Entry #2 – Father, Hunter, Teacher
Diaries of a Father
Before becoming a father, I often envisioned the kind of man I wanted to be. I saw myself as someone who would walk a lifelong path of personal growth – relentlessly pursuing competence and self-mastery. I wanted to offer my future children the tools and knowledge to navigate the world with confidence, to separate themselves from the herd. My hope was that my ambitions would reflect onto them, shaping them into capable, self-sufficient humans – people who could take care of themselves and be useful to others, whether out of compassion or responsibility.
It wasn’t just about hands-on ability. It was about emotional awareness – teaching them to sit with their thoughts and feelings, to understand and control them rather than hide from them. Benevolence, empathy, compassion, discipline, and reverence for pursuits that don’t come easy. These are the lessons my mother passed on to me, and the ones I hope to embody and pass down to them.
I’ve been hunting for three seasons now. I started this journey to build competence, to become a capable man and an aspiring father in an area I felt I lacked: the primal ability to provide for the ones I love.
Early on, I understood that taking the life of an animal demands deep respect and skill. I wanted to become the most ethical hunter I could be, and I knew that meant earning it. I spent hundreds of hours becoming that person – countless days at the range mastering my rifle, studying my optics, and learning every mechanical detail. Then came the bow. I attended training classes to understand the evolution of the bow and arrow and how each type worked differently. I settled on the compound bow and learned its geometry, physics, and discipline until every shot felt like an extension of my focus – until the arrow’s flight mirrored my intent.
My first two hunting seasons were long and humbling. Whenever I could, I left my big-city life behind and headed north into the Ontario bush – often for twelve hours straight, back-to-back days, from sunup to sundown. In the beginning, the stillness felt almost boring, even daunting when you added freezing temperatures. But over time, the silence started to speak. I began learning the language of the land – reading game trails, signs, ridges, valleys, and the way wind and scent moved through them. Eventually, I became enamoured with it all – the quiet beauty, the whispering secrets that only reveal themselves when your mind is still and your focus sharp. I learned to love the climb, following game trails up ridges just to see what waited on the other side. I rarely found what I was looking for, and in that process, I learned patience – the kind that only failure and persistence can teach.
Those empty-handed days built a reverence that no easy success ever could. I almost pity those who find luck early. They miss the quiet education of the wilderness – the long hours, the silence, and the confrontation with one’s own mind. The forest has a way of forcing you to listen. If you’re willing to embrace it, it becomes a mirror – one that reflects every thought you try to outrun.
I couldn’t have walked this path alone. I owe much to the people who took me under their wing – those who shared their knowledge, their stories, and their respect for the land. I was told a story about their family’s history – how the grandfather came to Canada from England in the early 1900s after fighting in the First World War and was granted land for his service. He married a Métis woman, and together they began a family line that has remained part of the Métis Nation for five generations, with the recent arrival of a newborn son carrying that legacy forward. That same land still belongs to their family today – passed down from father to son. Standing beside him while we processed my first deer, listening to him speak about that lineage, I felt the weight of time – of what it means to preserve something that long. It reminded me that what we learn, build, and pass down isn’t just for us; it’s for those who come after.
Their teachings went far beyond technique. They showed me a way of seeing the world rooted in respect, honour, and humility. They taught me the full cycle of the hunt – how to track, understand behaviour, make an ethical kill, field-dress, and process the animal so that nothing was wasted. They showed me that hunting isn’t just about taking; it’s about giving back – acknowledging the life you take and the responsibility that comes with it. Their generosity and hospitality left a mark on me that I’ll carry for life. From them, I learned that true competence isn’t just about skill; it’s about reverence – for the land, the animal, and the lessons that only time and patience can teach.
So when success finally came this season, it wasn’t luck – it was competence earned through patience and guidance. Luck, in truth, is simply opportunity meeting preparation. Taking a life to provide for my loved ones was a profound honour – a moment that felt ancient and sacred.
I look forward to walking the land for the rest of my able-bodied life – learning its rhythms, exploring new terrains, and continuing to understand the animals that give their lives so that we may live ours. More than anything, I hope that one day my soon-to-be-born son will allow me to pass this knowledge on to him, and he to his children, continuing a legacy of respect, skill, and gratitude.
This wasn’t just a hunt. It was a spiritual awakening – the art of something ancient and sacred.
– Written by Michael Brion
