Posted on March 3, 2017
By Bill Cooksey

The path started at a duck camp. What was called a “duck camp” was really just a run down farm house near the field my father and his friends leased outside Halls, TN. They wanted a place to get out of the weather and occasionally sleep over when hunting several days in a row. It wasn't much, but in my three-year-old mind it was heaven. Twin Rivers also put me squarely on the path to many of the greatest experiences of my life.

My first memory of camp was on a warm October day. The men had secured a lease on the house, and were fixing it up for the season. Considering the politics of today, it seems strange my father used a .22 rifle to keep me entertained and out of the way. It was a little Browning lever action. Dad set up a bunch of cans, sat me down behind a log and showed me how to work the gun. Then, he walked off to help the other men. I don't recall if I ever hit a can, but I vividly recall the happy “POP” of that rifle and waiting for dad to come reload the tube with bullets. 

Then came fishing. My first rod-in-hand experience was at Bucksnort, a pay-to-fish trout hatchery. I caught trout until dad's checkbook cried “uncle.” Next were farm ponds and bluegill, but that wasn't enough. Dad was a serious bass fisherman back then, and it was far beyond my abilities. But, I wanted to go, so he removed the hooks from an old Christmas Tree Bomber, tied it to my Zebco outfit--I was a bass fisherman.

For the next three years, when he didn't absolutely put his foot down, if he was hunting or fishing I was right there by his side. Most of the time I was just a little kid tagging along watching the men do something that seemed magical. I treasured every second, and always asked, “When can I shoot a shotgun too?” His reply of, “as soon as you are as tall as my shoulder” never varied. By that time we lived in Lake Charles. I well recall the timber in Toledo Bend and the rice fields near Lacassine. 

For the next three years, when he didn't absolutely put his foot down, if he was hunting or fishing I was right there by his side. Most of the time I was just a little kid tagging along watching the men do something that seemed magical. I treasured every second, and always asked, “When can I shoot a shotgun too?” His reply of, “as soon as you are as tall as my shoulder” never varied. By that time we lived in Lake Charles. I well recall the timber in Toledo Bend and the rice fields near Lacassine.

Then, as so many others have experienced, dad moved away and mom and I returned to Tennessee. He came to visit several times that summer and early fall, but we missed duck season. When he visited in February I was seven years old and hit him hard with a request to shoot a shotgun. He tried the “shoulder” thing, but I wouldn't relent, and I'm sure a nagging guilt tipped the scales in my favor.

We ran by Travis Johnson Sporting Goods to borrow a shotgun and buy shells, clay targets and a hand trap. Then it was off to Harbert Alexander's farm east of town. He started me off with an old bucket, then cans, and we moved quickly to the clays.

I don't know how many rounds I shot, and I don't know how many I missed, but I know I hit a few before doubling down on my request. “I want to shoot something real,” I said, and, again, he relented. We set off walking along a field edge hoping to see some blackbirds or, better, a rabbit or squirrel. But, what we saw was far more special.

The covey flushed from the field and into the woods before I knew what they were. In reality, they'd surprised us both, and we knew I'd missed an opportunity. But, God smiles on small children. A lazy bobwhite rose from the stubble to follow his friends, and, somehow, he fell at the report of my gun. He was beautiful, and the old mount sits to the right of my desk as I write this column.

Dad stayed in California, and I stayed in Tennessee, but we had summer vacation, holidays and occasional visits. We shot clay birds in the summer and whatever we could in the winter. There were doves and ducks in California and ducks and geese in Tennessee. His business took him all over the country, and often it involved shooting. And, as often as possible, it also involved me. Canadas in Maryland, specks in Louisiana and trout fishing all over the west. There were also quite a few hunts back home when dad's old Jackson friends would call on a Friday night and invite me along the next day.

Then, I was grown. Dad was busy and sort of slid away from the outdoors. I was young, free and had my own money. I hunted or fished every second life allowed. It was an exciting time with new and old friends, new and old places and a whole lot of fun. Life was a whirlwind, and I hope everyone feels that way about their twenties.

Yes, my life was full, but at the same time an emptiness crept in. Then I met Nina. On the day of our wedding, I found myself not only a husband but father to a 12-year-old boy, Sam. Sam's father and grandfather started him on his path, but they weren't as driven as him by a need to be afield. In me, Sam found a kindred spirit.

Lord how he loved to hunt and fish. We did it all, we did it well and we did it A LOT. If I was going, Sam was game. Ducks and geese in Arkansas, deer, turkey and dove in Tennessee, and when no hunting season was open, we caught fish. Life was full again, and we were traveling the path.

Dad hadn't hunted in ten years when I told him he had to come to duck camp with us. That's right, it wasn't an invitation. After that weekend, dad was back. He joined the club, and the three of us spent the next few years hunting together. That camp was full of the finest group of friends a man could have. It was a golden period in my life, and in the midst of it all Bill was born.

Like all good times, I thought it would never end, but one day Sam was gone. It took time, but, gradually, life resumed a normal pace, and dad and I carried on. Soon Bill assumed the position of the little kid hanging out with the men. Hunting without Sam wasn't quite the same, but the visions of Bill sharing the blind with his grandfather eased the feeling of loss.

Before he could shoot, Bill joined me in goose pits in Illinois, duck stands in Louisiana and blinds, turkey woods and dove fields in just about every state in between. Dad wasn't there the first opening day Bill held a shotgun. In fact, he missed the season caring for his sick wife, but there would be another season next year. Bill killed his first duck at Reelfoot and first limit at Beaver Dam. He then backed it up with his second limit in Arkansas a week later. He was walking the path, and Dad was with us by phone every step of the way. It was a season filled with wonderful memories, and I thought we'd spend the next with Dad making even more.

I was right on one count; we made memories, but we did it without Dad. Cancer robbed us of his company, but I felt his presence all year. He was there for every shot and every fall in the muck as Bill learned to wade in timber. Bill shot his first turkey that spring within a hundred yards of the spot Sam killed his 12 years prior. On the drive home, I could see Sam and Dad smiling, and I cried. Bill slept.

Since then we've walked the path together from Bayou Meto to Kentucky Lake and Reelfoot to Beaver Dam. The memories we've gained far outshine the dark loss we've felt. I feel sorry for those who don't walk the path of the sportsman. All experience great loss in life, but the bond and memories made in the field are so much deeper than a trip to the beach or opening presents around a tree.

There are many twists, turns, mountains and valleys in the path of an outdoorsman, but no other is so fine; no other so deep; no other so full. My advice is, just keep walking.