Growing Up with a Hunting Dad Was a Precious Gift

If I could fashion my childhood memories into a quilt, I’d sew in a bunch of red squares to memorialize some of my brightest days as a kid.­

A red cotton T-shirt or flannel was my dad’s usual hunting shirt of choice. He’d pair it with wool pants and add a jacket and blaze orange to complete the woods-ready outfit. Back then, camo wasn’t really the trend and he seldom wore it.

My dad was a born hunter who didn’t get to actually do much hunting until he and my mom moved to Montana in their 30s. Before that move, he hunted in his dreams and studied maps to feed the fantasy. But by the time I reached toddlerhood, that fantasy was becoming reality. As our family settled into the log cabin we called home, my mom taught herself to garden and preserve food and my dad took up hunting and fishing.

Fall was my favorite part of the year, and still is today. While my mom, sister, and I harvested apples, my dad focused on harvesting meat. The smell of homemade applesauce still lingers in my mind, as does the sense of anticipation we always felt when my dad was out chasing game. Would he bring home an elk? What if he encountered a bear? Was he staying warm enough in the single-digit temperatures?

As a kid, I thought hunters were as good as heroes. Rising at the crack of dawn, creeping stealthily through the dark woods, tracking prey, and packing out a heavy animal to fill the freezer seemed enough to qualify one for hero status, if you asked me. Our family’s elation over a successful hunt could certainly confirm this designation.

Although my dad usually hunted on my birthday (which happens to be in October), he always promised to be back by nightfall so we could eat cake together. Sometimes I’d stay up way past my bedtime; but I never touched the cake until he made it home—and we always prayed that he would arrive home safely, with some meat in tow. In my heart I felt that if he brought home an animal, it would be an extra special birthday gift and blessing from God.

As I grew older, my dad taught me how to shoot, hunt, fish, and ride. While these activities felt like nothing more than fun ventures at the time, they proved to be huge confidence-boosters for me—a skinny, awkward little girl.

When I was about thirteen, I insisted on joining my dad and a couple of his friends on a four-day horseback trip in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Of course, the weather turned nasty, with rain coming down almost the whole time. At one point, the wind was blowing so fiercely that trees toppled in front of us as we tried to ride toward safety. But I loved the coziness of camp at night as we shared stories and kept warm around the fire, and I was proud of myself for enduring the forces of nature without complaint. I felt very much like a grown and competent woman.

Now that I’m actually grown (and lucky enough to be married to a hunter), I am keenly aware of the life skills I acquired by way of shared adventures with my dad. These skills were never forced on me, but rather packaged up and doled out little by little, trek by trek, hunt by hunt—a precious gift that I’m striving to share with my own kids. I will always be grateful for an upbringing that kept hunting in my blood, adventure in my soul, and mountains on my mind. Thanks, Dad.