In my last blog, I talked about my love of the fall season. Now with the season in full swing and the baseball playoffs underway, I am reminded of an October weekend my dad and his brothers created as a tradition in our extended family – the opening weekend of the deer hunt.

I am convinced that in some language Williams translates to tradition.

And my dad and his siblings were masters of their trade.

We vacationed and camped together and gathered the family together for every holiday. Thanksgiving at Grandma Williams’ house was the grand rollout of the holiday season which was part homespun and part jubilee.

Soon after Thanksgiving we would gather to celebrate Grandma’s birthday and then swing into a three-day long Christmas festival a few weeks later. We concluded the season on New Year’s Eve as we sent out the old year and began planning for the next one.

However, I use the word “planning” in the loosest sense of the word.

Our traditions were so set in stone that Greenwich Mean Time could have been set to them. Where we celebrated each holiday, where we sat for the Pioneer Day Parade in Salt Lake, vacation locations; they just didn’t change.

Any alteration of venue usually occurred after two years of discussion and a unanimous vote of the four “brethren” and Aunt Grace. With it all came an atmosphere of love and acceptance that blessed us all and created sibling type relationships among cousins. It was simply the best.

One of these traditions occurred on the third Friday of October as my dad and his three brothers made the trek to the canyon just north of a quick stop along a Central Utah highway called Indianola to ring in the deer hunt.

They had grown up deer hunting in Emery County’s Joe’s Valley with my grandfather and they continued the tradition with us.

On the way we might stop at the old Hi-Spot Drive Inn in American Fork, and we always wondered how good the hot chili being served at the tiny white Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints church house in Birdseye was.

However, driving there and setting up camp was where the similarity with my grandpa’s hunts ended.

My grandfather’s serious approach to the hunt never made it to the veins of his sons. There wasn’t a serious hunter in the bunch until years later when my cousins Todd and Kevin decided to give it a deliberate try.

To do so they had to separate themselves from us physically for reasons you will see below. And while we considered it to be a slight breach of etiquette, we wished them well as they disappeared like shadows into the cold, early morning darkness in search of the ultimate prize.

To my dad and uncles, the tradition of the deer hunt was just another reason to spend time together. Nobody went to get a deer – in fact my Uncle Bert typically said he was there “to make sure his gun still worked.”

And while we weren’t serious hunters, we always looked great doing it. We slept warmly in my Uncle Bert’s camper with Uncle Neldon’s El Camino, Jeep Grand Cherokee, or whichever car he was driving parked close by looking brand new despite the weather.

The man knew how to pick out a car. The only pieces of evidence that would indicate we were deer hunting was our apparel. My dad and Uncle Neldon sported orange Russian-style fur hats while my Uncle Bert opted for a simple, thrifty orange stocking cap.

My Uncle Burnell, ever the natty dresser regardless of location, wore an orange faux-leather baseball cap and looked good wearing it.

As I look back, I remember how wonderful it was.

I have also come to realize what a nuisance we must have been to other hunters. When they were camouflaged and hidden waiting for their prey, we reached the same knoll of the mountain each year by about 10:30 in the morning where we would build a fire to keep the deer away.

Then we would bring out lunch bags that were packed to the rim as if they had been prepared by caterers.

It was a cornucopia of sandwiches, salads, chips, and desserts – a masterpiece. Next, Uncle Bert would rip out his radio that he said could grab a signal from Costa Rica and turn on a college football game.

Within an hour of lunch, with the warm fire still glowing, Uncle Neldon and Uncle Bert were cozily asleep.

We were right in the middle of the hunt and yet everyone else, including the deer, were completely oblivious to us. We weren’t part of the main show; we were the atmosphere. You might say we were the lounge singers of the deer hunt.

As with any tradition, the hunt was steeped with lore, both accurate and exaggerated. In my dad’s early days, my grandpa, determined to keep everyone warm at night, loaded up his homemade coal stove that could have heated a medium sized industrial building.

Once he juiced that baby up, no one could get within a city block of it. My Uncle Burnell said it was like sleeping in a sauna.

When my dad was old enough to carry a gun, my Uncle Bert who was freshly home from the Pacific theater of World War II, let him use a Japanese rifle he had brought home.

Unfortunately, it had a shell stuck in the barrel and so Uncle Bert loaded another shell, tied the rifle to the tree, stood on the other side of the tree, and pulled the trigger. Fifteen minutes later, after his hearing returned, he realized he had blown the top of the tree off. (Please don’t try that at home!)

One of the best memories was my Uncle Bert’s wardrobe. A fashionista, he was not. However, I would still have put him on the runway at any deer hunter’s modeling event.

In addition to his orange vest which only hung to him by one string for the better part of a decade, he was adorned with an old pair of red business slacks that he must have bought during a weak moment in the early 1970s.

Spattered with white paint from a former house chore, he stood out, imposing on the mountain as if he were a bigger-than-life image glittered on a hotel marquee in Las Vegas.

And standing up from his afternoon nap, there was not a wrinkle in sight. Despite the paint, the man always made sure his seams were straight.

Those experiences from my youth taught me of the priceless impact of traditions. As my wife and I married and started our family, we set goals to make sure that our lives and our children’s lives would be rich with tradition.

And, as we enjoyed each event, our children’ reaction was always the same; the best part was being together.

That is the subtle magic of traditions. They bind us together and create memories that outlast everything else.

As the holiday season approaches, take time to enjoy the simplicity of family traditions and remember that some of the best ones will come in moments of spontaneity. Wishing you all the best. And, if you’re going hunting, go safely and confidently, happy in the knowledge that we aren’t there with you.

Read more stories like this and learn valuable lessons from the book Fatherhood: The Role of a Lifetime. Available now on Amazon!