It's still special, but Opening Day of hunting season now rolls around every year, and the years get shorter and shorter.
More than a half century ago, however, I had waited all my life for that first OD. Actually, the first Opening Day came several times. The first time with Dad to hunt squirrels and doves I was the retriever, but I was there -- on a hunt! Then I was allowed to carry my own shotgun.
Finally, at age 11, Dad deemed me ready to hunt deer.
That Opening Day carried a hefty weight of significance, of trust, and of passage. I carried a semi-auto rifle in .308 Winchester. I was in hunting camp with the men, which somewhat made me one of them. I was left on my own, with a powerful rifle, and I got a small whitetail. I had arrived. I was actually one of them. Hunters. Not just the men in camp, but hunters ranging back centuries. One breed regardless of location, color, sex, language, or era.
Hunters. I became one. I'm still one. Through the years I hunted with my father, then my young son along with Dad, and this year with son Ryan, to reprise the elk hunt years ago when the 14-year old version shot his first bull while sitting next to his grandfather.
Opening Day. A reentry. A refresher. A rejuvenation. A reconnection, of sorts, with the quiet places, with friends and family present and gone, and with that quiet internal fire that confirms that, in the natural world, I’m not a voyeur. I’m a participant.
Tom Gresham
Host of Tom Gresham's Gun Talk
As a young boy growing up in Farmington, West Virginia, there were few times of year that were as exciting as the beginning of hunting season. For months, we counted down the days until opening day and that first hunt. The Farmington Sportsman Club – consisting of mostly working coal miners – made a point of ensuring every kid in town was able to hunt, learn gun-sense and enjoy the comradery of the sport. Even decades later, those days hunting with the Farmington Sportsman Club and my friends are some of my fondest memories.
As I grew older and started my own family, opening day became about passing down these hunting traditions to my children and grandchildren. It has become one of our favorite ways to spend time together.
Of course, families across West Virginia and the entire country also value these traditions and memories. As the Co-Chair of the Congressional Sportsmen’s Caucus and Chair of the Senate Energy and Natural Resources Committee, I will continue to fight to expand access to hunting land and protect these special opportunities that mean so much to so many of us.
U.S. Senator Joe Manchin (D-WV)
When opening day comes around I have to admit I feel a little overwhelmed. I look at the calendar and wonder how I will get my normal life duties complete and hunt while the days are free to do so. On top of that, I have a husband who is so giddy and going from one hunt to another that I find myself helping him unpack and repack between endless loads of laundry, restocking snacks and dehydrated meals, one last chance at the range verifying my rifle and last minute hunt plans.
Most of all, though, I just think about the peace and quiet that my mind desperately needs. It’s awaiting the burning feeling in my lungs on the way up a mountain that I’ve trained for. And it’s the opportunity once again to see the glory of God in all of creation. This all makes my soul return to a certain reset that the season brings.
Brenda Weatherby
Director of People & Culture, Weatherby Inc.
“Never miss opening day.” The words echo in my head at least once at the start of every hunt. These words were passed down from generation to generation, I heard them from my grandfather. I guess you could say hunting runs in our blood. Mere words but they serve to show how important this time-honored tradition was to the family. It was a time when fathers, sons, mothers, daughters, and even close friends would gather together to partake in a hunt. Opening day was merely the first day of the hunt, but in reality, the work started long before then.
Opening day is the convergence point of weeks or even months of scouting, gathering gear, studying weather patterns and time watching animals through glass. Opening day marks the beginning of the hunt an instant transition and the beginning of a grand adventure. Depending upon the game you are pursuing the exact experience that opening day has to offer changes. However, uniformly across all hunts, there are shared experiences. At the crack of dawn as the sun begins to peak over the horizon the amount of anticipation and the feeling it creates is unique and nearly indescribable.
In my experience, this feeling is best shared among family, friends and loved ones, preferably with a cup of bad coffee in your hand and gear ready to go. To bask in that moment creates a memory you cherish forever. It creates a feeling that you long for throughout the rest of the year. Some may call it an addiction but I call it a passion and it burns deep within.
It is a time-honored tradition that I look forward to every year. For 26 years I have been fortunate enough to hunt with good folks such as my grandfather who turned 87 this year. To this day I have never known him to miss opening day. As long as I am alive and able I know I’ll “Never miss opening day.”
Jeremiah Polacek
Editor In Chief, Wolfe Publishing Company
The start of hunting season brings back special memories for this 66-year-old editor of the Spanish-language Outdoor Wire. I spent most of my childhood, from age 3 to 13, without my father. When we were finally reunited, hunting helped bring us together.
Castro’s revolution in Cuba in 1959 splintered our family. My father began sending us safely to the US --via commercial flights--- where we were granted political asylum. Unfortunately, he got stuck behind when Castro abruptly stopped the mass exodus. It took a decade, after living in Mexico and Puerto Rico for some time, before my father was reunited with us in Miami.
My older siblings had strong memories of growing up with our father. I had almost no recollection of him having been separated at such a young age. For me it was an awkward reunion.
Like many young boys, I was intensely curious of firearms, having been influenced by countless episodes of gun-toting cowboys watching The Lone Ranger, The Rifleman, Bonanza, and other great Westerns popular in the 1960s. My dad picked up on my interest and helped me acquire my first rifle, a .22 caliber Browning T-Bolt.
Dad had been a very experienced hunter in Cuba. He was especially fond of hunting pheasants, quail, doves, and ducks. A Browning “Sweet Sixteen” shotgun was his favorite. He also hunted the occasional deer or wild boar.
My father first taught me to shoot my .22 safely. Then he took me afield to hunt small game, mainly the rabbits that were found in large numbers in the fields adjoining the Everglades. He was an excellent shot and could skin our rabbits with a speed and dexterity that left me mesmerized. It helped that he was a very experienced veterinarian…and knew exactly what he was doing.
When hunting season begins, I think back fondly on how hunting helped me bond with the father that was absent, through no fault of his own, throughout most of my childhood. The hunting was, in many ways, a secondary pursuit. Establishing the connection between father and son was the real prize, and one which I remember fondly to this day.
Raul Mas
Editor, The Outdoor Wire Español Edición