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In fourth grade I had me a pal. He was at my house, or I was at his without either set of parents caring one way or the other about it so off the school bus we went, peanut butter sandwich and we were off to a creek brook trout fishing or into the woods with our single shot twenty-two rifles, squirrels, rabbits, grouse, the standard prey.
One day my buddy says to me, this Saturday dad's going fox hunting, we can go with, I’d seen fox on the cover of fur fish and game, but in the wild, never, I was pretty excited.
Bundled up I was as they pulled in the driveway, I hopped in his big old blazer's back seat, it was so toasty, and the smell of fried chicken was thick in my nose.
So his dad is explaining how we will hunt, he’d drop us off one at a time, then he’d park, he’d start calling, if you heard a shot, just walk back out to the township road. I asked how long do I wait, he handed me a bag, in it was half dozen fresh fried chicken wings, he says while you’re waiting nibble on those, when you run out, hike out.
First place we stopped, I instantly felt the winter, it was so cold. I hiked to where he pointed me to sit, I scudded myself down into the snow, aimed my rifle out over the clearcut, and well into my third chicken wing, a shot. I packed up, out to the ditch, I jumped in and there behind my seat was a cherry red, red fox. I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Every stop, he refilled each of our little ditty bags with wings. We finished the morning with three reds my pal's dad shot, and to this day, when it gets bitter cold outside, I want a bunch of deep-fried chicken wings.
- The Trout Whisperer
