We are moving into a time of cherished reserve in our state – hunting season. You would be hard-pressed to find someone in your personal circle who doesn’t have family members out hunting this time of year or is out themselves. It’s how most of us grew up and is a past-time that provides memories, sportsmanship and with any luck, a freezer full of meat. In many cases, these hunting trips are multigenerational events, equal parts serious sportsmanship and slapstick comedy wrapped in layers of nostalgia. Feel free to plug your own “characters” into the story because it’s no surprise our stories are likely very similar to your own.

For starters, there was Grandpa Joe, the family patriarch and self-declared hunting legend. Each year he’d break out his old rifle, ancient enough that it could’ve been used to fend off buffalo back in the day. Grandpa would give the same speech he’d been giving for the last 40 years, about how hunting was a matter of survival, not just sport. He liked to say things like, “Back in my time, a single shot meant the difference between meat on the table or eating turnips all winter.” Of course, no one dared to mention that his most recent hunting victory had been a squirrel, which, according to family lore, practically fell out of the tree from boredom.

Grandpa’s stories were part of the tradition, though, and so were Dad’s elaborate plans. Every year, Dad spent weeks poring over maps, plotting out the perfect hunting spots like a general mapping out a battlefield. With all his gear (GPS devices, rangefinders, and enough gadgets to outfit a small army) you’d think they were heading into the Alaskan wilderness, not a few miles from the family farm. And yet, somehow, they always ended up at the same land Grandpa had hunted since 1972, because “that’s where the deer are, trust me,” Grandpa would insist.

Uncle Tom was another key player. He fancied himself the greatest hunter in the family, though his nickname, Uncle “Tall Tale” Tom, told a different story. Each year, he would regale everyone with stories of the monster buck he almost bagged – “I had him in my sights, but the wind shifted!” – and each year, the buck seemed to grow a couple of points and gain another 50 pounds. The kids had long since stopped paying attention to his stories, preferring instead to place bets on how many shots he’d miss before giving up and deciding to take a nap in the truck.

Then there was Aunt Jackie, the real MVP. She didn’t go out on the hunt, but she made sure nobody went hungry. Her contribution to the annual trip was a kitchen full of food, homemade jerky, venison stew, and enough casseroles to feed an entire high school football team for the time before and after the day in the field. She’d even pack enough snacks for the field to survive the apocalypse, claiming it was necessary for “keeping up your strength.” Of course, the younger kids (and Uncle Tom) mostly raided the stash of candy and chips she tried to hide in the cooler.

In addition to being the Coffee Queen (it was always hot and fresh no matter the time), Grandma Carol played a more diplomatic role, serving as the voice of reason and unofficial referee. Though she stayed out of the actual hunt, she kept everyone on track and caffeinated while reminding Dad to double-check the gear and keeping Uncle Tom from wandering off to “scout” some suspiciously well-trodden paths.

The day itself was a well-orchestrated mix of chaos and camaraderie. Grandpa would inevitably be driving the pickup, reminiscing about the good old days. Dad would overthink his strategy, while Uncle Tom would scare off more game than he’d ever actually spot. The grandkids would tag along, always interested and waiting for the chance to mess around with the binoculars or sneak another candy bar from Aunt Jackie’s stash.

The punchline was that year after year, the bounty fluctuated but never seemed overly abundant. A pheasant here, a grouse or partridge there, and finally, the hope of filled deer tags. But that wasn’t the point. The real trophies were the stories and the memories made with friends and loved ones. The ultimate goal of the event… passing down a cherished tradition to the younger generations to carry on into perpetuity.

By the end of the day, they’d all pile back into the truck, tired and hungry, the sun setting over the plains. The ride home was filled with laughter, tall tales, and the familiar promise that next year would be the year, the one where they’d finally bag that elusive “thirty”-point buck.

Deep down though, everyone knows the truth: the best part of the hunt isn’t the game, but the time spent together and enjoying the blessings in the land God has provided for us here in North Dakota. The tradition isn’t about what you took home. It is about who you brought with you.

**This month’s story has been a collaboration with my daughter Hadyn and husband Aaron. This was a fun piece to write for that reason!

Miranda Schuler is a long-time Minot resident and lifelong North Dakotan. In Our Backyard is her unique perspective on her travels, conversations and experiences.