As far back as I can remember as a child, my grandpa and dad taught me how to hunt.

I was an only child that knew it would be up to me to carry on the family hunting tradition.

My grandpa owned some land way up in the mountains, away from everyone and everything.

On this land sat an old cabin that was built by my great grandpa back in the early 1900s.

It took about an hour to travel to the nearest house or store, so this was a well-kept private area that no one ever visited

except the three of us. There was no electric or phone service at the camp, being as it was so far out in the woods.

One learned to be careful because if something happened while at camp or hunting, then you were on your

own.

There was no way to get any help.

When I was 15 years old, we had planned a hunting trip up to the cabin, but I had come

down with the flu and could not make the trip, so my grandpa and my dad left home to make that

four-hour drive to our hunting camp. Mom and I told them that

we loved them and wished them the best of luck on their weak hunting trip and off they went.

Three days later we get a call from the county police that something bad had happened there.

We were told my dad was in the hospital and in very bad

shape. Mom asked, what about grandpa? Is he okay? They did not know anyone else

was with my dad so my mom told them about the camp and the police were dispatched

to go find my grandpa. Mom and I jumped in the car and drove that long trip as fast as we could.

Once we got to the hospital, we found out my dad had had a stroke, and they found

grandpa at the cabin.

He was covered with claw marks, and his chest was ripped open.

He was either dead from his wounds or he had had a heart

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