The one, and only time I went hunting, was with my father when I was eleven.

My mother didn't work, so it was up to him to provide for us.

My entire life, he worked more than he was home.

When he did come home, he drank in front of the TV, too exhausted to do anything.

The years crept up on him, and he finally noticed how old I'd gotten, and how I was already

shaping up to be a disappointment in his eyes.

I was small from age, I stayed inside to read instead of playing sports.

My body so frail, I got sick often.

When he finally truly looked at me for the first time, he didn't recognise the sun that

lived in his house.

He thought hunting would be the answer.

If I would man up and shoot something, maybe I might grow into the person he wanted.

We never really spent any time together.

Not hunting with my father, felt like being stuck inside the forest of the stranger.

What kind of person even enjoys camping, was I missing something?

I nearly got eaten alive by bugs.

The humid and cloudy weather didn't keep them away, only making me even more miserable.

My father kept sipping away at a steel water bottle, I knew didn't have water inside.

Without it, he never would have lasted the day.

We caught no fish at the lake for lunch the first day.

Trying out luck, we went into the forest trying to shoot something for dinner.

We packed something to eat, but not much.

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