Just like former Bills Coach Sean McDermott, my dad taught me that life and learning to do things right is a process. You don’t master it all at once; you learn it knot by knot, campfire by campfire, and mistake by mistake. That’s how many of us learned the outdoors, long before “outdoor skills” came in plastic packages or instructional videos.

I was lucky. My parents believed in the outdoor life because it wasn’t a hobby—it was survival. My dad was a World War II veteran. Both of my parents lived through the Great Depression. Waste was a sin, fixing things was normal, and learning to do it yourself wasn’t optional.

We farmed. We grew our food. We canned the harvest. We raised chickens. If something broke, you repaired it or went without. That mindset followed us into the woods and onto the water.

Fishing meant learning knots before you ever touched the water. We cast level-wind Bronson reels spooled with 30-pound Dacron, that’s the only “good line” they sold back then. There was no monofilament yet. Leader line was called catgut. Our tackle boxes held hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and live bait—no fancy lures unless you were wealthy, and we weren’t. Most tackle shops didn’t carry much anyway, which saved us from temptation.

Archery was no different. My dad bought a 54-pound Bear recurve bow and told me I’d “grow into it.” I was eight years old. He was right. By 10, I was taking rabbits and pheasants—though I could only draw the bow about 10 or 12 inches. That was enough from fifteen feet if you learned stalking, patience, and camouflage. My camo? Charcoal from last night’s campfire. Cheap. Effective. Washable.

Camping didn’t mean week-long vacations. We did one-night trips. Short, simple, and just uncomfortable enough to teach you what mattered. Fire. Shelter. Food. Staying dry. Paying attention. Those trips taught my sister and me that if we ever had to survive outdoors, we could.

We made our own sinkers. We tied flies. We built arrows using real chicken feathers—because that’s what we had. Looking back, we didn’t know we were learning resilience. We just thought we were having fun.

Of course, we weren’t saints. If I forgot to cut the grass, my dad’s patience disappeared faster than a bobber under a hungry bass. Responsibility came with the territory. I was the oldest. First kids always learn the hard way. My younger brother had it easier—but he learned the same lessons.

We played baseball in the summer, but games were on weeknights. Weekends were for fishing, hunting, and being outside. Sundays? That was another “no” back then. Funny how times change—kids play year-round now, often indoors, often glued to screens.

And that’s the challenge today.

Kids haven’t changed. Curiosity hasn’t changed. Adventure hasn’t changed. What’s changed is time. In many families, both parents work. Free weekends are rare. Distractions are everywhere, and the outdoors has competition it never had before.

That’s why conservation clubs matter more now than ever.

They provide structure. They provide mentors. They turn “someday” into scheduled youth fishing days, archery clinics, camping weekends, and hunter education courses. They offer kids something priceless: focused time with adults who care and know how to pass along skills safely and responsibly.

Supporting these clubs doesn’t always mean writing a big check. It can mean volunteering an afternoon. Donating equipment. Sponsoring a youth event. Helping fund an annual calendar so families can plan ahead. Even showing up matters—kids notice when adults invest time.

The process still works. Teach one knot. Build one fire. Spend one night under the stars. Confidence grows from there.

We didn’t have much money growing up, but we were rich in lessons. Tough lessons. Useful lessons. The kind that stay with you long after the Kool-Aid is gone and the Ovaltine jokes wear thin.

If we want today’s kids to discover the adventure, responsibility, and joy of the outdoors, we need to meet them where they are—and give them a path forward. That path starts with all of us, one youth event at a time.

Gotta love the outdoors.