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.

The Life of my Incredible Friend, Russ Johnson

Russ was born in Buffalo during the Great Depression, a time that forged a generation marked by ingenuity, patience, and self-reliance. As Buffalo grew between World War I and World War II, Russ grew alongside it—learning life not only in classrooms, but on the banks of the Niagara River. As a boy, he learned to fish there, catching blue pike in the powerful currents, developing an early respect for water, wildlife, and the quiet discipline required to succeed outdoors. That discipline stayed with him for the rest of his life.

From a young age, Russ showed an extraordinary aptitude for electronics. He built crystal radios and ham radio transmitters when most kids were still figuring out how things worked. He didn’t just want devices to function—he wanted to understand why they worked. That curiosity matured into a career that placed him at the center of some of the most important technological efforts of the 20th century.

Russ became a highly respected electronic technician at Bell Aerospace, where he worked during the early days of the American rocket industry. There, he collaborated with Werner von Braun and other pioneers whose work laid the foundation for modern space exploration. Russ was never one to talk himself up, but those who knew his work understood his value. He brought calm logic, careful data collection, and practical problem-solving to complex systems where failure was not an option. Later, at Moog, Inc., his reputation only grew. When engineering teams hit a wall, Russ was often the one who quietly solved the problem—definitively and without drama.

That same inventive mind followed him into the outdoors. Russ was a life member of the East Aurora Fish and Game Club, a dedicated deer and pheasant hunter, and an accomplished dog trainer. He approached hunting and fishing the same way he approached engineering: observe carefully, collect data, and respect the system you are working within.

Among his many innovations was what is believed to be the first electronic crow call. Russ didn’t just mimic sound—he studied crows, learned their language, and figured out how to communicate with them. He could call them in at will, not as a trick, but as the result of patient observation and understanding. He also invented an underwater temperature probe capable of detecting light penetration, allowing identification of thermoclines and mineral layers—tools far ahead of their time and deeply useful to serious anglers.

Lake Erie was one of Russ’s favorite classrooms. He loved trolling for walleye and smallmouth bass, especially with artificial lures he modified himself to dive deeper, emit underwater sound, and produce a wobble that fish found irresistible. He believed fishing was never random—it was patterned, timed, and knowable…if you paid attention.

One of his favorite sayings became legendary among those who fished with him: “They start (hitting) at 22 minutes after sundown.” Remarkably, it was often true. Evening after evening at Waverly Shoal, the bite would turn on right on schedule, as if the fish themselves were keeping Russ’s clock.

Waverly Shoal was special to us in another way too. We loved fishing it in the early mornings before work. The routine was simple and relentless: up at 3:00 a.m., launch the boat in the dark, troll Hot-N-Tots for an hour, and be back on shore by 6:00 a.m.—often with a limit of walleye—just in time to head off to work by 7. We did that twice a week through mid-summer for years. It was hard work, great fishing, and time spent with a best friend doing what we loved.

Russ also believed deeply in service. He was a Merchant Marine during WWII and member of the VFW. He volunteered there, providing taxi services for fellow military veterans who needed help getting to appointments or events. As always, he did it quietly, without recognition, because it was the right thing to do.

His greatest legacy, however, was with kids. He and his wife, Marianne, had three kids, all girls, and he loved them dearly. He was so pleased that they grew up with families and grandkids. He loved the family gatherings. For about the last 25 years in summer, Russ devoted some of his time to teaching young people how to fish through “Teach-Me-To-Fish” events at East Aurora Fish and Game, Bison City Fish and Game, Tifft Nature Preserve, and other places in Western New York. He had a gentle way about him—especially when teaching kids how to tie fishing knots. Knots that held. That simple success built confidence, and kids kept coming back to learn more. Through fishing, Russ taught patience, problem-solving, and respect for the outdoors.

Russ never raised his voice. He never argued. He was unfailingly logical, kind, and calm. Even at 96 years old, he had unending energy and a curiosity about life that never faded. He learned to eat healthy—favoring fish, fruits, vegetables, and steam cooking. His favorite meal was fittingly simple and perfect: poached or baked Lake Erie walleye.

For more than 50 years, Russ Johnson was one of my best friends. Last week, he departed for that happy hunting ground in the sky. He’ll be raising walleyes at 22 minutes after sunset to show St. Peter before the rainstorm. Even at the ripe old age of 96, his passing is deeply felt. Russ lived a life defined by positivity, invention, generosity, and a quiet commitment to sharing knowledge with others—especially kids. His legacy lives on in every knot tied, every lure modified, every young angler inspired, and every problem solved with patience, data, and grace. His conversations between us will be missed, always.

Fair winds and following seas, old friend!

Your buddy,

Dave Barus, AKA Forrest Fisher