By Graydon Vitigliano
I am a hunter. Hunting is not just something I do. It is part of who I am, passed down through generations of my family. I grew up with this family tradition every season. It is how I learned to appreciate the land, the animals, and the quiet discipline of waiting, watching, and listening. It taught me more about patience, respect, and commitment than any classroom ever could.
Long before I was able to bear the weight of a rifle, I was walking the fields at sunrise with my father and grandfather, silently observing every move they made. Even tagging along was more than enough to appreciate. We would step into the cold, quiet morning while the world still slept. Although I tried to go back to bed, I pushed through it, and I do not regret it. Those walks into the woods were not just about finding the right spot. They were moments of shared stillness. No phones, no distractions. Just the crunch of leaves under our boots, the smoke of our breath, and the morning birds whistling.
In my childhood, like many others, I wondered why we hunt if it takes away from the environment. But I learned through my family that it is about care and overseeing the environment. Hunter conservation helps manage wildlife populations and prevent the spread of disease and overgrazing. It maintains balance, not just in the environment but in ourselves. We do not hunt for trophies. We hunt with purpose, with care, and with a deep understanding of our role in the natural order. Hunting is not to shoot every animal you see but to control their population. We do not hunt fawns or yearlings, but the mature deer, it is their turn in the circle of life.
Hunting has taught me discipline and respect, from preseason to the end of the season. During the preseason, we set up stands, feeders, and cameras so we can keep a close eye on what animals visit our hunting area. Hunting is not an easy sport; it takes grit. Success does not come easily or often. You scout. You track. You notice the slightest signs, like a broken twig or a print in the mud. You watch the wind, stay still, and wait. Hours can pass in silence while you study animal activity, bushes shaking, birds chirping, or even snakes rattling. Often, you leave the woods with nothing. But those are the days that shape you. You learn that effort matters more than results. That showing up, paying attention, and trying again is where growth happens. Later, when success finally comes, it means something more. It represents the reward of patience, persistence, and respect for the process.
There is a thrill to it, no doubt. That spike of adrenaline when you catch movement in the trees or hear the soft crack of a branch. The cold disappears. Your heartbeat quickens. Your focus sharpens. But even when you take the shot, the hunt is not over. You track, you retrieve, and you honor the animal. I remember my grandfather always telling us the real responsibility begins after the shot. That part stuck with me. I searched for it using all my senses, following the blood trail, lighter blood getting darker and thicker, seeing bushes pressed down, and grass patted down, all of this to find the animal that you have been waiting for.
Some of my favorite memories come from those quiet moments after a successful hunt. I remember vividly pausing and acknowledging what had just happened. We admired the deer, admired the shot, and admired the game. Although they were not the loudest conversations, they were the deepest. We would not just celebrate it as a victory but appreciate the opportunity and the life taken. We never wasted what we harvested. We cleaned it, prepared it, and shared it with others. Often, the meals we shared afterward included people who had never hunted. But the food, the stories, and the respect behind it always brought people together. It created brotherhoods, not just within your family, but within all outdoorsmen. I remember cooking venison with my dad and sharing the food, the stories, and the lessons with everyone.
Spending time in the woods has also deepened my love for the environment. When you hunt, you notice everything. The way frost outlines every branch. The different calls of birds. The silence that comes just before a deer steps into view. Nature becomes familiar, almost like a second home. I have learned its rhythms and moods in ways you cannot from a textbook. When it’s raining, the deer like to hide out for shelter. The woods have become a classroom where I have learned patience, awareness, and humility.
Every time I step into the woods, it is a learning experience to this day. Even the unsuccessful days taught me something. They taught me that not every effort has immediate results. They reminded me that hunting is not just about bringing something home. It is about being present, observing, and learning. Those quiet mornings-built character. They taught me to value the process more than the outcome. They left me hungry, not just for another chance, but for another moment in that quiet, connected space.
This tradition passed from my grandfather to my father to my brothers and myself has shaped the person that I am. It has given me a sense of purpose, discipline, and identity. Hunting has never been just about animals. It is about connecting to family, to the land, and to values that run deeper than words.
As I grow older, I know this will remain a part of my life. I will keep hunting. This is not solely for my own benefit but also for future generations. I want to pass it on these traditions, the way it was passed to me. I want to teach others how to read the woods, how to move with the wind, and how to wait and watch with purpose. But more than that, I want to pass on the mindset of patience, gratitude, and respect.
I want others to feel what I have felt, waking up with my family and my best friends and being able to bond with them over this game. To rise before the sun, to walk through the cold beside someone they care about, to feel the stillness of the woods settle into their bones. To know that success is not always measured in what you take home, but in what you take away from the experience. Hunting has taught me that a loss is as good as the win. With every loss, I have taken away a lesson, whether it was big or small. I remember finding that the perfect deer for me, taking a shot at it, and missing. It hurt, but it taught me to accept defeat. Not everything will go your way, but it is about how you come back from it. In a world that often moves too fast and that favors shortcuts and quick rewards, I am grateful for the quiet, missed chances and the meals and celebrations that followed.
I am a hunter, and someday, I will be the one waking up a younger version of myself. Handing down the same lessons, the same stories, and the same love for the land. That is what tradition is. That is what legacy means, and that is what makes this life in the wood’s worth carrying forward.