The sweat in my Chicago Bulls t-shirt could no longer evaporate from my pre-pubescent body. We had just hiked what seemed like 100 miles across overgrown farm fields and dusty yellowish-white dirt roads. Marching to the tune of pre-teen bickering, we kept a steady pace to get to a pond we knew was nearby. The sticky summer air at that Randolph County farm pond made the neckline and sleeves of my shirt sag with malodorous moisture. We loved exploring ponds and creeks because it always seemed like their mystery usually resulted in adventure and today, we had a plan. We were going to be hunters and eat what we killed.