Camo and Blaze Orange
Maybe my childhood obsession with the movie Bambi deters my interest from hunting. Last October, I was assured by my father that getting my hunting license wouldn’t mean I’d have to harm an innocent deer, but it would be an opportunity to spend time with him and learn how to properly shoot a gun.
When my dad asked me if I’d like to go with him and my brother, I said, “Sure, why not? It could be fun.” I guess I thought I’d gain a different perspective on the sport of hunting. In a way I felt like I’d learn more about the interests my father had during his childhood. He was born and raised in Virginia so hunting was something he, his brother, and father would do to spend time together. It was now something he wanted to share with me and my brother. The difference between my brother and me is that he is actually interested in shooting my precious Bambi and her parents.
A hunting license is required by the state of North Carolina and the Division of Wildlife Enforcement to obtain a hunting license, if you wish to legally shoot or purchase certain guns. That entails a minimum of ten hours, usually split into two days, of educational lectures, practice skeet shooting, and passing a test.
The classes aren’t offered frequently so we had to apply. After our confirmation, we attended classes on two different days in Durham. I thought I was going to walk into a room of about twenty people, all of whom looked like they were dressed and ready to go out into the woods. I assumed they would not only look like rednecks but would also sound like them. Something along the lines of, “Hey ya’ll. How you doin’? Raydie to go huntin’?” as they were spitting dip into empty Mt. Dew bottles.
To my surprise, I didn’t feel displaced. Instead of seeing this and an array of camouflage, I walked into a large room, nearly 50 people. Most of them were sitting in pairs, father and son or daughter, and some were by themselves, including a lot of Northerners and business men.
The lectures are quite boring for anyone who has common sense, but for someone who is foreign to the laws and regulations for hunting and the basic safety precautions that must be taken, I can understand why they’re taught like we were in elementary school. We learned the basics, like wearing blaze orange is required and must be seen 360°, deer see all white, and camouflage can be worn during bow season because the distance from shooting to the target is less compared to riffle shooting. Afterwards we had to practice hands on.
We learned safety precautions and how to shoot a rifle, and then we had to practice with either a 12 gauge or 22 gauge shotgun. I looked to my dad for guidance. He said the 12 gauge is more powerful and that I might want to start with the lesser. Just as a child disobeys his parents, I went against my dad’s recommendation. “Give me the 12 gauge.” If I was out there to learn and get my license, I wasn’t going to hold back.
We moved down a line of different targets and practiced skeet shooting. We aimed for the clay disks as the machine propelled them into the air. I fired my shots. I felt empowered. Call it luck or call it skill, but I busted the second disk on my third shot. The instructors who were teaching us critiqued all the participants to insure they were holding the guns properly, no unsteady hands.
The final phase of our time was of course the test. Passing the test got us a piece of paper that confirmed we were eligible to get a hunting license. I would think they would issue the official license themselves but no, we had to go to either Dick’s Sporting Goods or Wal-Mart with our paper of gold to get it.
Not only did I learn about hunting, I gained the upper hand to a lot of men. When I’m married, have children, and my daughter begins to date, I could be the one sitting outside on the porch and cleaning out my shotgun when she brings home the boyfriend. That sounds far more intimidating than the husband doing so. I plan to keep my secret, that I have a hunting license and I know how to shoot a gun. Except, now it’s not a secret to everyone I know. One thing is certain, I still think of Bambi when I think about hunting. I hope she trails on and lives a long life.
When my dad asked me if I’d like to go with him and my brother, I said, “Sure, why not? It could be fun.” I guess I thought I’d gain a different perspective on the sport of hunting. In a way I felt like I’d learn more about the interests my father had during his childhood. He was born and raised in Virginia so hunting was something he, his brother, and father would do to spend time together. It was now something he wanted to share with me and my brother. The difference between my brother and me is that he is actually interested in shooting my precious Bambi and her parents.
A hunting license is required by the state of North Carolina and the Division of Wildlife Enforcement to obtain a hunting license, if you wish to legally shoot or purchase certain guns. That entails a minimum of ten hours, usually split into two days, of educational lectures, practice skeet shooting, and passing a test.
The classes aren’t offered frequently so we had to apply. After our confirmation, we attended classes on two different days in Durham. I thought I was going to walk into a room of about twenty people, all of whom looked like they were dressed and ready to go out into the woods. I assumed they would not only look like rednecks but would also sound like them. Something along the lines of, “Hey ya’ll. How you doin’? Raydie to go huntin’?” as they were spitting dip into empty Mt. Dew bottles.
To my surprise, I didn’t feel displaced. Instead of seeing this and an array of camouflage, I walked into a large room, nearly 50 people. Most of them were sitting in pairs, father and son or daughter, and some were by themselves, including a lot of Northerners and business men.
The lectures are quite boring for anyone who has common sense, but for someone who is foreign to the laws and regulations for hunting and the basic safety precautions that must be taken, I can understand why they’re taught like we were in elementary school. We learned the basics, like wearing blaze orange is required and must be seen 360°, deer see all white, and camouflage can be worn during bow season because the distance from shooting to the target is less compared to riffle shooting. Afterwards we had to practice hands on.
We learned safety precautions and how to shoot a rifle, and then we had to practice with either a 12 gauge or 22 gauge shotgun. I looked to my dad for guidance. He said the 12 gauge is more powerful and that I might want to start with the lesser. Just as a child disobeys his parents, I went against my dad’s recommendation. “Give me the 12 gauge.” If I was out there to learn and get my license, I wasn’t going to hold back.
We moved down a line of different targets and practiced skeet shooting. We aimed for the clay disks as the machine propelled them into the air. I fired my shots. I felt empowered. Call it luck or call it skill, but I busted the second disk on my third shot. The instructors who were teaching us critiqued all the participants to insure they were holding the guns properly, no unsteady hands.
The final phase of our time was of course the test. Passing the test got us a piece of paper that confirmed we were eligible to get a hunting license. I would think they would issue the official license themselves but no, we had to go to either Dick’s Sporting Goods or Wal-Mart with our paper of gold to get it.
Not only did I learn about hunting, I gained the upper hand to a lot of men. When I’m married, have children, and my daughter begins to date, I could be the one sitting outside on the porch and cleaning out my shotgun when she brings home the boyfriend. That sounds far more intimidating than the husband doing so. I plan to keep my secret, that I have a hunting license and I know how to shoot a gun. Except, now it’s not a secret to everyone I know. One thing is certain, I still think of Bambi when I think about hunting. I hope she trails on and lives a long life.
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