Growing up, I always knew I was going to be a hunter. In Montana you had to be twelve years old to shoot big game.

So, at about nine years old, I started with small game. I remember my first hunt vividly.

It was a very cold Montana winter morning. My father took me to Cottontail Creek in South Central Montana to hunt rabbits.

The terrain was full of rolling hills and sagebrush. I grabbed my dad's .

22 long rifle and headed up the valley. After a short while my dad said it was too cold and we needed to go back to the truck.

But I was bound and determined to get my first kill, and I asked if I could go up a little washout by myself. He agreed and went back to the truck.

So, I put my face in the wind and trudged up the draw. Shortly after I spotted a rabbit underneath a sage brush.

He was blocking himself from the wind and catching some sun. His eyes were closed so he didn't see me.

I moved closer. .

. .

. .

and closer. .

. .

and closer. I was afraid he would open his eyes and see me and then run away.

But I had the wind in my favor, and he laid still. I was now within range, and I knew it was time.

I pulled the butt stock of the . 22 tight into my shoulder and peered down the long barrel, looking at the sights and aiming as my dad had taught me.

I placed the front site post on the head of the rabbit and squeezed the trigger. Not immediately sure of the result, I walked the 20-meter distance and saw that I had hit the rabbit in the head, killing him instantly.

I picked up the rabbit and rushed back to the truck to show my dad. He got out of the truck as I came running towards him and I held my kill over my head with pride.

My dad, smiling, gave me a big hug and told me how proud of me he was. I was now a hunter.

. .