Memories come back again and again. I think of one morning in the Kentucky woods, waiting for daylight — cool enough to see your breath, listening to owls, crickets, and all the small sounds that fill the dark.  

Hello friends, my name is Rob Akers. I thought I would start by telling you a little about myself. I’m fifty-seven now, and throughout my life I’ve lived to be outdoors. I grew up thinking Daniel Boone was a hero, and I always wondered how the woods must have looked when he walked them. I was raised in a small coal-mining town in West Virginia, and my mom’s side of the family lived in a small town in Kentucky. We visited them often and grew up close to my aunts, uncles, and cousins.  

Each year Dad would take us to Kentucky during the last two weeks of August, because squirrel season came in early there. It was always so much fun. My uncles were like second dads, and my cousins felt more like brothers and sisters. Even now, as I share this memory, I still smile.  

I must have been somewhere between eight and ten years old. We arrived on a Friday night, excited about going squirrel hunting the next morning. We stayed at my aunt’s and uncle’s house. Something you don’t see much anymore is how welcome you always were in those homes. You might end up sleeping on a couch, a chair, or even a blanket on the floor, but they always found you a place. I always felt loved, and I always knew they were happy we were there. They would say, “We’re glad you came home.”  

The next morning we got up early. My aunt and mom made breakfast, and then we headed out. Being young boys, we got the talk about being careful, knowing what we were shooting, and what was beyond it. We had to wear something red — usually a red plaid shirt or hat. Today it would be blaze orange.  

Dad, my brother, and I left the house and met up with my two uncles and three cousins. Late August seems different now than it did back then. Today it’s just hot — a long-sleeve shirt would be almost unbearable now it seems. But back then, those Kentucky mornings felt cooler. I even remember feeling a little cold before the sun came up. Some mornings back then I remember huffing and seeing my breath in the air.  

Kentucky at that time of year was still mostly green, but you could always find the faintest hint of fall. There were plenty of white oaks and red oaks, but the real treasure was the hickory trees — especially the shellbark hickories. They were always the first to turn, shifting from green to a soft yellow or orange. The squirrels loved them.  

That morning, we all split up as the dads chose their directions. My brother and I, and each of our cousins, followed our own father. I remember Dad fussing at me for not picking up my feet, not keeping up, and not staying quiet. He tried to be patient as he taught us how to slip through the woods. We managed to shoot a few squirrels, and around midday we all gathered on a long oak ridge to see how everyone had done. My brother and I were proud to show off our squirrels.  

Then it happened. As we were standing there on that long oak ridge, one of my uncles spotted a squirrel running up a tree. All of us boys rushed over, circling the trunk and heads point straight up trying to see where it had gone. My uncle walked around the tree and found a hollow spot with a hole just out of reach. “This must be where the squirrel disappeared,” he told us.  

He was tall and skinny, and after studying the tree for a moment, he figured he could just reach the hole if he put one foot on a root at the bottom and braced himself with his other hand on the back. “We can smoke him out,” he said.  

I remember watching him pull out his pocketknife and cut a small square from the tail of his shirt. He lit it with his lighter, let it burn for a moment, then stomped it out so it would smolder. He reached up and shoved the smoking piece of cloth into the hole.  

We all stood there, staring up, waiting for the squirrel to come flying out. Nobody blinked — everybody was ready. After a while, my uncle said he could hear the squirrel moving inside the tree. He figured the cloth must be blocking its way out. So he braced his foot again, reached up, and pulled the smoking cloth free.  

The squirrel came out with it. It launched down his arm, crossed his shoulder, and settled in the middle of his back. He took off running — not because he was scared of the squirrel, but because he knew he had a bunch of young, excited, inexperienced boys standing behind him with loaded guns. As he ran, he kept yelling, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”  

My dad and the other uncles laughed so hard they had tears running down their cheeks. I laughed too, though I didn’t fully understand until years later that it wasn’t the squirrel he was worried about — it was us.  

This story is just one small reason why we hunt. It’s the moments, the laughter, and the people who stand beside you in the woods. It’s having someone who cares how the morning went, someone to talk with on the walk back to the truck. It’s giving your dad, your son, your uncle, or your cousin a hug at the end of the day and asking, “When can we go again?”  

Hunting isn’t only about the squirrels we brought home. It’s about the memories that come back again and again — the kind that stay with you long after the guns are cleaned and the season has passed. Those mornings in Kentucky shaped me, and even now, all these years later, I still smile when I think about them.