The steady rumble of rubber meeting gravel seems to echo as my headlights begin to crest the hill of the long, rolling, hidden drive at Paidousis (Puh-dew-sis) Farm. My peripheral vision catches a shadowy figure to my right, I up the ambiance by clicking to my bright lights as that figure instantly reveals color, light brown, the deer crosses the drive in a hasty gallop. A whitetail doe, she faded into the woods, tail up, shimmers of white could be spotted through small openings in the thicket as she searched for her next safe feeding area. “They’re moving this morning,” I divulge to Deuce sitting next to me in the passenger seat.

“Yup, it’s gonna be a good day,” utters Deuce as he wipes the sleep out of his eyes in a pinching motion.

My foot eases more pressure onto the pedal as we continue up the rolling drive with caution until we come upon the dimly lit barn; this is the place. I’ve been here before; the year prior, almost to the day, so many amazing memories and I thought, ‘time to make more’.

My excitement and anticipation of what’s to come had me stirring into the twilight this morning's eve; so needless to say, Deuce and I were the first to arrive. In a few moments, the dirt clearing would be riddled with vehicles, but for now, it’s just us. “I’mma throw on a pot of coffee,” Deuce imparts, as he steps out of the car and towards the door, the motion light flickers then cast brightness over the side of the crimson barn, lighting his path. He steps into the barn, disappearing from view, I stay in the car a moment to collect my thoughts...

Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Paidousis, we call him Deuce, he’s no giant by any physical standard, he probably stands around 5’10’’, lean-muscular build, but to the guys who’ve worked with him stateside and overseas, he’s colossal. He can shoot, move and communicate with the best of Marines and when it comes to Combat Engineer knowledge, he’s second to none. Deuce and I hail from the same battalion, Second Combat Engineer Battalion (2D CEB), along with Kerns, but we’ll meet him a little later. Deuce wears his heart on his sleeve, he started this hunt a few years back to honor our fallen Marines; he brings combat wounded Veterans out in hope that they find peace by way of the wilderness and through camaraderie. The one thing about Marines, especially 2D CEB Marines, is that they take care of one another- even beyond service.

There goes the sound of the steady tumbling of rocks being spread via tire anew, the headlights signify that it’s a truck, ‘I better get in there and get me a cup before everyone shows up,’ I think to myself. I shut the car off and follow Deuce’s path into the barn.

“Good Morning!” Mrs. Paidousis, Deuce’s mom, belts out in a raspy voice. She’s posted in her chair at her table almost like she’s standing duty, protecting the barn in the wee hours of the morning. Smoke dissipates as it draws further from its cherry, she dabs her cigarette into an ashtray and lets it rest, a smile stretches across her face.

I reply, “Good morning, Mrs. Paidousis!” as I step around the table to embrace her with a hug. Our hunting mom, she’s always making sure that our stomachs are full, that we’re in good health and she’s always interested to see how the hunts go. Small talk commences; a door slams in the distance, then a second, the rumblings of distant conversation become clearer and more distinct as they draw closer to the barn. The brass knob twists, the garage door suctions as the door swings open.

“Owney! You motivated son of a…!” I exclaimed. I hit the power stride on my approach and embraced him with a handshake then pull him in for a hug. We exchange insults out of love, “I showed up earlier ‘cuz I figured you’d be here already,” I say as we disengage.

“Well, I WOULD have been, but…” he points toward the door as his son comes barreling through, hands full with gear and rifle cases.

Owen Mort, we call him ‘Owney’, another man cut from the same cloth as Deuce. He didn’t serve, military-wise, but he’s spent his life in the Ohio woods and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he was a Gunny too. Hell, he’s been through about as much as all of us, hurdling life’s obstacles has a way of defining who a man is and Owney’s overcome each and every one set in his path. He had a slew of surgeries done on his neck and spine in the past year just to be able to make it out for this specific hunt. Although he does an incredible job of hiding it, if you catch him at the right moment, you can see the pain trying to prevail, he never lets that happen. He’s the motivator of our group, me being the amateur hunter that I am, he seemed more excited than I was last year when I got my first deer. I can’t explain how, but he has a way of putting so much excitement and intention into his words that gets me, and everyone around, amped up; even on the mornings later in the week where the onslaught of early mornings and long days begin to take their toll. Owney drives 29 hours (one way) to make this trip, annually; he hates planes. If you’ve heard the phrase, ‘he’d give you the shirt off his back’, this defines Owney, last year he gave me the boots off his feet because he noticed my boots were wet.

I turn to Owney’s son, “Nice to finally meet you in person,” I say, “I’m Kyle,” as I reach out for a handshake, pulling him in for the same embrace I gave his father. I had the opportunity to meet Michael Mort via email earlier in the year to point him in the right direction for an AM-15 Marksman chambered in 350 Legend in preparation for this hunt (Ohio is a straight wall cartridge only state during rifle season). Owney’s son equals instant family in my eyes so that makes this interaction similar to meeting a distant relative for the first time. The embrace ends and cuts to small talk about Owney’s driving on the way in from Arizona and how bad his gas was; he’s not talking about the truck’s fuel, either.

Michael Mort, ‘Mike’, appears as if Owney had stepped into Dr. Brown’s DeLorean and is standing next to himself in present time; definitely a no-go in the movie, but in this situation it’s good to go. Mike is an Army Reserve Veteran, same breed as us, Engineer, just of a different species, his focal was more set on building than explosives. Much like his father, in his youth, he’s currently weeding his way through life’s trials and tribulations. I don’t know much about Mike’s situation, nor is it my business, but I can’t help but realize how impressed everyone is to see him and hear the praises of, ‘he’s grown up so much’, throughout our week out there. This only verifies, to me, that he’s a fighter just like his father and has come a long way up life’s path. Growing up around Owney also gives Mike the edge of having access to a plethora of outdoorsman knowledge and a contagious positive outlook.

With all the action and rustling around inside, that same old roar of tires coming up the drive resonates amongst us, everything pauses. “There he is,” Deuce says as he takes a nip of his coffee. Owney and Mike head over to catch up with Mrs. Paidousis at her table, the engine kills, two door slams and the barn door swings open with force. “Kernsy!... Oh, wait… it’s baby Kerns!” The pitter-patter of small feet fills the entry, it’s Gunnar, Kerns’ seven-year-old son. Gunnar is sharp as a tac, advanced intelligence-wise compared to any seven-year-old boy I’ve ever encountered. He admires his father; this is evident in his demeanor and their interactions together. There’s further proof when he speaks, he’s so articulate and expressive in conversation. He also has absorbed a lot of information about hunting, fishing and the outdoors because he’s always tagging along with Kernsy.

“We’re setting up in the blind today and we’re gonna get a BIG one, ain’t that right, Dad!?” Gunnar declares.

“I hope so. You got your lucky coin?” Kerns interjects.

Gunnar rebuttals, “Couldn’t find it, but I know it’s in the truck somewhere, but the luck has a range of 1,000 acres!”

“Should be all good, then.” Kerns remarks as a smile stretches across his face.

Corporal Joshua Kerns (retired), Kernsy, has a Wyatt Earp-esque look about him and, to me, he’s the toughest one of the bunch. One fateful day in southern Afghanistan, April, 2011, Kerns’ platoon was tasked with clearing a bizarre of improvised explosive devices (IED’s). In the course of this mission, Kerns was sweeping with his mine detector when an IED detonated on him taking his legs and right arm. Deuce’s brother-in-law, Staff Sergeant Jason Rogers, was in Kerns’ platoon and on that mission with him. As the Marines and Corpsman hustled to set security and render first aid to Kernsy, Staff Sergeant Rogers began dialing up a nine-line (medical evacuation request) and subsequently began sweeping to his vehicle to grab a stretcher. In this process, Staff Sergeant Rogers initiated an IED that would prove to be a fatal hit. A fatal hit that would rock our entire batallion. For any run-of-the-mill man, like myself, that would’ve been it for me; not Kerns, though. He carries on with an unbreakable spirit. My admiration for him soars above any man I’ve met in my life; he overcame everything and found his peace in the great outdoors. Whenever I feel stagnant, or that I’m losing the war to my personal demons, I often think about Kerns and that helps me to power through.

Kernsy, like the rest of us, has a kind of sick, twisted sense of humor, he caps on himself as much as he does us. He’s a great, patient father to his son and daughter and an amazing husband to his wife (I use the word ‘amazing’ here because I got a sneak peek at her Christmas gift on this trip). He’s from Virginia and makes the drive every year as well. He didn’t grow up hunting, but one would think he did based off his knowledge and expertise. Kerns doesn’t depend on any type of special equipment besides maybe a tripod every now and again, he climbs any tree stand, walks through any terrain during any weather, he’s the embodiment of what defines a huntsman. Much like the rest of us, he’s out here to feel that camaraderie again and soak in all of nature’s therapeutic qualities.

“Well, boys, sunrise ain’t getting’ any further away. We’d better step.” Deuce directs as he slides another warming layer on and snatches his orange vest and rifle. The temperature was in the mid-twenties and wasn’t too disheartening, but when that wind picked up, it would send you into a shiver instantly. I threw my vest over me, grabbed my AM-15 Marksman, told everyone good luck, and set out for my destination...

Check out Huntsmen: Part Two...