“I want your job,” say people I meet all the time. “You can’t have it, I’m not ready to give it up,” I always reply.

After all, hunting, fishing, and then writing and talking about it on TV and radio certainly has appeal. And although that description of my job as an “outdoor writer” is a gross oversimplification it represents the dream of many. But the cemetery is full of wannabee writers. With newspapers on the ropes, TV shows plentiful as gnats on a calm day in Hopedale, and the internet headed who-knows-where, the future of aspiring young outdoor writers is shaky at best. But I guess there will always be places for those of us who love to make their living in and telling stories about the outdoors.

To create an interest in outdoor journalism and help prepare future writers, our Louisiana Outdoor Writer Association sponsors an annual Youth Journalism Contest. I’m encouraging parents and teachers to encourage students to participate in this event. It’s open to all students in two essay categories: Senior (14-18) and Junior (13 and younger). A photography category is open to all students up to 18. Cash prizes and plaques honoring the top three winners and any honorable mentions are presented in all categories. Deadline for entry submissions is July 3, 2009. Complete rules and submission information can be found at www.laoutdoorwriters.com.

Here is an excerpt from a previous winning entry, “An Ending” by14 year-old homeschooled Sarah Sanderlin of Dubach, LA. I’m sure you’ll agree not only does she “get” what hunting is all about, but also has quite a future as a writer.

Soft gray light through the trees. The smell of rain. The rhythmic pat, pat, pat of water dripping onto wet leaves. 

My dad and I are the only ones there to sense it all. It’s a magical solitude that has been felt so many times before, from ancient times to the Information Age. So is the spell of the hunt, forever passed down to the next generation. 

On this particular morning we’re seeking wood ducks. They’ll fly from their roosts soon, when the sun begins to materialize over the eastern hills. I’ll lie in ambush at one of their favorite landing places, a bend in the creek affectionately dubbed Zorro Bend by my dad. 

I settle down on the wet ground, my back against the old familiar oak tree, and my toes within about two feet of the creek. My eyes begin to scan the surrounding area, my mind to analyze it…. 

…There is the deep, rich mud-smell of the creek; a soothing, natural scent linked with some of my fondest memories. There is the chill in the air; not hard cold, but a refreshing, nippy cool in the light breeze. The gray light is getting a bit brighter through the heavy clouds, revealing the swollen water of the creek hastening past under its thick, almost impenetrable fog blanket. I drink it all in. This is life at its best… 

I sit perfectly still; meditating, watching squirrels chase one another through the cypress treetops. Then, suddenly, a wavering whistle breaks my trance. Wings! Three ducks fly overhead, barely visible through the treetops, too far away for a shot. They don’t circle or land, but continue away from me. I relax, listening to their distinctive cry of “wheep wheeeeep whuup” as it rings hauntingly through the swamp, fading, fading away. 

I smile. There will be more. 

And so, ten minutes later, I’ve readied myself for the two that land. They crash onto the water downstream from me, out of sight in the thick fog. 

I remain motionless. Wood ducks almost always swim upstream. And so they do: two small phantoms in the blanket of white vapor, paddling with determination against the creek’s strong current. 

It is a male and his mate. The male is a sparkling gem of iridescent colors, a glistening rainbow even in the dull light. His companion is also iridescent, but colored mostly olive drab. It seems that some master artist painted every shade and line on their bodies.

Breathing raggedly, I move my shotgun into position in slow motion. The male duck is closer to me than his mate—an easier shot. I press my cheek hard against the cool wood of the gun’s stock and line the sights up with the male’s head. I pause with my finger on the trigger, oddly uncertain. 

The male stops swimming and seems to freeze in place. His round, black eye blinks once, focusing directly on my face. We stare at one another. Years pass in the half-second that our eyes are locked. 

Somehow, some way, I sense in that moment that he knows why I’m there and he is ready. 

I pull the trigger.