointed out the grey squirrel to the boys as it leaped from branch to branch directly above our walking path. My wife brought up her gun and the boys cheered, knowing what was about to happen. 

Perhaps in the future we will have to work on managing their excitement in the moment, but in this case, it hardly mattered, and far be it from me to quash their enthusiasm. A subtle click signaled a misfire on her gun, and I stepped up to help her rack the shotgun, which has always had some trouble with jamming. We straightened it out quickly, and I stepped back and kept a hand on each boy to be sure everyone was in a safe position. 

The squirrel, although it had moved, was still in range. A moment passed and even my boisterous offspring were silent.

Boom.

Off went the gun. Down fell the squirrel. Off ran my children to see their prize, me racing ahead of them to ensure the squirrel was dead and wouldn’t bite them or scratch them in a final moment. The excitement passed and with certainty that the animal was thoroughly deceased, I allowed the kids to pick it up and enjoy their moment. It was as much their squirrel as it was their mother’s. In their minds, they hunted the squirrel, and in the retelling to their grandparents, they all but forgot that Mommy pulled the trigger; they used such phrases as “I shot the squirrel” or “We got that squirrel.” It didn’t bother their mother, and in reality, it was their hunt. 

My oldest immediately announced upon picking it up that he would have its tail to keep as a trophy and that he wanted to eat the squirrel that very night. And while we didn’t eat it that night, we did a couple days later. It was quite good in case you’re wondering, and my oldest ate his fill. For the recipe we used, check this month’s Food section for Dill-Battered Squirrel Wings. (No, it wasn’t a flying squirrel.)

The way out here we eat what we hunt, and we respect the animal as well as the privilege and right to pursue wild game. It is nothing short of a sacred passion shared through the legacy of sustaining families and wildlife alike.