Winner: Week 2 from CAGirl wrote 2 weeks 14 hours ago This is a story of a woman’s perspective and love for her hunter: I never became very involved in hunting until I met my husband who is an upland bird and duck hunter. I do not hunt…but this is my first experience hunting with him It was a typical summer day on my parent’s property in Sacramento. You could hear the guns in the distance getting the taste of opening dove season, see the gold fields which matched the sun, and feel the sweat trickle down your back. It was beautiful, and with it being opening day there were doves everywhere. It was a hunter’s oasis. But, my husband (boyfriend at the time) was growing more depressed from each dove that flew by. He had just had ACL knee surgery and was not able to move. All he could do was sit and watch them taunt him. I foolishly asked, “Why aren’t you hunting.” His eyes narrowed…and he responded coolly, “How? I don’t have a dog and there is no way I can get them.” I thought for a quick second, “I will get them.” As soon as I spoke I was retreating what I said, but his mood instantly transitioned to excitement, “Really you will.” Damn, I thought, but I grabbed his chair, got his gun, and said, “Yes, I will. But, you better kill them!” We slowly made it to the middle of the field and sat. It wasn’t long until, BANG! The bird hit and I was off running into the field. I probably looked look a fool. Cut off shorts and a tank top with some old tennis shoes. I got to the lifeless bird and carefully picked it up as if it would suddenly attach me. I grabbed the bird with two fingers and held it as far out from my body as possible, very carefully walking back to him. I still can remember his laugh and his smile when he said, "Now that is love." Yes. I did what you are all thinking. I was his retriever. But, he got his limit, he was happy, and who knows maybe that is one of the reasons he asked me to marry him. As for me, I still go hunting with him, but now we have a dog that retrieves and I take pictures. : )

Winner: Week 4 from danielwms wrote 4 days 12 hours ago Turkey Story Damned if he didn’t give me a hug. My world was white and deaf, but Don Cota was hopping up and down in the doghouse yelling, “You got him!” We scrambled out and tramped through meadow grass to the turkey, with Cota pacing off the distance: 45 yards. Before 7 a.m. on my first day as a hunter, my very first shot had found its mark. Before nightfall, I would eat the first thing I had ever harvested with a gun. Wind the clock back three weeks. Two dozen people fill an indoor target range converted to a classroom at Rick’s Gun Shop in East Burke in northeastern Vermont. Most are children. One is celebrating his ninth birthday. At 52, I’m the second-oldest student in the hunter safety class. We are listening to Don Cota go over the rules of handling a firearm. Always maintain muzzle control. Assume every gun is loaded. Know your target and what lies beyond. If someone carries a gun with a finger on the trigger, the hunter education manual instructs us to say, “That’s how guns go off by accident.” If the warning doesn’t work, we are to get a new partner. Cota is more direct: “If I see you with your finger on the trigger, I’ll break your finger off, okay?” Cota shows us an instructional movie from the 1960s. (“I’ve never liked this video but I have to show it.”) Two teens are cavorting outside with a rifle – firing wildly, jumping with the weapon, being jerks. Sure enough, one boy shoots the other. The movie solemnly informs you he was just 15. Cota says there are no accidents in hunting. If you act unsafely, “you’re setting yourself up to fail.” He shows a video about wild turkeys, which were reintroduced to Vermont successfully in the late 1960s. He tells us the spring hunting season, just around the corner in May, is timed for when the hens are on the nest. “I strongly recommend you don’t go turkey hunting – you get addicted to it,” Cota says. During question-and-answer time, I ask if there are any turkeys on state lands. Cota gives me a look. He’s just finished explaining that turkeys prefer farmland. “Groton State Forest has birds,” he says doubtfully. “Do you know anybody who turkey-hunts?” I say I don’t. “You’re just going to go do it?” I say sure. “Good luck,” he says, shaking his head. The class troops outside for a field-dressing demonstration, and Cota takes me aside. “You’ve never hunted before?” he asks. I tell him I moved here from Atlanta. That seems to explain everything. He gives me his card and tells me to call if I’d like to go turkey hunting. “Don’t buy a gun. You can use mine.” Three weeks later. Cota and I sat in a doghouse on property belonging to a friend of his, waiting for daylight to arrive. The law says you can start hunting 30 minutes before sunrise. “A rule of thumb I always use is, when I can look down and identify what kind of leaf is at my feet,” Cota said. “When I can see it clearly enough it’s light enough to be calling.” The weather was chilly and I had dressed for warmer temperatures. Cota loaned me a camouflage jacket. We sat silently in the doghouse, listening to outdoor sounds. Cota tried a few of his calls. He slipped a diaphragm call into his mouth and let out a reedy yelp. He rubbed a striker against a slate pot and produced a raspy shudder. “Usually I get them going with the mouth call,” Cota said. “You’re trying to be a hen calling to the gobbler. When he gets to the edge of the field, I change and start hitting him with my other call. So now he thinks there are two of them there, and that doubles the excitement. Now he says, ‘Holy mackerel, this is good.’” Nothing worked. “We can waste our time somewhere else,” Cota said. Trooping down to his truck, I asked about the wildlife we’d heard. The drumming noise? “Woodpecker.” That eerie, low moan? “Cow.” Cota drove to a relative’s farm. We were scaling a hillside orchard when he braked and whispered, “Look.” Up ahead, a colorful gobbler stalked bugs on a meadow that fringed a wood. We parked 100 or so yards downhill and set off on foot to flank the turkey on the right. As luck would have it, Cota had prepositioned a doghouse directly in the turkey’s path. This time, his turkey call was answered by the real thing. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Cota’s second call produced a second gobble-gobble – closer this time. Cota carefully handed me his Winchester Super X2. The turkey came into view through a port in the doghouse. I pointed the barrel through the next window on the right and waited for the bird, silently repeating the advice Cota had given me about using the shotgun’s turkey scope: “Put his head in the diamond and squeeze the trigger.” Blam. On our way to the game-reporting station, Cota marvels at my luck. Every year, he guides for a Texan bent on shooting a turkey in each of the 50 states. “This is the third time that he came out and the third time we didn’t do it.” Cota himself will hunt all but three days of the month-long turkey season and only bag a juvenile male, or jake. The bird weighs in at 16 ½ pounds. Its spur measures 1 ¾ inches. The beard that sprouts from its chest is 9 inches long. That night, I baked the thighs and legs with a little olive oil, salt, pepper and thyme. The skinless meat was dry and tough. Perhaps I cooked it too long. I had better luck with the breast meat. Wild turkey burritos taste just fine.

Congratulations to "Del in KS," who wins a Leatherman Super Tool 300 for his story about mentoring a young hunter! Next week's winner will be announced on Monday, October 26.

Start writing your entries for Week 4! (Any stories entered into last week's thread after Midnight on Oct. 19 still qualify). Please post all new entries here. Note that this is the final week of the competition, so make sure to post your stories by midnight on October 26th.