The Gate I Grew Up On: Returning to the Farm That Taught Me to Hunt

The Gate I Grew Up On: Returning to the Farm That Taught Me to Hunt

It had been sixteen years since I last walked through that rusted gate. The padlock was new. The fence line freshly strung. But the cottonwoods? The scent of the dust? The quiet, waiting stillness of the cover? That hadn’t changed. I wasn’t here to hunt that morning—not really. I was here to stand on the ground that shaped who I became as a hunter, a steward, and a son.

🌾 The Land That Made Me

It was never a lease. Never managed. Just a piece of family ground passed down from a time when every kid hunted, and every rooster was chased with a single-shot 20-gauge.

Here’s what I learned on this ground:

• How to read the wind by watching milkweed drift

• How to flush birds with my feet, not just my voice

• How to slow down—not because the birds demanded it, but because the land deserved it

“We didn’t call it habitat then. We just called it ‘the back pasture.’”

🐦 The Birds Are Still There—But Different

On this return trip, I didn’t carry a gun. I carried binoculars and memories.

• A lone rooster flushed at the same windbreak my dad missed a double in ’98

• A covey of quail held tight under the shadow of the old pumpjack

• Doves fluttered where sunflowers had self-seeded after the drought

The game was there. Scarcer, warier. But still there.

Because the land had been left alone. Cared for. Not developed, not sold. Just kept.

🧠 What This Place Still Teaches Me

• Access is generational – If we don’t protect it, we don’t pass it

• Stewardship isn’t showy – It’s fence mending, weed clearing, and walking your property when no one’s watching

• You don’t have to hunt a place to love it – Just visiting with intent is enough

• Tradition starts with one gate – The first you open alone, and the one you hold for someone else

“The best hunting grounds aren’t measured in acres. They’re measured in memories.”

🧢 Gear for a Sentimental Scout

The gate creaked the same way it did when I was ten. The tracks in the dust might’ve been mine. The land didn’t ask for much—just a visit, some quiet, and the promise that it still matters.

“If you’re lucky, you’ll find a place that taught you everything—and let it teach you again.”