The banks were cool and shady. The rich bottom land near the river was studded with tall sycamores, birches, and box elders.
To a ten-year-old country boy it was the most beautiful place in the whole wide world, and I took advantage of it all.
I roamed the hills and the river bottoms.
I knew every game trail in the thick canebrakes, and every animal track that was pressed in the mud along the riverbanks.
The ones that fascinated me the most were the baby-like tracks of a river coon.
I’d lie for hours examining them. Before leaving, I’d take a switch and sweep them all away.
These I called my “trail looks.” The next day I’d hurry back, and sure enough, nine times out of ten,
there in the clean-swept ground I would again find the tracks of a ringtail coon.
I knew he had passed over the trail during the night.
I could close my eyes and almost see him, humped up and waddling along,
fishing under the banks with his delicate little paws for crawfish, frogs, and minnows.
I was a hunter from the time I could walk.
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