Tiny diamonds, strewn about in an obsidian abyss. Volatile, yet constant. Some no longer exist, save for their lingering, visible twinkle. Yet, they remain consistent enough to align with ancient monuments, pyramids, and cave shafts, illuminating them in a fleeting, annual miracle. Modern navigation charts still rely on their steadfast presence—alluring enough to have been named by ancient civilizations

Brilliant in the back country.

For the fourth generation of this family, winter nights have been spent in the desert of the Southwest. The orange-red sparkle of Mars rises in the east as the sun sets. Orion appears on the southeast horizon in the early evening, remaining visible in the southwest until graylight fades to amber.

Coincidentally, I was born under the mighty hunter. Fitting that I now wish upon those very stars during an archery quest every January.

From late fall to winter, the season has always stayed the same, but everything else has changed. What began as simple camping eventually turned to hunting. The gas big blocks and two-strokes of our youth have transitioned into modern diesels and fuel-injected, four-stroke dream rides. The thrill of night treks and hill racing has mellowed into the pursuit of wildlife and late-night campfire stories. Even our old tents and dry campers have given way to state-of-the-art luxury, now outfitted with LED lighting, running water, and comfortable foam mattresses.

No matter where life has taken me, the undeniable pull to my roots has always called. Now, I can’t imagine spending my birthday any other way than among the saguaros and creosote, enjoying cake or cobbler baked in a Dutch oven over mesquite coals. When bedtime arrives, it’s time for the new pajamas opened every Christmas Eve.

We’re raising Morgan under the same stars.

The true grace of seasons and traditions lies in their ability to evolve or gently fade away. To preserve them, we must actively nurture them. Yet, when they pass, it simply opens the door to creating new ones.

Don’t worry, winter javelina camp isn’t riding off into the sunset. We simply added a new season to our household this year. After all, our little one we feel, was ready for her inaugural trigger pull on something other than a paper target. Plus, some friends kept reminding us that the weekend was quickly approaching!

We talk about hunting all the time. Jason’s dad just hunted Mouflon on Lānaʻi. I have a deer tag coming up in November.

Morgan just knew she wanted to go hunting, even if she wasn’t sure what she was looking for yet. She’s spent days lately bringing me wildlife books, asking what she could and couldn’t shoot—with every restriction earning a heavy sigh that got louder the further we read. Jason and I felt that even at four years old, she was more than capable of doing this. Luckily for her, squirrel season opened, meaning with help, she can finally pull the trigger somewhat on her own. 

I’m still surprised the squirrels cooperated so well. It is no small feat to tree a squirrel, set up a .22 on a tripod, track a tiny target, and keep the crosshairs steady while a tiny human pulled the trigger.

Morgan had no issues with the retrieval or processing, aside from complaining about the wasps swarming the meat. One stung the tip of my finger. Despite a less-than-appetizing smell and a texture that demanded a massive amount of cooking time, their washed, petite frames were soon tucked away to braise in the slow cooker.

I managed to make them taste far better than they smelled after 7 hours simmered and shredded. I have yet to decide their final flavor profile before consumption though. The point driven home, that you eat what you shoot with very few exceptions.

The flavor profile of our first squirrel dinner might still be up in the air, but the memories of this weekend are already perfectly seasoned. As the crisp autumn air makes way for winter, we will keep watching the horizon for Orion’s familiar return. Our tools, our gear, and the seasons of our lives will continue to shift, but the foundation remains as steady as the constellations above. Whether we are chasing squirrels through the changing aspens or waiting out a javelina in the desert brush, these days are no longer just about the harvest—they are about passing the torch. Under those same timeless stars, a new generation is now finding her roots, one inaugural trigger pull and one campfire story at a time.