Gettin' to be that time of year.

I've shared this poem in the past, but I thought I'd share it again. If you look forward to spending time in the great outdoors with friends and family every year as much as I do, you should enjoy this poem by WJVL listener, Preston Smith.

Be sure to read it all the way through. I couldn't agree more with Preston about what hunting really means. I personally save a weeks worth of vacation time every year just for the chance to spend time with my dad on the land I grew up on. The same land I spent so many countless days and hours scouting, walking and hunting on as a boy. I look forward to the days when I too can pass on the tradition to my chilren.

by Preston Smith of Fort Atkinson, WI

Twas the night before deer season’s Opening day. I laid in my bed wide awake.

Visions of giant bucks, all around. My crack shot tomorrow, will bring him down.

Sleep will not come, no matter how hard I try. The alarm’s going off, out of bed I do fly.

I dress all in orange, from my head to my feet, layer upon layer, to keep in the heat.

I grab all my gear, gun, bullets, and scent. My back tag in place, out the door I went.

I jump in my truck, go pick up my friend. Our plan is success, by this days end.

The mystical time, we call Opening Day. I’ve quit jobs to hunt it! Would I miss it? No way!

I’ll sit in my stand, way up in the tree. When the sun rises, who knows what I’ll see?

The twitch of an ear, the flash of a tail, We’re hoping for bucks, and nerves that don’t fail.

By the end of the day, I’ll know I have tried. For a giant old buck, his rack high and wide.

So I’ll hike the hills, and I’ll climb the trees. Heck I’ve trudged the swamp, on two bad knees.

I’ve dragged bucks alone. It was all up hill. Over a mile out, just by sheer will.

I’ve sat with bronchitis, in the pure north wind, Thirty feet up a tree, on the day it begins.

I’ve trudged through the snow, and sat in the rain. I fell out of trees. Yea I live with pain.

Since the first time I did this, I’ve missed only 3. It was after my dad died. I was looking for me.

But the ring of the phone, the voice of a friend, said, ”Come on! Let’s go hunting, together again.”

It was then I remembered, my love for the woods. Plus I got to go buy, all new hunting goods.

So each year at this time, if I look distracted, it’s memories of past hunts, in my mind reenacted.

So thank you dear dad, for taking the time. To show me the woods, and to open my mind.

You took me hunting, when I was a kid. Now I’ll take my boys, just like you did.

It’s not for the kill, that I do this each year. Although that’s the goal, to bring home a deer.

Traditions created, with family and friends. If we pass it on down, the hunt never ends.

So if I get too old, Or sick to go out, I hope that my boys, have hunts to talk about.

So you see it’s much more, than what people think. I’m not here to carouse. I’m not here to drink.

I’m creating traditions, to pass down to my boys. Give them something to do, when they outgrow the toys.

If they’re hunting with me, they’re not on the street. They’ll have love and respect, and I think that’s neat.

So I’m here in the woods, with my gun in my hand. Thirty feet in the air, in my custom tree stand.

The anticipation, of what might walk by, keeps me glued to my seat, in this tree way up high.

Some don’t understand, a deer hunters way. The children have Christmas. We have Opening Day!