My Greatest Memory by Brayden Anderson

Last November I was still trying to fill out my first buck deer tag for Western Oregon. This was my third year hunting and I was determined to get a buck. My hunting season started back in September, on an early rifle-controlled buck hunt in the McKenzie unit in the Three Sisters Wilderness. This is a very tough hunt. You have to pack in on horseback and mules. It's eleven miles into camp.

The number of deer is low for the amount of country. The previous two years I had only seen one buck at a dead sprint, over 100 yards away. But I had gained valuable experience that I could use to my advantage.

The first three days of the hunt I only saw a couple of does. But the morning of the fourth day, my grandpa and his friend Dave and I got close to a forked horn muley in full velvet. My heart was pounding as I grabbed the wooden stock of my Winchester model 64 30-30 and my hand was numb from the cold when I went to pull the hammer back. I saw the young buck and tried to get to the nearest tree while he was focused on the horses. But beginner's luck was no longer on my side. As I pulled up to get him in my open sights, he and the two other does spooked and ran up a small bank.

I was going about a mile a minute hot on the chase. They stopped to get another look at me, when they made it up the ravine. This was my chance, so I pulled the hammer back and put my sights on the bucks shoulder, when I squeezed the trigger I was shaking with buck fever and shot over his back. I quickly worked the lever-action and jacked in another shell, but they were too far-gone, and my second shot wasn’t close. After going up to where the bucks were standing when I shot we found no sign of blood. Now, I knew I had just missed my first buck. As the hunt went on, I never got a crack at another mule deer. I still had a chance at the general season back home for black tail.

The general season is a lot longer, but with school and football I could hardly find the time for hunting. With the last few weeks of the season closing in, my friend Lane and I hit the woods looking for a black tail that would fill the freezer. We went into the field a handful of times but didn't get a chance for a buck. With the general season winding down we went out one final time on the last weekend.

Though that Friday was the last day of the general season, youth hunters are allowed two extra days. Sunday evening, we ventured out to a spot we had visited earlier in the season. We took Lane's Browning A-Bolt .270 WSM, because my 30-30 doesn’t have the distance of his bolt action, and we knew more than likely a long shot would take place. We set up and started to glass down the canyon and up the other side in search of black tail. Fifteen minutes later, Lane spotted a deer in his binoculars. I turned the scope up to 9x power and found the deer. It had a swollen neck from rut and was big-bodied. Its antlers looked small in the scope. I set up prone to take the shot. I held the crosshairs on the top of his back where neck meets body. When I pulled the trigger, the scope jumped back and I didn’t see if I got a clean hit. The buck ran toward the bottom of the canyon. I passed Lane his gun and he added a follow-up shot, just to be sure. The buck went down, and we started high fivin’. When we got to him and I grabbed the antlers, I was running on pure adrenaline. It was the greatest feeling ever. Lane gutted the buck and we dragged him up the steep canyon walls. By this time it was dark. We knew it was going to be a long couple of hours. When we finally got back to the Four Wheeler and to Lane's house, my dad was waiting. We hung the buck and skinned him out, then went home to get some sleep before school the next day.

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The Hunted by Bailey Engel

It was a rainy day,

 The sky was full of dark clouds. 

The air smelled like death,

Not so much that it smelled like death,

 But sounded like death.

Shots were being fired.

It was hunting season.

It was time for me

 To put all my practice before this to good use.

Practice of running and dogging bullets.

 It was an exhilarating feeling,

For the hunter and me.

The feeling of not knowing if I was going to get hit,

 A nervous feeling of anxiety.

 One of use would either be

Excited, sad, or gone.       

I pounced around

As long as I possible could

Until…

BOOM!

I was hit, but just barley,

So I kept going.

I made it to a thin, narrow spot

That I knew the hunter wouldn’t be able to

Fit or squeeze into.

At last

I was safe.

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Cow Wrangling by Hayley Kau

It was a nice summer day that I was going to enjoy by just laying out in the sun, but I heard the four words I hate most: the cows are out.

It seems like every summer, at least one day out of every month, the cows break through the fence and go to our neighbor’s field.

This time, we had to go and saddle up the horses because the stupid cows were to far out to rescue on foot. I went out to the barn and got the horse I was going to ride. That horse's name was Rafeen. First, I had to haul the saddle and the saddle blanket from the truck all the way to the horses. The only person who was on foot was my dad. He brought a lasso. 

When we reached the heard there was this one cow who just keep running away. When my dad finally got that lasso around its neck, it took off–with my dad trying to hang on for dear life. It seemed like my dad was on water skis. I was laughing so hard I almost fell off my horse.  It took us a while, after that, to catch that cow.

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My Greatest Memory by Buddy Myers

My greatest memory was when I got my truck. I remember when I first woke up it was a Saturday morning. I'd just gotten out of bed and my parents were dressed and getting ready to go to town, and then to Sweet Home (where my truck was), but I did not know that.

About an hour and a half passed and I started to wonder where they had gone.

About another hour and a half passed, and a truck that I did not recognize pulled into the driveway, and then our Ford pulled in beside it. When I saw the truck, I had mixed emotions. I ran outside and hugged both of my parents and almost cried. When I ran outside I could smell the old truck's exhaust, which I loved. The truck was black and silver and had a red pinstripe and a 6-inch lift. It was a long bed, 1986 Chevy 4x4 with 35-inch tires. There is only one problem: I'm only fourteen (but I will be fifteen on May Third).  

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The Day by Kaitlin Hogate

It was the day I couldn’t wait for. The drive seemed like it took hours. We were on our way to Oakridge to look at a new horse. We had found him on craigslist. He was a beautiful dark brown with a black mane and tail. 

When we finally arrived I could hardly sit still. He was even more amazing then in the pictures. He was a Quarter Horse, Spanish Mustang cross. He had the muscular build of a Quarter Horse, with the elegance and beauty of a Spanish Mustang. His mane was full and pure black. He had only one white sock, which was located on his left back leg. With the soft touch of his muzzle against my hand, it was meant to be. His eyes were nervous, but also so curious. He had the build of a stallion, with wondrous posture and a look of great speed. He was labeled as a trail horse, but I saw more. 

The owners leased him to us for a few weeks. As we cantered around the arena with the sun shining down, all you could hear was the beat of his hooves pounding into the arena dirt. The sound was almost like a heart beat. He was a part of me, and I was a part of him. As we became closer, we were able to gain trust. All summer long we were together, under the hot sun working barrels, flags, and poles. In the year-end show, together, we won sixteen ribbons total.

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