Growing up in Nevada, you were allowed to hunt without an adult at 14. I imagined boys with guns 100 years ago embarking into the high desert alone to provide food for their families. I wanted to be like them.

So at 14 I walked out to an area we dubbed Indiana Jones Creek, a rim-rocked canyon with a small stream in the bottom. The only way in was by an abandoned railroad bridge that spanned high above the creek bed. It was rotting, and most of the slats were missing, like a bridge Indy would have to cross.

I always felt queasy walking it with my dad, but now I was alone. I visualized a rotten tie breaking under me and heard the voices of my dad’s friends and hunter’s ed instructors who warned, “Never hunt without a partner.”

The wind whimpered as I gazed down into the canyon. I’d crossed it a hundred times, but it never felt like this.

I took two creeping steps onto the bridge, heart hammering, holding my breath. And as I exhaled, I heard myself, softly at first, whistling the Indiana Jones theme song. It became something I’d do for the rest of my life. On a 20-day backcountry hunt after high school, I whistled that song nearly every day. I whistled it while downclimbing a waterfall in New Zealand after a fallen tahr. And I whistled it in my tent at night in the African bush.

As soon as my feet hit the ground on the other side, a rabbit busted. I chased after it – something I never would have done with my dad around – and put it in my vest.

A half mile later I spotted the ripples of ducks on the stream. Usually there’d be some long discussion about how to stalk and jump them. But now the decision making was silent and instantaneous. I crept in.

Alone, I was much more stealthy. I knew others would look down on me if I shot a bird on the water, which was legal, but not seen as sporting. And four years later, I’d be quite sporting, hunting the marsh alone, only killing drakes that I knew I’d called in.

But on this day, I crept in quiet, waited for the two hens to swim together, split the distance between their heads, and then took the drake down before he could get his wings under him. 

Walking home with those four animals was special. They did not belong to a young member of the party, nor a son, nor a hunting buddy. They were mine. And for the first time, I was sure that out here I’d be just fine on my own.