With Father's Day approaching, I always honor my grandfather, Richard Tweed Sr. Not only was he the most influential person in my life in a father figure role, but he is the reason I enjoy the outdoor world.

He taught me to hunt, shoot, and fish at a very young age — but more than that, he inspired me to pass that knowledge on to my own children and to others as well. This past year I started a scholarship in his name for kids in my JOAD program to help them with equipment and archery needs as they build their careers in the sport.

My grandfather is the reason I work in this industry, own a company in this industry, and spend all my free time in the outdoors. The hunting memory that stays with me most was my second rabbit hunt. I thought using his gun would make me a better hunter, so my grandfather traded with me — he took my single hammer-action youth gun and handed me the double barrel. Not only did he outshoot me, but he proved once and for all that it's not the gun. It's the operator.

I will always remember him as the best trainer and mentor a kid could have, and I look to pass on every bit of the knowledge and wisdom he gave me.

My dad is the reason I became the hunter I am today. He started taking me hunting when I was young, and some of my earliest memories are sitting beside him learning to be still, be patient, and respect the outdoors. He was there when I killed my first deer — a doe with a muzzleloader when I was still in elementary school — and he was the one who took me to get my first turkey.

I killed that turkey with his Mossberg 835, and if you've ever shot one, you know that thing kicks like a mule. But when there's a turkey on the ground, you don't feel a thing.

Those moments were more than first harvests. They were lessons in confidence, responsibility, and tradition. Before deer and turkey became such a big part of my life, my dad took us rabbit hunting with beagles. Those dogs were part of everyday life, and making sure they were fed and watered was one of our first responsibilities. Looking back, he was teaching us long before we realized it — showing us that hunting wasn't just about the harvest. It was about taking care of your animals, doing the work, and respecting the process.

My granddaddy was always part of those memories too — there to congratulate me, tell me how great my harvest was, and remind me how proud he was. He would even give my dad a hard time and say mine was bigger. Those little moments of laughter and pride are ones I'll carry forever.

Growing up on a cattle farm, there was always work to be done. But through it all, my dad instilled in me the want to be outside. This Father's Day, I'm thankful for a dad who brought me along, taught me the work behind the lifestyle, and gave me a love for hunting and the outdoors that I still carry with me today.

Big shoutout to my dad for raising me the way he did and for instilling a passion for hunting into my life. Some of my best memories, lessons, and values came from time spent in the woods. Grateful for every early morning, every story, and everything you taught me along the way.

I haven't always been a hunter, although my entire life, my dad has been one. Some of my earliest memories are of watching him prepare for hunting season — organizing gear in the basement, sighting in his bow, and checking trail camera pictures. Hunting wasn't just something he did; it was part of who he was.

For years, I was simply an observer. I celebrated his successes, flipped through his photo albums, and was always the first one out the door when he pulled into the driveway with a deer in the truck. What I didn't realize then was that he was teaching me lessons that extended far beyond hunting — patience, perseverance, hard work, and respect for the outdoors.

After college, I began working at Cabela's headquarters in Sidney, Nebraska — a career path my dad certainly encouraged. Through that experience, I found myself connecting with something that had always been a significant part of his life. And there blossomed a new chapter in our relationship that had been subconsciously in the background the entire time.

My dad never pressured me to hunt. He simply led by example. When my husband and I moved to Wisconsin, bought a home with some land, and I was given a hand-me-down bow from my dad, my own hunting journey began. In just five years of bowhunting, I've learned lessons that reach far beyond the woods — patience, resilience, gratitude, and the value of slowing down.

More importantly, it has helped me better understand my dad — his passion, his dedication, and the values that have shaped him throughout his life. Whether we're sharing trail camera photos, swapping stories, or talking strategies throughout the season, hunting has given us a connection that continues to grow year after year.

So, thank you, Dad. Thank you for the lessons, the guidance, and the example you've set. The older I get, the more I realize that hunting is never really about the harvest. It's about growth, experiences, family, and embracing God's world.

By the time I came along — the baby of nine — my dad had already lived a few lifetimes. Twenty-one years in the Navy, stationed in city after city, our family packing up and chasing him across the country. Then another twenty-two years in the airline industry. A man like that earns the right to put his feet up on the weekends. My dad spent his getting us into the woods and out on the water instead.

We settled in Waconia, a small Minnesota town, in a house right on the lake. That water hooked me early — I always wanted to be out fishing it. But it was the land that really did it. Dad had bought forty acres of good hunting ground about an hour north, and on fall weekends he'd load us up and take us walking those woods after deer.

The hunting was always a success, whether we filled a tag or not. Some mornings we'd barely see a thing, and it never mattered. There's no better place to be than the woods in the fall, and Dad made sure we knew it.

One of the things I remember most as a kid was being treated to a fresh cinnamon roll on our morning break. We'd duck into the local bakery — Dad with his coffee, me with a juice — and to a kid, that warm roll felt like the best part of the whole day. It's etched in my brain. These days I do many of the same things with my own sons, because it was never just about the treat. It gave us time to sit together and talk through our strategy for the rest of the day before heading back out to chase whitetail.

The years we did get one, we'd take it to the local meat locker for processing. That tradition is still going. We still put wild game on the table all winter long, the same way we always have.

Dad is 89 now. I'm 46. These days we get together and trade the stories — the trips, the lessons, all that time in the woods and on the water together. I wouldn't change a single piece of it.

On this Father's Day, I want to honor all the dads — and especially mine — for introducing me to the outdoors and to the things that make us feel alive. He didn't just show us how to hunt and fish. He made sure we tried it all.

Thanks, Dad. I love you.

My dad is the reason I'm a hunter today.

He was taking me hunting long before I was old enough to go on my own. Hunting was always his quiet time, a chance to escape and enjoy the outdoors. That changed when I started tagging along.

Dad has been there for all of my hunting firsts — my first deer, first turkey, and first duck. Those are memories I'll carry with me forever. I can still remember him shaking me awake before daylight because I never wanted to get out of bed. In fact, I probably wouldn't have harvested my first turkey if he hadn't been there to wake me up after I had fallen asleep on the ground.

From sitting together in the duck blind, where he still manages to outshoot me, to doubling up on turkeys this spring, we've shared countless moments that neither of us will ever forget. Those hunts were about much more than filling tags. They were opportunities to learn.

Along the way, Dad taught me patience. He taught me how to listen, how to pay attention to the signs around me, and how to adapt to every situation. Looking back, I realize many of those lessons weren't just about hunting — they were lessons for life.

My dad has shaped me into the person I am today. He's coached me through sports, guided me through school, and helped me navigate life's challenges. Hunting was never about the size of the buck or the number of birds we harvested. It was about making memories, spending time together, and developing a deeper appreciation for the outdoors.

This Father's Day, I'm thankful for a dad who has made me a better hunter and, more importantly, a better person. He's someone I've always looked up to, and someone I'll continue to learn from, hunt with, and be grateful for years to come.

I was ten years old the first time my dad, Robert Williams, handed me a bow. I remember the weight of it — the way it felt both foreign and right in my hands, like I was holding something I didn't yet know I needed. He didn't make a big production of it. He just looked at me, adjusted my grip, and said, "Now let's go learn something." Little did I know that morning shooting at an archery target would change my life.

My dad had a way of teaching that never felt like teaching. He didn't lecture — he showed. He'd rise before first light, move through timber without a sound, and read the land like a language he'd spoken his whole life. I'd trail behind him, watching everything, trying to absorb it all — the way the wind shifted through the hollows, where the deer bedded, and how to still your breathing and your mind at the same moment. He was patient in the way that only fathers and forests can be.

He didn't just teach me to hunt. He taught me to pay attention — to the land, to the season, and to the quiet things most people walk right past.

The lessons went far beyond archery form and shot placement. Out there in the early morning woods, my dad taught me respect — for wildlife, for wild places, and for the discipline it takes to earn them. He taught me that the outdoors rewards the prepared and the patient, and that the best hunts are often the ones that end without a shot taken. Some of those childhood mornings, we'd sit in the timber for hours and come home with nothing but cold hands and full hearts. I didn't understand it then. I understand it completely now.

Every stand I climb today, every arrow I nock, every autumn dawn I sit watching the woods come alive — I carry him with me. The outdoorsman I've become is a direct reflection of what he poured into me at ten years old, on those mornings when he could've slept in but chose to take his kid into the woods instead. That's the kind of dad he is. That's the gift he gave me.

So this Father's Day, Dad — thank you. Thank you for the early mornings, the muddy boots, the long sits, and the quiet walks. Thank you for handing me that bow and showing me a world I never would have found on my own. You made me a bowhunter. More than that, you made me someone who knows how to be still, how to be present, and how to find peace in the wild. There is no better gift a father could give.

This Father's Day, I want to honor my dad, Keith — a true sportsman and an even better father.

Dad, thank you for your Godly influence, your guidance, and for introducing me to the outdoors from such a young age. From weekends on the lake to early-morning hunts — even when you had to drag me out of bed — those memories shaped who I am.

Thank you for every sacrifice you've made for our family and for all the patience you showed, especially when I was loud in the deer stand or constantly tangling my fishing line.

Love you, Dad!

Some of my favorite memories don't happen in the woods — they happen on the water. Growing up, my dad and I had a tradition: fishing trips, every couple of years, just us. And every single time, I remember being so excited to get a new reel and finally get to cast it out — and then beat him in catching the most fish. I always win. Every time. He knows it.

Whether we were heading to the beach or taking a boat out into deep water, it didn't matter. No agenda, no rush. Just the water, the rods, and a little friendly competition with my dad. Those trips taught me more than how to cast a line. They taught me patience, presence, and what it means to just be with someone you love.

Now we're planning the next chapter — adding my daughter Jru to our fishing trips. Three generations on the water. I can already picture her reaction when she finds out she gets her own reel — and I have a feeling she's going to give me a run for my money too.

To my dad — thank you for every trip, every cast, and every fish I caught more than you. I'm just following your lead, and now I get to pass it on.

Love you Eddie!

The alarm always went off while the rest of the world was asleep. In late fall, that early morning chill would make anyone want to stay in bed. But for me, it was Christmas morning — the opening day of deer season.

My dad would always wake me the same way. With a loud voice he would say, "Boy, if you are going with me, you better get up and get ready!" He thought he was waking me up, but what he didn't know was that I had not slept a wink. It was awfully hard to sleep with the excitement inside of me — and the fact that I had put my hunting clothes on instead of pajamas the night before.

Looking back, that childhood secret makes me laugh, but it also highlights a deeper truth about my hunting career. I wasn't just eager to hunt; I was desperate to accompany my dad. In those early days, hunting wasn't about harvest. It was about validation. Being invited into my dad's world made me feel incredibly important. When you are a kid, the woods are a big, scary place in the dark — very intimidating. But walking behind my dad, seeing how he just walked straight into the darkness, I never felt any safer.

Those cold mornings shaped my entire work ethic and passion for the outdoors. Dad taught me to love the outdoors, the value of patience, and the discipline it takes to sit still for hours. Every successful hunt I have today is built on the foundation of those early morning wake-up calls.

Time, however, has a way of shifting the roles we play in the woods. The man who once carried me through the darkness now walks a little slower. These days our hunting trips look a little different — we don't walk as far or up ridges, and what we bring has changed from necessity to comfort: things to keep him a little warmer and a little steadier. The roles have reversed. Now I am the one leading the way.

The focus of the hunt has changed for me too. It's no longer about the harvest — it's about the time spent outdoors with him. It's about the conversation and seeing what candies he's going to pull out of his jacket pocket next. Every hunting trip I get to share with him now is a victory in itself. He might move a little slower, but the love for the outdoors and his passion to hunt is still as strong as when I was a boy following him through the darkness.

Dad, thank you for instilling this love for the outdoors in me. I look forward to a hunt this fall.

Growing up in New Jersey, the changing of the seasons wasn't just marked by the calendar — it was marked by the anticipation of being outside with my dad. Some of the happiest, most vivid memories of my childhood are rooted in the crisp, quiet mornings spent alongside him.

He was the one who taught me the patience required for whitetail hunting. He showed me how to read the woods, how to respect the animal, and how to sit perfectly still in the freezing dawn — even when my toes were numb and my young mind was racing.

When spring rolled around, the lessons shifted to the art of turkey hunting. There is nothing quite like the electric thrill of hearing a Jersey longbeard gobble through the morning fog — a sound made even better because my dad was right there next to me to share it. He didn't just teach me how to work a call or where to set up; he taught me to appreciate the stillness of the woods before the world woke up.

While my dad mastered my introduction to the woods, it was my grandfather who gave me a permanent, lifelong case of the fishing bug. Grandpa had a way of making every single trip to the water feel like a grand adventure. He possessed that legendary patience that only grandfathers seem to have. Whether we were rigging up lines, untangling the inevitable knots I'd cause, or waiting out a stubborn walleye or pickerel bite, his enthusiasm never wavered.

He taught me that fishing wasn't just about the numbers or the size of the catch — it was about the rhythm of the water, the stories told between casts, and the quiet camaraderie of sharing a shoreline. That bug he passed down to me never left. To this day, every time I tie on a lure, I'm right back there with him.

Some of the fondest, most vivid memories — calling in that first bird, or catching sockeye in remote Alaskan rivers and lakes — center around my father and grandfather. Thank you both for building that part of me.