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Vegans and hippies won’t enjoy this post.

Friday, I went to a cabin in the woods for a weekend hunting trip with my dad, my brother, and a few other people.

My wife didn’t think it’s a good idea.   In fact, she was terrified that I’d  walk into the woods and come out in a body bag.

Statistically, it’s safe.  Out of 12.5 million hunters, there are only around 100 fatal hunting accidents every year.   I think I went hunting for the first time when I was 12, and continued to do so until I was 17, then life started interfering.

That doesn’t matter.  By definition phobias aren’t rational.  She’s worried and stressing hard.

If she’s had such a hard time with it, why did I go?

First, I asked her six months ago if she’d be all right with the trip.  I knew she had some phobias, and have–in fact–tried to make the trip before.   Six months ago, she said yes.  It was a bit late to back out after I’ve committed to a share of the cabin, bought the bright orange gear, and agreed to drive my brother.

The second reason was more important.

This is one of the few things my dad and I both enjoy.    I’m a geek, he’s not.    I dig horror and sci-fi, he’s into westerns.

But we both enjoy hunting.  The first time he treated me like an adult was the first year we went hunting together, 15 years ago.

My dad taught me to be the man I am.   Without him, I have no idea who I’d be or what I’d be doing.   My integrity, my work ethic, and my moral code can all be traced to the things he taught me.

This is my chance to spend time with him and have a good time with no TV or whiny kids interfering.

Trading this for a few days of stress at home is something I’m willing to do.