I was born in 1965.

My family lived in a little town in eastern Oklahoma, just a few miles north of I-40, about 35 miles from the Arkansas State Line.

I grew up hunting, fishing, trapping, and taking care of our farm animals.

My dad was a prominent mechanic in town, and in his free time, he loved a coon hunt.

We travel several thousand miles on foot around our area chasing dogs.

My best friend, Slick, and I love to get out and explore the mountains to hunt and fish.

It was early spring, and we had planned a trip to the Blue Mountains to camp out and fish

the numerous streams and traverse the area.

I loaded up my 82 Dodge with all we thought we needed and threw it in a camper shell and set out Friday evening after work.

We made the trip south to the mountains just in time to find a suitable place to set up camp, which was nothing more than a fire.

After working all day and driving, we hit the hay early and got a good night's rest.

The property was leased for oil and gas production, as well as logging and spanned several

thousand acres. There were service roads running through the property and a few cabins built

here and there. There was no electricity running through it, so there were no full-time residents.

On the first day, we fished a stream that meandered several miles, but that night, we camped in a

different spot at the crossing of another creek. We enjoyed the fish that we caught that day for

dinner. We decided to go to bed, get an early start.

The night was almost uneventful except for the rustling and scratching of something outside our

shell camper around 3 a.m. Not long after that, I was woken up to something bumping into the

truck and shaking it. It wasn't a violet shake,

just a slight bump, but it was loud enough to get my attention. I hit the fender well,

and I yelled, get out of here. Nothing more happened in the morning found us headed out with a pack

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