Predator hunting is not a big part of my life, but it has provided one indelible memory that lives in my brain like a squatter in a suburban home.

On a sunny day during my high school years, I joined my friends for a hunt on the Nachtigall Ranch in Owanka, South Dakota. The late, great Dean Nachtigall was in the driver's seat of an old Jeep Wagoneer lovingly referred to as “The Bird.” I sat in the passenger side backseat alongside my friend David. Dean’s flesh and blood son, Mitch, rode “shotgun” with a 12-gauge by his side.

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