“There he is, buddy,” my Grandpa whispers with excitement as I clutch the cool metal of a 20-gauge shotgun to the side of my face, peering down the barrel. With a click, I turn off the safety and inhale. My heart pounds in my chest and adrenaline courses through my body. “BOOM!” The gun recoils back into my shoulder after I pull the trigger. As I exhale, my Grandpa shouts with enthusiasm, “good job, buddy!” We hastily escaped the hunting blind into the cool fall morning air. The bright colors of the red and orange Kettle Moraine Wisconsin forest surround us. I take a deep breath and the smell of fresh gunpowder fills my nostrils. Then, we slowly walked over to the damage I had done. A limp corpse of a turkey laid beneath our feet. At that moment, I was caught up in the thrill of hunting and making my Grandpa proud. I would not realize until a few years later the power I held in my hands that day. A gun can be a dangerous tool capable of taking a precious life—animal or human; putting safety at the forefront in every situation is irrefutable.
Friday, October 19th, 2018, is a day that has been forever etched in my mind. It strikes a similar resemblance to the effect of 9/11, as to this day, I still remember where I was and what I was doing when the news broke. I woke up that Friday, having no school, at a typical teenage time of 10:30am. Taking one peek at my phone on my bedside table, I was struck with panic at the alarming amount of text messages. The first one I read was, “I think Trent died.” Immediately, I picked up the phone and called my friend, Aidan, who broke down on the other end of the line. “He was accidentally shot…sniff sniff…while duck hunting,” said Aidan. “I'll pick you up. We are going to the chapel,” he added. I hung up the phone and put my face in my hands. It was true. Trent really was gone. Picking myself up off the bed, I got dressed in a daze and headed upstairs. When I walked into the kitchen, my mom was standing at the counter. I attempted to tell her where I was going, but the words could not escape my throat. Only a choking sound was produced, followed by a sob. Confused, she came and hugged me. Between breaths and tears, I explained the tragedy as she consoled me until Aidan arrived. The drive to the chapel was silent. Neither of us said anything. We just stared at the road in a dead gaze. Upon arrival, we were greeted with solemn hugs by three other friends and headed inside to pray. Sitting in the peace of the chapel, I felt warmth and safety. This feeling was reinforced as Aidan put his arm around me. We all sat in silence on the hardwood pews. Whether the silence was in disbelief or reverence was unknown. I calmed down a bit as my eyes began to wander, watching the shadows of the candles flicker on the walls. Then, as tears started running down my face, Aidan squeezed me close. I thought to myself why him? It could have been any one of us or none at all. Anger and confusion filled my body as I looked up towards God. I felt so helpless. I would never get to see him again, and I couldn’t do anything about it. He was really gone.
Over the next few weeks, I went back to classes, sports, and after school activities. However, many things did not feel the same, nor would they ever again. There were no more mischievous smiles before antagonizing the teacher in the study hall. There were no more farm stories filled with humor. There were no more clunks of cowboy boots running up and down the halls as dirt splattered in the air. There were no more lunches with a full table. This has always stuck with me. It was hard for me to comprehend that it is possible for someone to be uprooted from your life, so soon, without a proper goodbye. I would stare at the lonesome chair across from me at lunch and still think why him? It began to dawn on me that this could have been prevented. If I could go back in time and prevent him from going duck hunting or standing in front of the barrel of a loaded gun, I would. In reality, I couldn’t fix it. The only thing I could do is hope others did not make the same mistake that caused an entire community to feel the pain of a premature death.
According to my Grandpa, hunting is a religion in Wisconsin. Families enjoy weeks together looking for success and youngsters, like myself, are inspired to become part of the tradition. Success brings wild game dishes which are the favorite at get-togethers. Hunting clubs are located all over the state, welcoming members, and supporting the natural resources and the policies to keep the sport alive. At the age of twelve, I recall going through the hunter safety program at my local hunting club. What seemed like a boring chore turned out to be crucial for handling guns safely. I still remember the acronym TAB-K: Treat every gun as if it were loaded, Always point the barrel in a safe direction, Be sure of your target and what is behind it, and Keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot. At the time, it seemed like a tedious process to follow every single time I was near or handling a gun. Now, the importance of those four guidelines is seared into me, as I witnessed the consequences of not adhering to them.
This memory has come full circle. I am no longer a naive twelve-year-old. The brutal truth of actions and their consequences has been revealed to me through the passing of a friend. He had a full life ahead of him at the young age of sixteen. Since then, I’ve questioned the age restrictions for hunting. While everyone under the age of fifty is required to take the Hunters Safety Class, hunters over the age of fourteen are allowed to hunt without adult supervision if they have passed the course. Fourteen is too young. A gun can be a fatal weapon and should be monitored with guidance. Adult supervision would have likely prevented Trent’s tragic accident. It’s time to increase the age of independent hunting to eighteen.
Four years later, there is hardly a day that goes by without me thinking about Trent. Whether it is hearing his favorite song or seeing a pair of cowboy boots, I cannot help but picture his bright smile. Yet, at home in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, the boom of gunshots ringing out during hunting season brings another reminder that is not as sweet. The booms stand for the joy and tradition of the sport, but I fear they may result in a tragic consequence of unsafe hunting. Every time I hear that loud sound, I pray for the safety of those hunters. It is my hope that all hunters not only have a successful hunt, but do not have to experience that sadness of an empty seat at their lunch table.
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