The Gift of Nature

Growing up, time with my dad was measured not in hours, but in weekends — and always somewhere in the Great Outdoors.
He worked as a traveling salesman, often gone for stretches of the week, but when he was home, his attention turned entirely to the wild. Every weekend, every vacation, was devoted to hunting, fishing, hiking, or simply breathing in the quiet pulse of nature.

To say that hunting and fishing are his passions is an understatement. My dad is a true outdoorsman — skilled, patient, and reverent toward the land. He understands the rhythms of wildlife the way most people understand traffic patterns or morning routines. He knows where the deer will bed down, where the fish will rise, and which way the wind will carry a scent.

I grew up on game meat and walleye, meals that carried the taste of rivers, forests, and early mornings. From as far back as I can remember, my brother and I were part of his outdoor world. Winters found us bundled in the ice shack, sipping hot chocolate while we watched the lines and dashed out to check the tip-ups. Sometimes he’d tie a sled to the back of the truck and tow us across the frozen lake, our laughter echoing into the crisp air.

We were no strangers to mischief, either. Once, when I was about five or six, Dad warned me to stay away from the fishing holes. Naturally, I stomped right through one. My leg plunged through the ice up to my hip, and I stood there — soaked, freezing, and horrified. I didn’t want him to find out, but there’s no hiding a leg encased in lake water. I don’t remember him yelling, but now, as a parent myself, I can almost hear his inner voice saying, “What a doob.”

Our hunting days began on farmland, plinking gophers that dug dangerous holes in the fields. As a pediatrician now, I know they carried the bubonic plague — but as a kid, I was simply proud to hold one up by its tiny feet for a photo.

In my teens, I graduated to bigger adventures — turkey, mule deer, antelope. Dad favored his bow, but I carried a .243 rifle or a 20-gauge shotgun, depending on the hunt. We spent long, dusty days walking the Missouri Breaks, scanning ridges for movement. By the time we returned to camp, I was ravenous — and to this day, I swear that cold Albertson’s fried chicken and a banana remains one of the best meals of my life.

One hunt stands out vividly. It was turkey season, and we were sitting quietly on the side of a hill when a magnificent tom appeared — feathers fanned, chest puffed, sunlight catching every color in his plumage. He was breathtaking. With a single, clean shot, Dad brought him down, and the bird collapsed like a balloon losing air. I can still feel the rush of emotions that flooded through me: awe, shock, sadness, gratitude, and a deep, complicated reverence for life.

That moment marked me.
It taught me the sacred balance between life and death, between taking and giving back. It also shaped the path I would later walk — one of healing, rather than hunting.

While I fully respect the hunt — for sustainability, for stewardship, for feeding our families — I’ve chosen not to be the one behind the trigger. My husband now joins my dad on his hunts, and our family still enjoys the bounty of their efforts. But for me, the joy lies in being an observer — in feeling the quiet awe of wild spaces untouched by man, in casting a line into still water, in honoring the rhythm of the natural world without interrupting it.

From my dad, I inherited so much: a love of the Earth, a respect for its creatures, a reverence for sustainable living, and a deep appreciation for the peace found only under open sky.

What I left behind was the hunt itself.
But what remains — the bond, the memories, the quiet gratitude — those are the real inheritance.
And I carry them with me always.