posted on 17 December 2011 | posted in Holiday and Travel
My breath was short. The air was cold. I could still smell the sweet, smoky scent of the gunpowder rising from the action of my Winchester .300 magnum. The deer had gotten away, but not before leaving the telltale signs I had been taught to follow. A broken twig here, a spot of blood there, the scent of musk heavy in the air as I mercilessly stalked the dying creature to its death-bed of pine needles and bloody soil. My first kill of the season lay at my feet. As we have done every year since, my grandfather and I made our pilgrimage to Luckenbach, Texas in search of a trophy. We lived out of a trailer until our mission was complete, living off of the land in the backwoods of West Texas. The trailer was small, only meant for a single resident, but we managed to find room for two. It was easy to keep warm, especially with the propane stove we kept to cook what little we had. It hooked up nicely to the back of my grandfather's Chevrolet, but could stand mostly level on its own. It was our home for a season, much like every year. Cozy and warm, it smelled of mud, blood, and beer. I will always remember that kill, that season. It was my first, and I'll never forget that little motorhome that served as our home.