They call him “The Apprentice” because he has been my personal assistant for all things hunting and fishing since he was knee high to a Shetland pony. He went on his first elk hunt when he was not quite six months old, wearing his first snowsuit and riding on mom’s back as we packed three elk off a high park in the Wind Rivers. His first word came when he and his mom and dad were living here with us while they tried to find a house in Cheyenne. I don’t recall how old he was, but the word was “elk” and it came to him after a long time of thoughtfully studying the six-point antlers on the wall. The year his dad killed the bull in Two Elk Meadow, he was there to help haul it out with his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack. He carried his share. I think he was five. He scored his Cutt-Slam when he was nine, finishing up with a 20” Bonneville cutt that I would have killed for. He’s not scared to work and he’s not scared to walk. And his life is what I wish every ten-year old boy could live – a fishing rod, a .22 and a love for God, Mom and wild country. He’s my grandson.

On Saturday, we worked hard to get him on some mountain grouse. It’s been a dry year in our country, and it was hard hunting. But he never complained. He just packed the little single-shot .410 up one ridge and down the next until the rain drove us back to the truck. He was disappointed that we were rained out, but he knew that nobody in the last four generations of desert-dwelling Gassons had ever cussed the rain, so he grudgingly called it a day. He was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Monday morning when we headed out again. Hope springs eternal. Down the road from the cabin into the high desert, up the same two-track road that I hunted when I was his age. Park the truck in the aspens and start the hike up the old jeep road in the soft light of early morning. Again, up one ridge and down another until we topped out. We talked about all the landmarks from Temple Peak to Triple Peak. I might have even told a story or two. But on the way back, everything changed.

It came unexpectedly, as change almost always does. The dog flushed three ruffed grouse out of the willows, and Connor killed one on the first shot. The dog brought it back to Uncle Mark, and he handed it to Connor still warm and fluttering. I watched him. His excitement was undeniable. He was the picture of 10 year-old joy. But what I was looking for was something deeper. The reverence that comes with taking the life of something you love as much as you love the country in which it lives. Our eyes met and I felt it. I knew. He’s a hunter.

Walt Gasson is the director of the Endorsed Business Program at Trout Unlimited. He lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming