For my last Christmas in El Pao, a month after my twelfth birthday, my father surprised me with a German-made, Anschutz bolt action pellet rifle.

I had less than a year left in El Pao and much of it was dedicated to practicing and hunting with my cousins and friends in the camp.

My father had a very simple rule: No birds except for those we could cook and eat, such as dove or quail or those considered a pest in the area because of damage to crops, such as certain hawks.

As the months came and went, we became quite good shots.

Once, we went up the side road to the camp reservoir, a favorite spot. The national guards at the checkpoint stopped us and requested to examine the rifle. Once they saw it was a pellet gun they handed it back and dared us to show our shooting skills.

Surrounded by well-fruited mango trees, I asked if one of them would like a mango.

“Sure, but I don’t want a mango with a pellet in it!” replied one of the guards.

“Oh, no! I don’t mean to shoot the mango! I mean I’ll shoot the stem and you can catch the fruit as it drops.”

They laughed uproariously as only good humored Venezuelans can do, thinking I was joking.

But when they saw I was serious, one of them stepped near the tree and I told him which mango I was going to shoot down for him. He caught the mango as it fell.

I tell the story not to brag but to note that we all shot pretty well. No. I cannot come anywhere near that accuracy today. Maybe if I started practicing again.

On another occasion we ventured into the jungle and came across a seemingly abandoned dirt path. We followed it, coming to a slight rise and curve beyond which we saw a small structure. As we approached, but still pretty far away, several armed men rushed out and ran toward us yeling to put our rifle down.

I, of course, did so, surprised at the alacrity and urgency of these men.

They inspected the rifle and asked who we were. Then they ushered us to the small building where they used a phone to call their headquarters and report this incident. Their headquarters called them back shortly thereafter confirming our identities, including having talked to my father.

They relaxed, gave me back my rifle, and explained that we had stumbled upon the mining dynamite storage area. They ordered us to never return there. An order we assured them we would obey.

In fact, I would not even be able to find that place today if my life depended on it. I remember the incident well. But not where we entered the jungle to eventually stumble across that path.

Thinking about that incident and the guerilla activity in the country at the time, I have to be thankful those men did not shoot first and ask questions later. Only a few years before, a couple of Peace Corps volunteers in Caracas, not understanding the requirement to stop at a checkpoint, drove through only to be shot multiple times when they did stop and got out of the car. One died and the other left the country, never to return.

But perhaps my favorite memory of the Anschutz rifle was when two cousins, Max [Papaito] and Edwin [Eddie], and our younger friend, Joseph [Josey], accompanied me to go hunting. Always mindful of my father’s rule, we despaired of any “legitimate” prey since, although birds, including beautiful Toucans and lovely “Cristo-fues” were plentiful, none were to be eaten so were not legitmate targets.

Finally, one of us spied a hawk sitting impassively atop a very tall, dying tree, likely a big-leaf mahogany, sans the leaves. After some discussion where we agreed it was a pest to the local farmers and therefore a legitimate target, we decided to attempt to bag it, although none of us believed we would hit it since it was very far away.

So Max, Edwin, and I took turns shooting, to no avail. All throughout our attempts, we kept hearing Josey yelling, “It’s my turn! It’s my turn!” while we ignored him, because he was too young and if we big boys could not reach the target, surely he could not!

Finally, one of us, in exasperation, exclaimed, “OK! Let’s give him a chance already!” We just wanted him to shut up and let us continue wasting bb’s.

We handed him the rifle which he pressed against his shoulder, taking aim, while we tapped our toes, anxious to get on with serious shooting.

He slowly pulled the trigger, TAP, and we began to demand the rifle back when he shouted, as he jumped, “I got him! I got him!”

In crazy disbelief we saw the bird fall straight down that old trunk. Surely Josey did not hit him; he must have died of a heart attack coincidentally right after this kid pulled the trigger!

We could not believe what we were witnessing.

But the kid certainly did as he rushed us to go into the forest to find his trophy.

This we did. And after a relatively short hike, sure enough, we found it and, upon examination, confirmed that Josey had shot a bulls eye.

We all celebrated. And laughed in unbelief and shared joy.

When we got home, another friend, Miguel [Miguelito], joined in the celebration and helped us take a photo (below).

Eddie and Papaito are now gone. I understand Josey is in Chile. Miguelito is in Venezuela; I enjoyed a visit with him during my last trip there in 2005.

Never underestimate the little ones.

Left to right: Eddie, Papaito, Josey

Josey with Miguelito at bottom right.