I remember the first time I went “hunting” with Uncle Paul.

Hunting to him and his brother and his buddies wasn’t hunting at all. It was a way to get out of town so they could act like boys. To ride motorcycles, drink beer, and mess with each other. They shot more beer cans than deer.

I was riding on the back of Uncle Paul’s motorcycle, a relatively small thing with the only headlight. The rest were stripped to be as light as possible for trail use.

After a while, he told me to be as quiet as possible.

“Watch this,” he whispered. He cut off the headlight and came to a stop in pitch black, right in the middle of a gravel road.

He let a small amount of time pass and turned the headlight back on. I looked around and wished I had a camera. Three were in a ditch, one had stopped and just laid down the bike in the road, the rest were scattered about.

As we took off again, I remember rocks coming from the left and vulgarity coming from the right. Best hunting trip ever.