I had been anticipating it all summer. I put hundreds of arrows through my new bow – an Elite Hunter – changed arrows to get better flight, tuned and toiled for the better part of three months and it was finally here: Opening Day 2011.

I was in Kentucky since the season opened there two weeks before ours in S.C., plus it gave me a chance to possibly stick a buck in velvet. The weather, however, wasn’t playing nice. We arrived Friday afternoon and hung stands in 98-degree heat. The main roads around the land hadn’t been bush hogged all the way yet, so there were places where we had to wade through chest-high grass. But, it was of no consequence: I was going hunting.

Opening morning didn’t prove fruitful, so we ducked out early hoping the afternoon would be better. The weatherman said it was going to be 95 for a high that Saturday, but the thermometer read 101 as we left the house for an afternoon hunt. I planned on sitting a stand I hung the day before on a prime trail being used by some big bucks, according to the trail cam pictures. So after a long summer hiatus, I was finally strapped in a lock-on 22 feet up. It was nice – kind of – to finally be in stand. But after soaking my shirt, safety harness, pants, gloves and mask with sweat, I was starting to rethink things.

Right when I was starting to question my sanity, I noticed a yellow jacket buzzing about. No big deal, I thought, I see them all the time. Trying to sit as still as possible so I wouldn’t sweat even more, I closed my eyes hoping that breathing wouldn’t cause me to get any hotter than I already was. Then I heard it: the low hum of the yellow jacket. It flew around my face for a minute and finally landed on my side….and stung me. Of all things! What had I done? Nothing. Why did it sting me? Who knows, but it hurt. It wasn’t long before I started hearing more buzzing and I looked down the tree to see my climbing sticks covered in yellow jackets (OK, so “covered” is an exaggeration, but there were quite a few). I then decided I had had enough. Stung, sweaty and wet, I quickly climbed down the tree – trying not to get stung again – and was out.

We hunted the next day and had better weather, but not a better outcome so I headed home knowing I’d be back in cooler weather.

The next few days were painful to say the least. It seems that after walking through all that grass I had disturbed and picked up just about every chigger in a tri-county area and brought them home with me to S.C. All told, I was putting Caladryl lotion on more than 50 bites every morning and evening for more than a week. Needless to say, opening weekend had me seeing red for a while after season, but I can just about bet I’ll be back next year on the same weekend with bells on…and a new bottle of Caladryl.

The season hasn’t even started yet and I’ve already reached my yearly quota of mishaps. Below is just the first of many more I’m sure.

I finally got a new bow – an Elite Hunter to be exact – and as I started sighting in I realized I was having trouble with consistency. I tried everything short of adding a kisser button, but could not, no matter what I did, hit the same spot twice. Starting with the most basic solution first, I decided to run it through paper to make sure it was tuned.

I took the bow to my local shop – a place called Hootie’s – where Lenny knows me well. I asked him to check it, and he did. Then he asked me to shoot it, which I did. When we both got bullet holes with a heavier arrow, Lenny gave me a Beaman 340 to try on my own at home. He thought my arrows might be under-spined and a heavier arrow would give me the consistency I so desired. Reluctantly I took the loaner arrow home confident I could bring it back the next day. (In a perfect world, that might have worked.)

My first shot with the new arrow was awesome. I got great flight, the arrow rotated superbly and it flew perfectly straight….into the top of the white oak behind my target. You see, as I was almost at full draw, my release slipped off my loop, I hit myself in the face and the arrow flew through the top the 40-foot oak behind my house.

So with a bruised ego and sore cheek, I headed back to Hootie’s and I’m now the proud owner of seven new Beaman 340s. I’m happy to say I know exactly where six of them are. The seventh? Last time I saw it, it was shaving white oaks.

Standing on tiptoes, I peeked over the round hay bale and there they were….all 15 strutting with the morning sun illuminating their white tail feathers, shining like beacons against the green of the field. We made a move, but were spotted by the hens and the setup was a bust. Without getting discouraged, however, we maneuvered in front of them and not 20 minutes later a tom was down, the trigger pulled by my hunting partner.

And so it went for four days in the Nebraska Sandhills. I dropped two birds in those four days in some of the most gorgeous country I’ve had the pleasure of hunting. We were hunting with Hidden Valley Outfitters outside Arnold, Neb., and were camping in one of the many beautiful canyons. We ate like kings thanks to the folks at Camp Chef, and stayed cozy during the cold nights in our Browning sleeping bags provided by ALPS Outdoorz. Cabela’s provided the tents and hunting gear, and the U.S. Sportsman’s Alliance provided valuable information about the state of the hunting in the U.S. To say the trip was fun would be an understatement.

If you ever get a hankering to hunt Nebraska for any species of game, you should definitely check out Hidden Valley; the wildlife on their property is amazing.

Below are a few photos from my trip. They always say pictures speak louder than words, so I’ll shut up and let you enjoy the views.

This past weekend found me in Kentucky hunting the beautiful Land Between the Lakes public ground. (If you’ve never been, you should check it out. Filled with all sorts of wildlife, it’s an amazing place to spend time outdoors.) My dad and I had been drawn for the annual turkey quota hunt, allowing us to chase longbeards in any of the area’s more than 100,000 huntable acres.

We spent Saturday walking logging roads, traipsing through hollers and calling from ridgetops, hoping for the faint sound of a lonely gobbler, but the wind, rain and cold weather had the birds closed-beaked and we heard nary a gobble.

Sunday’s weather was considerably more enjoyable and we heard one bird on the roost and chased him for a bit before he shut down. Without hens, the gobbler was more than ready to answer a yelp, but would not move from his chosen strut zone. We called it quits around noon so I could make the 8-hour drive home without a tagged bird between us.

After I was on the road for about 2 hours my cell rang. The caller ID told me it was my dad before I ever picked up the phone, and when I answered, I heard an out-of-breath Dad on the other end, his voice giddy with excitement. It seems he went to some private ground and had a couple longbeards come in and put on one heck of a show. When it was all said and done, the group dispersed with one less member…which was promptly dressed for the freezer.

And while Dad got dinner and a show for the low cost of a resident hunting license, I ended up eating tag soup. But all was not lost; I was able to spend quality time with one of my heroes and someone whose presence always makes hunting that much more fun…with or without a tagged bird.

Blog posts are supposed to be short and sweet. This isn’t that kind of post. This is a story about one of the greatest hunts I’ve ever been on. It’s definitely not short, but I think it’s worth the read. Or at least a skim. I’ve been lucky enough to hunt in some great places with some great people, but none – not a single one – compares with the two days I spent at Deerfield Plantation in St. George, S.C., with my 5-year-old son.

At 5 years old, my oldest son, Drew, is obviously involved in a lot of things, but hunting seems to be one of his favorites. I even set up a treestand a foot or two off the ground on a tree in the backyard so he can “play” hunting. He watches the Primos hunting DVDs religiously and knows everyone’s first and last names, what they shot and where they were hunting when they shot it. So when a slot opened up at Deerfield, I immediately thought of taking Drew with me for his first hunting trip.

The plan was simple: Arrive on Saturday afternoon in time to do some pig hunting, get up Sunday morning to chase longbeards and be home by lunch. Honestly, I didn’t plan on killing anything. When you hunt with young kids, there’s always a chance they’ll move at the wrong time, get bored and want to leave during primetime or say something too loud at precisely the wrong moment. All in all, simply be a kid and do what kids do. It’s not pessimism, mind you, just the reality of hunting with kids. With that thought in the back of my mind, I decided success would be measured by just seeing some pigs and hearing a bird gobble.

The first night found Drew and I sharing a shooting house in a Lowcountry swamp. It was hot, muggy and all-around uncomfortable. But the wind picked up, the trees provided some shade and for 3 hours we sat, talking, laughing and enjoying some true bonding time. And just when Drew started to get antsy and wanting to get out of the blind, a herd of pigs emerged from the swamp. There had to be at least 30 of them, if not more. I quickly put Drew’s earmuffs on, shoved some earplugs in my own ears and readied my .50 caliber for the shot. I glanced at Drew who was fixated on the pigs, tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up. The big-eyed, wide-grinned look with a double thumbs-up returned to me was something I’ll never forget. When I pulled the trigger smoke enveloped the shooting house, but after it dissipated we saw a grand sight: a dead sow – my first pig – lay right where she had been standing seconds earlier. Drew jerked his earmuffs off and stuck his hand up in a congratulatory high-five position with a wide grin and sparkling eyes. I slapped his hand, and under the guise of getting our stuff together, tried to buy some time to calm my nerves. I honestly think I was more excited than he was. Our first hunting trip had just gone from great to spectacular with the simple pull of a trigger.

Back at the lodge it was all “guy time.” From guides Kevin and Whoop cleaning the hog, to guests Bob and his high-school-aged son Robbie standing around talking, Drew was beside himself with excitement. He talked nonstop to whoever would listen about whatever came to mind. He was in his element and loving every minute of it.

After dinner and a quick shower, it was time for bed and a good night’s sleep. Lowcountry longbeards awaited and I couldn’t wait to see what the morning would bring.

Sunday morning was foggy and heavy; birds were slow to wake and we didn’t hear a gobble from the roost. We walked a good ways down a sandy two-track, called every now and then and set up when Drew decided we should. We played with ant piles, analyzed all the tracks in the sand and I answered unending questions – it was great. When it was time to head back to the pick-up spot, we continued more of the same. But at 8:30 when a bird gobbled at my halfhearted yelp, I panicked. With fumbling fingers I pulled Drew’s mask over his head, tossed his gloves to him and reminded him to sit still and be patient. I’m not sure if I was giving instructions or trying to calm myself. I called again, and again the bird gobbled, but from a different spot, more to our left. I made the executive decision to quickly move across the road to setup for a better shot. When we had no more than sat down, literally, I heard the fateful sound of a bird drumming. My shotgun lay at my side and I couldn’t see the gobbler. I slowly picked up my gun, waiting for a glimpse and I finally saw the tom. So did Drew. He asked me to shoot, but the shooting lane was covered. I could try a shot and possibly ruin the rest of the morning’s hunt or let the bird walk. Much to Drew’s disappointment, I went with the latter. He was upset. Upset he didn’t see a dead bird, upset with me because had we stayed where we were originally I would have had an easy 30-yard shot and upset in general because the morning wasn’t working out the way he planned. It was one of those moments you hate as a parent. You have a disappointed child and there’s nothing you can do to change what happened. But it was also a great teaching moment. I explained that you don’t always kill what you’re after and the fact that we heard a bird gobble and saw one was a success. He wasn’t quite convinced.

After that original longbeard ran off, putting, into the woods, I just knew the morning was over. I blew it. My son would not get to see a dead turkey that day, but in my mind the hunt was still a success. As we continued back to where we started, I managed to raise yet another gobble. Again we hastily set up, and we saw a hen emerge from the woods and I thought this would be it, until he quit gobbling at my calls. Another chance, another disappointment, but I had snacks. A Quaker chewy peanut butter and chocolate chip granola bar to be exact. I offered it to Drew as a sort of peace offering and he accepted. He hadn’t taken more than three bites, however, before we struck yet another bird. We set up again and Drew shoved as much of that granola bar in his mouth as he could at once. Guess he liked it. This time we saw the bird cross the road at 150 yards strutting. He continued to gobble at my calls, no matter how bad they sounded. I could make that bird gobble on cue. I’d ask Drew “You want to hear him gobble?” And he would always respond with a smile “Oh yeah!”

After about 15 minutes of working his way to us, I could hear the bird drumming. He couldn’t have been more than 30 yards away, but I couldn’t see him. He’d gobble so close that it would raise the hair on the back of your neck…Drew was loving it. Without moving too fast, I turned my head, cupped my hand and called softly, making it sound like the hen was moving away. That did the trick and the bird stepped out from his brushy hiding spot into the open road, strutting. I asked Drew if he wanted to see him gobble and his response was simple: “No Daddy, just shoot him.” That’s my boy. With a squeeze of the trigger, the bird dropped at 35 yards. Drew was running to him before I could even get up. The look on his face was priceless. The bird weighed in at 18 pounds with a 10.25-inch beard and 0.75-inch spurs. A respectable Lowcountry 2-year-old, but the specs didn’t matter. The look on my son’s face, the way he inspected every inch of that tom and the excitement in his voice and eyes was all that mattered.

Everyone has lots of “firsts” in their lives, but only a select few will live on forever in memory. This trip was one of those for me. I’m not sure if any hunt from here out will ever compare with this one, but at 2 years old my youngest son, Owen, is starting to grab my turkey calls off the workbench any chance he gets. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to repeat this “first” in a few years.

There’s nothing like a weekend full of hunting, fishing and good friends to make you realize how lucky you are to enjoy the outdoors.

My wife had family in this weekend and agreed to let me hunt, fish and travel for three days to get in some quality “me time.” It didn’t take long to make plans and Friday, April 1, found me at the usual place, listening for turkeys with the usual suspects. We heard a few gobbles early and Ryan Kirby managed to call up a hen and a few jakes not long after fly-down. It also didn’t take long for good friend John Kelly to pull the trigger on a struttin’ jake, which promptly went to the freezer after a few photos.

With a bird on the ground, it was time to put the rubber to the road, so I headed up to visit some other good friends, Shae Jones and Joel Farthing. I crashed with Shae over the weekend and we hit the streams around Boone, N.C., on opening morning of trout season. The weather was anything but cooperative – much like the fish – but Shae managed to pull a nice smallie out of the Watauga later Saturday afternoon.

Sunday broke with blue-bird weather and before you knew it Shae, another buddy, Adam Greer and myself were standing next to the Holston waiting for TVA to stop generating so we could do a little more fishing.

I have only been really fly fishing for a year and Shae has never had the urge – although I do believe he’s changed his tune now – but Adam was a phenom. Going to college not far from the stream at ETSU, it’s rumored Adam spent more time on the water than he did in class. And by the way he fished I tend to agree. We fished for a couple hours and managed to put 10 or 12 nice browns to hand and missed about that many more. But, I gotta be honest here and tell you that I did a lot more watching than fishing. The way Adam fished was an art form. And, if it hadn’t been for him I probably wouldn’t have caught a single fish. But with his guidance and a few of his flies specific to the water we were fishing, I put a few to hand myself.

On the drive home Sunday afternoon I realized how lucky I was to have spent three days with some of the nicest people I know and to view some of the most beautiful scenery East Tennessee and Western North Carolina has to offer. My hat’s off to Shae for letting me crash and for showing me a great time. No doubt the next free weekend I have will be spent in the mountains chasing trout….after turkey season of course!

Boy do I have some. I recently received two Stealth Cams and thinking I would get a feel for them before hanging them on the property I hunt, I decided to set them up in the backyard. I placed a corn feeder in the woods behind my house – yes, it is legal in my county – and hung the camera in what I thought was a great spot.

When I went to check the SD card a week later, I had a grand total of 717 photos of…wait for it…absolutely nothing. I take that back, I had one picture of our cat, Leo, but that’s it. More than 700 pictures and I got nada.

Thinking it was merely a fluke, I deleted all the photos and left the camera in place. The next week, I had just as many photos and the same result, minus the cat. Go figure.

Anyway, when C.J. asked me to hang a camera on one of his food plots I was hunting, I thought I had a better grasp of how and where to hang it. As you can tell by the attached photo, I was sorely mistaken.

So it’s back to the practice cam in my back yard. One day I’ll get a photo of an entire deer on a trail cam. And when that day comes, rest assured you’ll know about it.

Needing meat in the freezer and not having the opportunity to stick a deer with my bow, I recently switched to a muzzleloader. I figure even though it’s not stick-and-string, it’s still not quite a “rifle.” Granted, it has powder, a primer and my Barnes Spitfire TMZs penetrate 13 inches with 150 grains of powder, but still…

So, I carried my Traditions Vortek to the woods to hunt a “sure thing” with good friend C.J. Davis. We made a detailed entrance and exit plan based on wind and recent sightings and headed out. Upon reaching my drop-off point – the side of a highway that will remain nameless – I was getting ready to hit the food plot as cars and logging semis screamed past, rocking the truck every time.

I had my binos strapped on, my rangefinder ready and gloves in my pocket. It wasn’t until I reached for my muzzleloader that I realized I had left possibly the most important piece of equipment at home…my primers. Yep, I had my gun. I had my bullets. I even had my powder. But primers? The one thing that makes the gun go “boom”? Nope. Not even close.

I asked CJ for a flare. I asked him for a lighter. Hell, I even asked him for a match. The best he could come up with was a “sorry.”

After letting me sweat for what seemed like an eternity, however, he came through when he reached deep in his backseat and pulled out a .357; a Tarus seven-shot Tracker to be exact. Yes, he removed five of the seven bullets “for my own safety,” but it still allowed me the opportunity to hunt. Of course I ended up switching spots from the original plan – again “for my own safety” – and of course I didn’t see a deer, but it’s the thought that counts. And I gotta say, after hunting with that Tracker, I may have a newfound way to hunt. Look out Larry W.!

Yep, I did it. Of course I did. Why would my luck be any different? Here’s the story:

I went hunting Friday after work. I was in a hurry to get into the stand and parked to hunt a new area. The wind, supposedly, was good for the new spot. So, I parked and as I was walking to the trunk to get my clothes to change, I noticed an area where the ground had been disturbed. Not thinking anything more of it, I walked through it. As I was changing clothes, the spot caught my eye again, so I looked harder. It was in the middle of a trail. Under a licking branch. And I parked almost on top of it.

Then, as is the case with South Carolina weather, the wind shifted. But, it shifted in my favor, so I packed up and drove down the road and parked to hunt the original spot I wanted to hunt in the first place. I repeated my ritual of getting my gear out of the trunk when….care to guess? Yep, the wind shifted yet again.

So I drove back to the original parking spot, only this time, instead of parking near the scrape, I inadvertently parked on top of it. Front driver’s side tire, to be exact.

It goes without saying that I didn’t see anything. Of course, the wind shifting from west to north to east and back didn’t help things. Nor did the fact that when the wind gusted from the north, I was berated by branches from a small pine and oak. The trees made for great cover, but they didn’t exactly provide a subtle nap wakeup call. Go figure.

The loyal readers of this blog – all two of them – know I have two sons. One of whom, Drew, just turned 5 at the end of September. As excited as he was about “growing taller” on his birthday, I think I was anticipating the benchmark more. You see, I told Drew a long time ago that when he reached that age I would take him hunting.

He got a new bow for his 4th birthday – a Diamond Nuclear Ice – and has enjoyed plenty of time with Dad in the backyard slinging arrows. Although he likes to imitate me in a lot of ways, I have tried to explain to him that shooting into the woods isn’t necessarily a good thing, but somehow we always seem to end up behind the targets, kicking over pine straw looking for arrows and he loves it.

Regardless, Saturday afternoon rolled around and I got the Double Bull out, loaded a pack with water, snacks, Drew’s Leapster and a few games to help pass the time. The hunt itself was pretty uneventful. Drew played in the blind, talked constantly and wouldn’t sit still for a minute. Seems he takes after Dad quite a bit.

We did hear two turkeys, saw a ton of songbirds and enjoyed a couple hours of father-son time in the great outdoors. And although I didn’t get a shot at a deer, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon. If not seeing deer is the price I have to pay to introduce my son to hunting, then so be it. I’d probably miss the shot anyway!