I can still remember vividly the wonderful outdoors world that I was introduced to by my grandfather J. P. Nolen, Uncle Jimmy Nolen and Uncle Don Sorrels during a Thanksgiving hunt at the Hillside Hunting Club.

Located northwest of Port Gibson along the Mississippi River, the area is rugged and wild with Loess bluff soil filled with treacherous ravines, gorges and hills soaring above the Mississippi River. Certain areas are almost impassible still today as the roads may cave off at any moment.

During that Thanksgiving meal I ate my first dressing, along with turkey and the fixings. I’d never tried it before but since I was really hungry, I tried it and it was delicious. People from all walks of life were there and there was even a young lady hunter who was there with her boyfriend. Yes, she was the first female that I ever saw who hunted deer. I did see her occasionally at the camp after that, and she was the real deal.

It was a magical time for a 9-year-old boy as I got to hunt with my family and experience many new things in the outdoors. I harvested my first deer there, a doe that was running ahead of the dogs. I also saw my first armadillo at the club, something I’d never seen here at home.

Later on I followed my grandfather on deer hunts to Noxubee National Wildlife Refuge, duck hunts along the Mississippi River at Chotard, deer hunts in Webster County, Hermanville, Harrisville, Copiah County and many others.

If you can dream it, we did it. I hunted several years before harvesting my first rack buck, but I finally did it in Webster County at a young 13-years-old and the floodgates opened. There’s not much better feeling than spotting a buck’s rack as it chased a doe through the woods. The doe turned and crossed the creek mere feet from me with the buck hot on her trail. As he turned to follow her, I raised my Remington 12-gauge and took aim as he hit the brakes.

“Ka-Boom!” As the sound of the shotgun’s blast echoed through the swamp the buck hit the ground for the last time and my world was turned upside down. From that moment on I was a successful hunter.

We had many duck hunts across the state including some memorable ones at Chotard and Ross Barnett. During the 1980s we hunted not far from the Windsor Ruin’s on the banks of the Mississippi River. We both harvested does during a special muzzleloader hunt and relished the opportunities we had.

Later, as an adult I joined my grandfather on another deer hunt near Lizelia on Thanksgiving Day. I put him on a stand and my brother Joe took a stand along the creek bottom and I hunted further south.

Easing along the swamp thicket I searched the area for any sign of a buck rub, track or scrape. As I moved slowly through a huckleberry thicket, I thought I heard something and stopped to listen. I waited a good 3 or 4 minutes and never heard or saw anything so I started easing along again.

Then I was stopped dead in my tracks. “Bob, bob, white, bob, bob, white,” sounded the distinctive whistle of a bob white quail. At least it gave me pause to wonder if there were any quail in this swamp thicket. I was about to move on and took one step when it sounded off again.

Suddenly, a tall, racked buck burst out of the huckleberry bushes and ran right in front of me. It all happened so fast that I raised my rifle, centered my scope crosshairs on the buck and squeezed the trigger.

“Tic-boom” roared the 30 06 and the buck disappeared in the thicket. Almost devastated I walked forward and spotted blood on the huckleberry bushes. Moving forward I found a blood trail about 8-inches wide as the well-placed bullet pierced the buck’s heart and it ran only a short distance and was dead when I found him.

A feeling of exhilaration swept through my body as my adrenalin flowed freely. I had wondered why I heard a quail down in the swamp when I had never heard one before. A few seconds later I heard the distinctive sound of my Paw Paw Nolen’s favorite Bobwhite quail whistle as clear as a bell! He’d grown up calling the quail to his whistle and now it had been a sign to get my attention, for me to stop, look and listen.

If I had not paused to look after hearing that whistle, I would likely have not ever seen the buck as I had been walking. As it was, I stopped in the nick of time and harvested a trophy buck in the process.

Thanks for the fantastic Thanksgiving Gift and lifetime memory Paw Paw!

I’ll cherish it forever no matter how long I live or how many more deer I harvest. I cherish my outdoors memories with my family, pawpaw, uncles, father, and brothers. Each Thanksgiving I will remember them and give thanks to God for the opportunities I have been given in this Promised Land!

Carpe Diem.

Call Mike Giles at 601-917-3898 or email mikegiles18@comast.net.