Personal Narrative: My First Deer Hunting

We pointed the gun, and bam, my first deer was down, this was when I knew that this place was going to be a special place to me. Growing up, going to deer camp with my daddy was always a very exciting thing for me. Hopewell was practically where I grew up; the dusty dirt roads, beautiful and quiet backwoods, deep mud holes, wild animals, friends and family made that place a home for me. Most people wouldn’t really consider their deer camp as their safe place and I guess that’s what makes me different from others.
Family doesn’t always have to be by blood, sometimes it’s the people that care about you most. When I was a little girl, going to deer camp was just an activity to me, it was fun but didn’t really mean much; however, as I’m getting older, I’m beginning to appreciate that little place a lot more. I have been going up there since I was just a baby girl, making countless friends and memories that will last a lifetime. When I was about eight years old I met a boy named, Andrew, who we called, Buckshot because the first deer he ever killed was a pretty large buck. Buckshot was one of the kids I met there that I still have contact with every now and then. He was always riding fourwheelers with me, playing tag, and basically just keeping me entertained and happy. Out of all of the adults I met
Steve was a wonderful guy, kind-hearted, funny, caring, loving, friendly and always in a great mood about something. I was always riding around with him, following deer around, chasing mud holes, and even having races up until I was seven. He had to have a surgery and ended up passing away afterwards. Now every time I go back there, I know he’s there with me doing all of the things that we used to do. When I’m going through a tough time I know he’s there telling me, “Just go think about it in the stand, punkin, it’ll all be clear then” just like he always