I was extremely fortunate as a child to have been touched by many fingerprints that guided me down a lifetime of outdoor pursuits. Great Grandma carried me into the field to check trap lines, Grandma tended the garden with me by her side, my first out-of-state hunt was with Grandpa, Dad shared the traditions of our whitetail openers, and my uncle introduced me to the booming gobble of spring longbeards. As with most experiences in life, the passing of time has opened my eyes to those remarkable childhood experiences, the wisdom that was shared, and the legacy so many individuals left in my care.
Those lessons freely given to that young boy now rest within a man, a father of daughters, and are mixed with experiences of my own gained in the field. The burden seems to weigh heavier with each hunting season to ensure I honor those who invested in me. Not in dollars, but in a way of life that spans generations that simply can’t be bought. A perpetual nagging from the past fuels a purpose within to keep aged traditions alive and ensure the flames of history remain stoked.
When the time came, I hoisted my daughters onto my shoulders and carried them, along with gear, snacks…lots of snacks, and juice, into the deer woods. Unfortunately, we never stumbled upon a whitetail blind and deaf to the continuous chatter, crinkling snack wrappers, and the smashing of leaves. As each season passed, they continued to tag along, enjoy fresh deer sausage, and absorb much more than I realized. The moment snuck up at the close of a season several years ago, like a big buck that seemingly materializes from the shadows–my youngest determined she was ready to fill her own tag.
We spent the off-season in preparation, gaining a hunter safety certification, spending time at the range, installing food plots, and clearing shooting lanes. My intention was to pave the way to a successful hunt and ensure my daughter bagged her first whitetail. As we crept ever closer to the opener, my mind raced with various scenarios of how things might unfold. A proud dad moment almost certainly awaited. I was confident we’d soon be notching a tag, reliving that memorable moment with family and friends, grinding up some fresh sausage, and banking a forever memory. “The best-laid plans of mice and men, they often go awry,” as the poet once penned down.
Our season opened on a crisp and calm November morning. The Missouri deer woods, blanketed by frost, sparkled like a sea of diamonds as the rising sun began to slice through the oaks, which had dropped their canopy weeks before. We nestled into one end of a long and narrow draw which held native grasses growing between two hardwood thickets, providing solid cover and food for deer in our area. The landscape formed a perfect corridor for whitetail on the move, a gently flowing creek slightly below us to the north and a naturally elevated bench to the south. Our opening morning hunt ended with glimpses of brown ghosts slipping effortlessly through the timber, deer skirting the shadowy edges of transitional cover, and the occasional sound of leaves rustling in the distance.
Armed with knowledge from that morning’s hunt, we quietly slipped our way further into the draw and leveraged an old brush pile as natural cover for our evening hunt. Anticipation was high as we settled in. My eyes scanned east as she faced west, ensuring the draw was covered. The warm afternoon sun melted into the western horizon and the wind all but evaporated. A hush fell over the woods and a chill nipped at our faces. A whisper broke the silence, “It’s a buck...”
I could see her eyes were locked in, following movement through the native grass. I soon heard the familiar “click” of the safety. “Breathe...take your time…” was my advice for her, and myself, in that heart-racing moment. In the end, shots were fired, and when the dust settled, there was no blood to be found. The disappointment reverberated throughout the rest of the season, and I worried whether the season’s struggle to fill a tag would diminish the long-term interest.
Failure became the fuel that inspired the follow-up season. Leading up to the opener, while checking cattle on the farm, my dad had put eyes on a buck and passed the details on to his granddaughter. Scouting the area we believed the deer were using to bed up during the day, we developed a game plan based on wind direction and available cover. Within minutes of settling in for the hunt, antlers began bobbing through the thick brushy cover heading towards our makeshift ground blind.
My heart raced, adrenaline surged, and I began whispering directions while memories of last season flooded my mind. She whispered, “Shhh, I’ve got this.” After a few slow, deep breaths followed by a gentle “click” of the safety, a shot rang out that found its mark. The bolt cycled rapidly, and within seconds, another round struck true, ensuring a quick and ethical kill.
Practice rebuilt confidence. A bit of luck never hurts, but climbing back in the saddle provided the opportunity. From a father’s perspective, through spending time in the field with my daughters, I’ve come to realize it’s imperative that we let our children fail, struggle in the pursuit, and strive to persevere. It’s those trials that forge true grit and ignite the flames of determination. The challenge to overcome instills the true value of the hunt, a lifelong respect for the animal, and, most importantly, that the true reward isn’t defined by the tag filled or limit taken.
I contend we should all be so fortunate as to witness our children fall, pick themselves back up, wipe the sweat from their brow with a sleeve, dust the dirt off with each hard lesson, and press forward into the fray. For in those moments, we will know our future remains strong, resilient, and ready to carry our legacy forward while forging a new one of their own.
Published Western Hunter - September 2025