"Firsts…” Author : Carl Lipke Jr Date : Jan 17th, 2010 For most 11 year old boys…Christmas morning is finally beyond Santa Clause and certainly long past any “visions of sugar-plums dancing in their heads.” Instead it is filled with visions of a new pair of hockey skates under the tree, a new video game or two (or seven), and if you’ve really been good…a new BMX bike parked behind the tree. But then there was me. 30 years ago my aspirations were of an entirely different sort. My dad had alluded to the fact it was “about time” I had my own shotgun and that is something a young hunter cannot get off his brain. Pac Man and Space Invaders be danged! And though I loved being the tag-a-long/extra retriever for a few years of chasing ducks and pheasants in Southern Minnesota watching dad shoot everything, I couldn’t wait to finally get the chance to see a bird “fold up shop” in mid air after I’d pulled the trigger. “Maybe just a single shot .410,” I’d heard him hint around my mother. But I should have known better… Instead, the long rectangular and gun-shaped box that did end up under the tree held much more than a .410 single-shot. It actually held two things in one. Yes, my first shotgun, a beautiful 20 gauge Browning semi-auto to match dad’s classic “Humpback” 12…but even more significant than this, it held my entrance pass to the hunting world as a full-out participant. And so began a season of “firsts” that remain to this day, experiences that chartered much of who I am (not unlike many of you, I’m sure), while also filling my soul with memories to last a lifetime. That next September started by giving me my first Ruffed Grouse. A young bird that was patient (read: “dumb”) enough to sit still long enough on a stump for a nervous kid to settle the barrel on his breast. I barely even remember pulling the trigger. But what I do remember (and I can’t help but smile as I type this), is the cloud of feathers that hovered over that stump after the Browning full-choke “boom,” and the sound of my dad’s hearty laugh as he understood better than I did what just happened. I was ridiculously hooked for life…I’d shot a real game bird! Who cares if the breast looked like Swiss cheese…it was mine…and I ate every bite! A few short weeks later, October brought a couple more “firsts” for me. As typical for an October weekend back then, long before Saturday’s sunrise dad would drive us about 60 miles South of the Twin Cities (St. Paul/Minneapolis), to the small country town where he grew up. We’d meet at a farmhouse of one of his “old cronies” and make a plan for the morning duck shoot before the 9:00am legal shooting time for pheasants. Once 9:00am passed we’d then chase roosters for the rest of the day until the final hour or so before sunset. This left just enough time before dark to pass shoot the evening flight of ducks coming off a large reservoir. As per usual, however, my morning pass shooting prowess and long day of cattail slogging for pheasants produced another big fat zero in the bird department. I just couldn’t connect! But with a fresh round of encouragement from my dad as sunset dimmed our pass-shooting post, a miracle happened. As a small flock of ducks approached our hill-top hide-a-way, I actually remembered to calm down, pick out a single duck instead of tentatively pointing the barrel in the middle of the flock and hoping for the best, and the very duck I aimed at…crumpled! I then proceeded to flare all the other ducks because I jumped up in excitement yelling to my dad: “I got him, I got him…that’s the one I was shooting at!” That it was a hen mallard made no difference to me (or my dad), it was my first duck…and I felt like a real duck hunter. My confidence was back and we still had Sunday to go! Now, as much as hunting means to my dad (and obviously, now me), Carl Sr. was never shy about what still had to come first in life. And that was God and serving His church. For over 50 years, now, my dad has faithfully directed all types of choirs for his church. Church always has, and always will take priority…even if it means missing a few mornings of hunting (or fishing, or sports activities) along the way. Something else I’ve taken to heart from this great man. But my dad was not harshly overbearing with this and once in a while, he’d give in to his pleading son and find a replacement director for a Sunday. Or sometimes he’d simply let me stay at his friend’s farm while he drove back home to fulfill his responsibilities…only to then drive back down after church to maybe sneak in a couple more hours of pheasant hunting. Well such was the case this memorable weekend. Dad had gone home the night before (with my hen mallard to show mom), and wouldn’t you know, just after 9:00am Sunday morning with the first pheasant push of the day, I finally connected on my first rooster. My third “first” of the season…a kid’s triple-crown! No matter at all they’d be the only three birds I’d shoot all year. And even though my dad was a bit sad he missed me shooting that pheasant…in my mind, he really didn’t. Some may say that only shooting one grouse, one duck, and one pheasant in the course of a season doesn’t make for a very successfully fall. But I beg to differ! Like I alluded to earlier, the memories of those first birds are as vivid and satisfying today as they were 30 years ago. And I suspect they always will be. Besides, my dad also taught me hunting isn’t about the quantity of game you shoot. It’s the time together, the car rides, the jokes, the misses, the tangled decoys, the holes in waders, the ham sandwiches and coffee, and the sunrises and the sunsets. And now I’d like to add…the “firsts.” And if you’re a true hunter you understand. Hopefully your memory bank is as similarly full! My dad is now 80 and believe it or not, we still hunt together and have accumulated many more hunting “firsts” through the years. We were together for my first bear about fifteen years ago. We were together for both of our first elk just ten years ago. And only one year ago (yes, at 79), I was with him when he shot his first bear…which proves you’re never too old to share some “firsts!” So what about that first (and now seasoned) 20 gauge Browning, you may ask? Well, I still have it, of course, and it’s funny how things tend to come around full-circle in life! I’ve now been blessed to see my oldest son shoot his first turkey and first deer with that wonderful gun. And not to be outdone, my wife shot her first Gobbler (with an 11 inch beard, mind you), with it when we still lived in Iowa. I say “when” because living in Iowa is now past-tense. Thanks to a new ministry calling 6 months ago, my family and I are now on another journey of “firsts.” Guess I just can’t get enough of them for we are now residents of Ontario. I know that 20 gauge doesn’t know the difference between a first bird or a last bird but that’s ok…I do. And when my youngest son finally grows into it so together we can start off his hunting career of “firsts,” I’ll be sure to tell him all about it once he adds to the collection. This time, though, in Canada…and I can’t wait! Carl Lipke Jr. | 
