Last weekend, while hiking in the woods, I was surprised to realize that hunting season now includes Sundays. I was ill-prepared: tromping through the trees in a brown sweater, my dogs bounding about with no safety gear. It had been a long time since I’d been in the woods as a hunter, and somehow, I’d missed the memo.

That realization sent me down memory lane to my short and fearless stint as a hunter. The “fearless” part is said entirely tongue-in-cheek. What I did have was time with my dad, uncles, and cousins, and those hours were worth more than any trophy.

Hunting season in our family was a sacred ritual, beginning on Thanksgiving Day. The moment the pumpkin pie was served, and the plates were cleared, someone would grab a rifle and head to the woods behind the house to “shoot in” their guns, to make sure everything was working properly. I always suspected it was timed so we could dodge the mountain of dirty dishes.

Next came hunting camp, where I was usually the lone female. I didn’t mind. I loved sitting quietly while the seasoned hunters relived their greatest hunting adventures (which somehow grew more impressive every year; that six-point buck seemed to sprout a couple extra horns in the retelling). Our camp was Uncle Walter’s house deep in the Tuscarora State Forest in Blacklog Valley. “House” is a generous use of the term; it was more cabin than home: cardboard-insulated walls, decades of expired licenses on display, no running water except a creek out back with a tin cup, and a metal basin for a sink.

The bathroom was an old wooden outhouse across the yard that leaned slightly to the right. It was a two-seater, just in case. I can think of no better evidence that some situations should be handled in private.

After the stories and the cast-iron stove cooled, we’d turn in early because dawn came fast. Uncle Walter rose first and cooked a hearty breakfast on his wood-fired cook stove, and we’d head into the woods before the sun rose so we could claim the best spots. Everyone wore their plaid Woolrich hunting gear, which weighed a ton and even more when wet! I always found it funny that once it became light outside, you were rarely as alone as you thought; other hunters would appear on nearby ridges, and we’d move on to find a less populated spot.

My dad and I would head out together for what he called “stump hunting.” He made sure I was comfortable, hauling a five-gallon bucket up the mountain and building a small fire to keep me warm. My patience rarely lasted, however, and I would sling my rifle over my shoulder and stomp through the woods, my eyes peeled for movement.

Once, my dad hiked me to the very top of the mountain and told me to wait while he tried to drive deer past me. The wind whipped snow into my face, and it began to pile up. When he didn’t return as quickly as I expected, I decided I’d had enough and started down toward the cabin. I could see a cabin across the way on the opposite mountain and used it as my landmark. As the snow thickened, the cabin vanished from view and panic crept in.

Slipping and sliding down the slope, I clutched at tree branches and rocks, my heart pounding as the snow thickened around me. I had lost sight of the cabin across the ridge, and panic began to set in. Just when I thought I might be wandering forever, I stumbled into another hunter. Relief washed over me, and I did my best to hide my panic behind casual small talk, standing as straight as I could and asking if he’d seen any deer that morning.

He kindly pointed me in the right direction, and I cautiously made my way back to my uncle’s cabin, grateful for his help and silently promising myself that next time, I would be more patient and wait for my dad to return before striking out alone in a snowstorm.

On another solo trek I realized, with sinking dread, that I had left my ammunition clip an hour away at home. This meant that I only had one shot. Off I went, nervously stomping through the underbrush until a rustle announced a buck approaching. My head filled with worst-case scenarios: what if I only wounded him? What if I couldn’t drag him out alone? I hadn’t even thought about pulling the trigger before my mind spun through the possibilities. In the end, I managed to miss the deer entirely, but I did do a number on the branch above his head and watched him bound away. Even now, I laugh at my luck and at my overactive imagination. I think there was a part of me that was relieved. As much as I loved my time in the woods, I don’t know how I would have handled killing one of these graceful creatures.

One of my most cherished hunting memories was from my father’s last season in the woods. After a few quiet years without a buck, this was his year. I remember him resting against a tree for a short nap when he woke to find a five-point buck nearby. Calmly and quietly, he raised his rifle and made the shot. That moment is etched in my memory and reminds me of the many seasons we shared.

I may not have a wall of trophy antlers, but I do have a wonderful collection of better things: memories of cold mornings, shared stories around a stove, and the gentle, curmudgeonly wisdom of men who taught me how to look and to wait. Those outings taught me patience, respect for the woods, and the importance of being prepared, which includes checking your gear before you walk out the door.

For me, hunting was never just about the harvest. It was an annual lesson in family, humility, and the simple pleasures of time spent outdoors. Forgetting my clip, losing my way in a snowstorm, or missing a shot didn’t diminish those mornings; they only added color to the story. In the end, the best keepsakes from those trips aren’t antlers on a wall, but the memories that stay warm long after the stove cools.

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Rhonda S. Kelley is the executive director of the Juniata River Valley Chamber of Commerce.