Every hunting season begins with high expectations. Maybe this will be the year I outsmart that wary whitetail — finally get the big one. But even in the most successful seasons, as the sun sets on the last day I’m often a little relieved, somewhat disappointed, and sad all at the same time. Explaining this mixture of feelings to someone who’s not a hunter isn’t easy. I don’t know if you are born with this fierce love of the sport of hunting, but I do know it can be instilled from a very early age.

My dad was a hunting addict. He taught me if you are going to do something you give it 100%, and he modeled that in everything he’s ever done. Though my father was undoubtedly one of the most successful hunters in south Alabama, something I most admire him for is the time he spent with me in the woods. I can close my eyes today and remember what the woods looked like and how they smelled. I can never repay my dad for the time he invested in me and the sacrifices he made, but I can pass them on to my children with hopes they will pass them on to theirs.