Every other article I read these days first prophesies the death of hunting and then offers easy to follow instructions on how to interest your child – or someone else’s – in the outdoors. Until recently, I’ve paid little attention to these articles.
Nearly three years ago, I was named the winner of Blaser’s and Sporting Classics’ Short Story Contest (sportingclassicsdaily.com/winner-blaser-contest). The contest’s writing prompt was, “Hunting has a future because . . .” and I answered it with, “Because I have a son.”
I detailed in that short story some of the plans I had for sharing with my son a love for the outdoors – plans my own father had shared with me – never dreaming that he wouldn’t be the least bit excited about the prospect.
Truth is, my son would much rather play video games all day. Not that he’s allowed to, mind you, but that’s what he’d prefer. In fact, that’s the best leverage I’ve got nowadays. If I promise him an extra fifteen minutes of game time, I can generally get him to check trail cameras with me.
Today, I told my son I’d let him play a little extra if he’d go with me to retrieve a blind I’d forgotten in the deer woods. On the way, I let him know that I intended to show him his way around a centerfire rifle. He’s shot a BB gun like most kids his age, and he’s snugged his cheek into the stock of a .22, but he’s never pulled the trigger on a centerfire rifle. I told him this was going to be the year.
He responded with a ‘no thanks.’
I let him know I wasn’t asking him, I was telling him. When he asked why, I shared with him my belief that the world in which he’s growing up would unfortunately necessitate such knowledge and familiarity. He then asked if we could wait until he was a teenager.
It finally struck me that my son is finding his way in a world that is actively pressuring him to steer clear of the very things I hold dear. I realized, maybe for the first time and hopefully not too late, that I was going to have to work to interest him in what had come so naturally to me – a love for the outdoors.
So, on a hunch, I began to talk about the anatomy of a rifle, working from butt plate to bolt handle to barrel and back again. His curiosity clearly piqued, I described firing pins and primers, guessing that the centerfire rifle’s mechanics would appeal to his Minecraft-obsessed mind. It worked. Our conversation eventually petered out, but my own thoughts were racing, planning and plotting my next move.
By the time we got home, he was itching to play video games almost as badly as I was itching from the chigger bites I’d received collecting that blind. I was a little disappointed that he wasn’t pestering me to go ahead and pull a rifle out of the gun safe, but I felt hopeful as I punched in the security code to retrieve his game console.
We may not have that rifle sighted in yet, but we’re taking aim.