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In the annals of human history, few discoveries have been as transformative as the mastery of fire. This elemental force, once a source of fear and awe, became the hearth around which civilization itself was forged. At the core of this transformation lay a simple yet profound act: the cooking of food over open flame. Today, as we stand amidst the gleaming appliances of modern kitchens, it's easy to forget the primal dance of flame and food that shaped our species. Yet, in rediscovering this ancient art, we may find not only a connection to our past but also a path to a healthier, more engaged future.

The story of fire cooking is, in essence, the story of human evolution. Anthropologists posit that the control of fire, dating back nearly two million years, played a crucial role in our development. Richard Wrangham, in his seminal work "Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human”, argues that cooking food over fire was nothing short of revolutionary. The heat from flames broke down tough fibers in both meat and plants, making nutrients more readily available and easier to digest. This newfound efficiency in nutrient extraction, Wrangham contends, fueled the growth of our energy-hungry brains, setting us on the path to becoming the complex, cultural beings we are today.

But the benefits of fire cooking extend beyond our evolutionary past. In an age where convenience often trumps nutrition, returning to this primal method offers surprising health advantages. The high, direct heat of an open flame can seal in juices quickly, preserving nutrients that might otherwise be lost in longer cooking processes.

Perhaps more significantly, fire cooking eliminates the need for many modern cooking implements that have come under scrutiny for their potential health risks. The convenience of non-stick cookware, for instance, comes at a potential cost. When overheated, some non-stick coatings can release toxic fumes, including perfluorooctanoic acid (PFOA), a compound linked to various health concerns. By contrast, a well-seasoned cast iron skillet over an open flame not only imparts no such chemicals but also adds beneficial iron to the diet.

Yet, the appeal of fire cooking goes beyond mere nutritional considerations. There's a wildness, a primal energy to this method that speaks to something deep within the human psyche. In a world increasingly divorced from nature, where our food often arrives pre-packaged and our entertainment pre-programmed, the act of cooking over fire offers a visceral connection to the elemental forces that shape our world.

This connection is not merely physical but deeply philosophical. The unpredictability of flame, the need for constant attention and adjustment, teaches patience and mindfulness. It demands a level of engagement that our push-button modern life rarely requires. In tending a fire, in coaxing flavor from food with nothing more than heat and smoke, we reconnect with a fundamental human experience – one that has been largely lost in the rush of modern life.

The philosopher Gaston Bachelard, in his work "The Psychoanalysis of Fire," explored humanity's profound relationship with this element. He saw in fire a symbol of purification and regeneration, a force that invites contemplation and reverie. In the context of cooking, this takes on a practical dimension. The act of gathering around a fire to prepare food becomes a communal ritual, a shared experience that strengthens social bonds and fosters a sense of connection often lacking in our increasingly isolated modern lives.

Moreover, fire cooking rekindles a lost intimacy with our food and its origins. In an era of industrialized agriculture and processed convenience foods, the simple act of preparing a meal over flame can be revolutionary. It demands an understanding of the ingredients, an appreciation for the transformative power of heat, and a respect for the natural world that provides our sustenance. This heightened awareness can lead to more mindful consumption, potentially addressing issues of overeating and food waste that plague modern societies.

The resurgence of interest in fire cooking among chefs and food enthusiasts speaks to a growing recognition of its value. Restaurants like Ekstedt in Stockholm and Asador Etxebarri in Spain that feature open-fire kitchens have gained prominence, not as novelty acts, but as serious culinary endeavors exploring the depth of flavor and technique possible with this ancient method. This professional validation has sparked a wider cultural reevaluation of fire cooking, moving it from the realm of occasional barbecues to a respected and sought-after culinary art.

However, embracing fire cooking in the modern world is not without challenges. Urban living often limits opportunities for open-flame cooking, and valid concerns about air pollution and fire safety must be addressed. Yet, these challenges also present opportunities for innovation – the development of safer, more efficient fire cooking methods that can be integrated into contemporary lifestyles without sacrificing the essence of the experience.

The simplicity and sustainability of fire cooking offers valuable lessons. It reminds us that profound culinary experiences don't necessarily require complex equipment or energy-intensive processes. A return to this fundamental technique could contribute to a more sustainable food culture, one that values quality over convenience and connection over consumption.

In rekindling the art of fire cooking, we do more than simply prepare food – we participate in a tradition as old as humanity itself. We engage with our environment, our food, and each other in a more direct and meaningful way. This is not a rejection of progress, but rather a recognition that true advancement often involves a thoughtful integration of ancient wisdom with modern understanding.

The flames that once illuminated cave walls now have the potential to light the way toward a more engaged, healthful, and connected approach to food and life. In rediscovering this primal art, we may find not just a cooking method, but a philosophy – one that recognizes the profound interconnectedness of humans, food, and the natural world. As we stand at the crossroads of technological progress and environmental concerns, the ancient practice of fire cooking offers a timeless lesson: sometimes, the path forward is illuminated by the oldest of flames.

Kill What You Eat,

Patrick

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Humans in modern, domesticated societies often act as if the natural environment is a foreign, hostile world that we are merely visiting, rather than recognizing it as the ecosystem we evolved within. We’ve made this all too easy for ourselves to feel disconnected. 

We spend the majority of our time sealed away and sitting comfortably in our well-lit, climate-controlled safe spaces, our eyes glued to screens watching TV shows about people struggling to survive outdoors - rather than being physically outside and observing the cycles of the sun and seasons.

We spend so much of our time in the built and digital environments that when we venture into nature, it's often with a sense of trepidation….as if we're visitors rather than participants in the grand ecosystem of life on this planet. When we do venture out into nature, we feel the need to bring an abundance of "life support" gear with us.  We pack our bags with gadgets and supplies, determined to survive rather than simply be.

Meanwhile, our bodies are succumbing to a growing number of degenerative diseases as our genome becomes less adapted to the environmental conditions we evolved to thrive in on this planet. The very conditions of life on Earth that our species is fundamentally adapted to.

In our retreat from the natural world, we've begun to lose touch with something essential - the rhythms and processes that our very biology evolved to sync with. As our lives become increasingly sedentary and disconnected, we succumb to the ravages of a growing number of degenerative diseases. The genome that once thrived amidst the challenges of the great outdoors now unravels, deprived of that essential connection.

It is certainly important to be adapted to the built and digital realms, as our ability to function and thrive in modern society depends on it. But it is arguably even more crucial that we remain adapted to the natural world that we ultimately originate from. Somehow, though, this connection has become easy for many of us to overlook or forget.

Perhaps it's time to reexamine our relationship with the wild.

To shed our protective layers and immerse ourselves once more in the primal currents of this living, breathing planet. Not as conquerors, but as participants - learning to navigate, adapt, and find our rightful place within the natural order.

For in rediscovering that ancient kinship, we may just unlock the key to restoring our own health and vitality.

Kill What You Eat,

Patrick

| ⬆Watch the Video | 

What if I told you that New Year's Resolutions were designed to make you fail?!?!

In this video originally recorded in a past project, I share an evergreen perspective about New Year's Resolutions that will forever change how you think about them, along with 3 things to focus on instead.

This is a supplement to KWYE Podcast Episode 7 that drops on Tuesday 01/07/2025

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“In this world a man must either be an anvil or the hammer" they say.

The implications being that the anvil gets the worst of it, just sitting there and taking the beating.

But Orwell knew better: "In real life, it is always the anvil that breaks the hammer, never the other way about.”

This truth challenged my thinking. I once believed being the hammer meant strength – actively shaping the world through constant force.

But true resilience isn't about endless striking.

Consider the anvil: forged through intense heat, pressure, and strategic processes that transform it into something unbreakable.

Its power lies not in attacking, but in being immovable, steadfast, foundational.

The anvil's purpose isn't to take beatings, but to be the unbreakable foundation that shapes what meets its surface.

The anvil doesn't resist change – it facilitates it.

Every sword, tool, and masterpiece is shaped against its unyielding surface.

The hammer?

It wears down, chips, breaks.

Its strength is temporary, dependent on constant motion.

But the anvil's strength is permanent, earned through transformation.

Real power isn't in how hard you can strike. It's in becoming something that can withstand any strike – and emerge stronger.

Have you ever seen an anvil break?  I haven’t…

But I’ve broken plenty of hammers.

“Be the anvil…Break The Hammer” I say.

If you would like to be the first to see these episodes when they are published, consider subscribing to our The Pursuit Newsletter so we can let you know directly.

Words & Photos by: Patrick McKewen

If you would like to be the first to see these articles when they are published, consider subscribing to our The Pursuit Newsletter so we can let you know directly.

As I sit here by the crackling campfire, watching the embers dance in the cool night air, I can't help but reflect on the long and winding path that has brought me back to where I truly belong - in the heart of nature. My story is one of connection, loss, and rediscovery; a testament to the enduring call of the wild that resides within us all, no matter how deeply it may be buried beneath the trappings of modern life.

The Seeds of Connection

My journey began in the lush, verdant forests of the Mid-Atlantic, where as a young boy, I learned the ancient arts of hunting with a bow and fishing with nothing more than a stick and a string. My father, along my maternal grandfather (a man whose weathered hands spoke volumes of a life lived close to the land), were my first guides in the ways of the wild.

I can still recall the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves as we would make our way down to the local creek. The world would be silent save for the gentle gurgle of the stream and the occasional plop of a frog diving for cover.

"Listen," my grandfather would say, his voice barely above a whisper. "The water will tell you where the fish are hiding."

And so I learned to attune my senses to the subtle language of nature. I watched how the current flowed around rocks and fallen logs, creating pockets where fish might rest. I observed the insects skimming across the surface and understood that where they gathered, the fish would soon follow.

With patient instruction, my grandfather showed me how to fashion a hook from a thorn, how to select the perfect supple branch for a pole, and how to tie knots that would hold fast against the strongest fighter. We used no fancy lures or reels, no high-tech gear or fish finders. Our methods were as old as humanity itself, passed down through countless generations.

Those early lessons instilled in me a profound respect for the natural world and my place within it. Each fish we caught was a gift, received with gratitude and used with reverence. Nothing was wasted, and every part of our catch served a purpose, from flesh to bones.

Exploring the Wild

As I grew older, my love for the outdoors only intensified. Camping trips with close friends throughout East Coast became the highlight of every summer as we explored the diverse landscapes that Appalachia had to offer.

I vividly remember the first time we camped in the Jefferson National Forest. The towering oak and hickory trees, the babbling mountain streams, and the diverse wildlife left an indelible impression on my young mind. We hiked the numerous trails, each one offering a new adventure and a fresh perspective on the raw beauty of the Appalachian ecosystem.

Further north, the mountain caverns of central Pennsylvania became a favorite destination. Here, the mysterious underground world taught me valuable lessons about the earth's hidden wonders and the power of geological processes. We would set up camp near cave entrances, falling asleep to the gentle whisper of wind through the trees and waking to the chorus of forest birds.

These excursions weren't just vacations; they were immersive experiences that deepened my connection to the natural world. I learned to identify local plant species, to spot signs of wildlife, and to navigate the rugged terrain of the Appalachian Mountains. Each trip added new skills to my repertoire and strengthened my bond with the wilderness of the Eastern United States.

Conquering New Heights

As my teenage years gave way to early adulthood, my wanderlust led me westward. The towering peaks of the Rocky Mountains called to me, promising new challenges and untamed wilderness on a scale I had never before encountered.

My first expedition into the high country of Utah was a revelation. The thin air and steep trails tested my physical limits, while the sweeping vistas of snow-capped peaks nourished my soul. I learned the art of reading topographic maps, of finding safe passage through treacherous mountain passes, and of respecting the capricious nature of high-altitude weather.

The Siren Call of Civilization

Despite these formative experiences and the deep connection I had forged with nature, the modern world beckoned. Like so many others, I found myself drawn into the vortex of urban life, seduced by the promise of career advancement, material comfort, and technological convenience.

I traded my hiking boots for dress shoes, my backpack for a briefcase. The call of the wild became a distant echo, drowned out by the cacophony of city traffic and the incessant ping of smartphone notifications. Days that were once measured by the arc of the sun across the sky were now dictated by the relentless ticking of the office clock.

At first, I reveled in the newfound comforts and opportunities that city life afforded. I climbed the corporate ladder, acquired all the trappings of success, and told myself that this was what progress looked like. But as the years wore on, a gnawing emptiness began to take root in my soul.

My body, once honed by countless miles of trails and the physical demands of outdoor life, grew soft and weak. Processed foods, alcohol, and a sedentary lifestyle took their toll, and I found myself battling health issues I had never experienced before. Stress became my constant companion, sleep my elusive friend.

Worse than the physical decline was the spiritual malaise that settled over me. I felt disconnected, not just from nature, but from myself. The skills and knowledge I had acquired over years of outdoor experience lay dormant, atrophying like unused muscles. I had become a stranger to the person I once was, a domesticated shadow of my former wild self.

The Awakening

It wasn't until my 40th birthday that the fog of complacency finally lifted. As I sat and contemplated the past decade, a sudden realization struck me with the force of a lightning bolt: I was profoundly unhappy.

That night, unable to sleep, I found myself poring over old photo albums. Images of a younger, more vibrant version of myself stared back at me from sun-dappled forests and windswept mountaintops. In those frozen moments, I saw a joy and peace that had long been absent from my life.

It was time for a change. Time to reconnect with the wild soul that had been buried beneath years of corporate conditioning and urban comfort. Time to return to my roots and rediscover the person I was meant to be.

The path back wasn't easy. Giving up the security of a steady paycheck and the comforts of modern living required a leap of faith that terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure. But with each step I took away from my old life, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders.

Rewilding: The Journey Home

My journey of rewilding began with small steps. I started spending my weekends in nearby state parks and waterfalls, reacquainting myself with the feel of earth beneath my feet and the scent of pine in my nostrils. I dusted off my old camping gear, surprised to find that my hands still remembered how to pitch a tent and start a fire without matches.

As my confidence grew, so did my ambitions. I took longer sabbaticals in the wilderness that were transformative. Away from the constant distractions of modern life, I rediscovered the rhythms of the natural world. I bathed in cold mountain streams, cooked over fire, and walked as one with the earth beneath my feet.

With each passing day, I felt my body growing stronger, shedding the accumulated toxins of urban living. My mind, too, began to clear. The chronic anxiety that had plagued me for years melted away, replaced by a sense of calm and purpose I hadn't experienced since my youth.

Returning to my Roots: The Southeast Woodlands Hunter

As I approached my 50th birthday, I made a decision that would complete my circle of return: I took up bow hunting in the Southeast woodlands where my journey had taken me to live.

There was a poetry to this choice that resonated deeply within me. The bow, with its reliance on skill, felt like a natural extension of the fishing techniques my grandfather had taught me. It required patience, precision, and an intimate understanding of one's prey and the environment.

Remembering to hunt with a bow was a humbling experience. It forced me to hone my senses, to move with stealth and purpose through the forest. I spent countless hours practicing my draw, studying animal behavior, and learning to read the subtle signs that reveal the presence of game.

This isn’t about sport or recreation; it is a return to a more primal, authentic way of living. Every part of the animal is used, its meat filling out freezer, its hide tanned for clothing, its bones and antlers crafted into tools. In this way, we honor the animal's sacrifice and acknowledge our place within the cycle of life and death that governs the natural world.

Finding My Place

Now, as I enter my 50’s, I find myself in a place of profound contentment. I've left behind the trappings of urban life, choosing instead to live simply and naturally. My days are governed by the rhythms of nature rather than the dictates of a calendar.

I rise with the sun, spending my mornings slow and deliberate with my kids as we sip iced green tea. Mornings are spent performing output sessions like writing this article or editing a video.  Afternoons might find me learning how to build a primitive bow or working in the backyard woods to make a primitive fire pit and archery range.  Evenings are time to recuperate by turning off screens, reading, and journaling.

This life isn't always easy. There are challenges and discomforts that my former self would have found intolerable. But these challenges are also my greatest rewards. They keep me sharp, engaged, and ever-mindful of my place within the natural order.

Physically, I'm in the best shape of my life. The constant activity and clean living have reversed many of the health issues I developed during my years plugged into modern society. My body, once soft and aching, is now lean and strong, hardened by daily exertion and nourished by wholesome, natural foods.

Mentally and spiritually, the transformation has been even more profound. The chronic stress and anxiety that once clouded my thoughts have dissipated like morning mist. In their place, I've found a clarity of mind and purpose that I thought was lost to me forever. The constant background noise of modern life - the endless chatter of social media, the relentless news cycle, the pressure to consume and achieve - has been replaced by the subtle symphony of the natural world.

In returning to nature, I've not only reclaimed my health and happiness; I've rediscovered a fundamental truth about what it means to be human. We are not separate from the natural world, we are part of it. Our ancestors understood this, living in harmony with the rhythms of nature for countless generations. Somewhere along the way, we lost this connection, convincing ourselves that we could transcend our place in the natural order through technology and progress.

But true progress, I've come to believe, lies not in distancing ourselves from nature, but in reconnecting with it. In rediscovering our place within the web of life, we find not only physical health and mental clarity but also a sense of purpose and belonging that no amount of material success can provide.

As I sit here by the fire, watching the stars wheel overhead in their eternal dance, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the journey that brought me here, for the lessons learned along the way, and for the wild spirit that called me home. I am where I belong - and in this belonging, I have found true freedom and lasting happiness.

Kill What You Eat,

~ Patrick

| ⬆Watch the Video | 

Words, Photos & Video by: Patrick, Teagan, and Cade McKewen

After losing arrows when testing new bow equipment in our backyard archery range, we decided to build a DIY archery backstop for about $100.

 Alternate Mats: https://amzn.to/3XItzsX

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Video Produced by: The Huntsmen Media

Cinematographer: Patrick McKewen

Music Credits: 

• "Tumbleweed Tango" by Vlad Krotov
• "Mississippi Blues" by Yurii Kushch
• "Blazing Dawn" by Vlad Krotov
• "Forgotten Words" by Vlad Krotov

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Words, Photos & Video by: Patrick, Teagan, and Cade McKewen

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In the bright mid-day heat of late summer, figures move deliberately through the forest. This is no ordinary walk in the woods. This is the culmination of months of preparation, observation, and patience. This is the moment when the scout becomes the stalker as we unlock the secrets of the wild.

The ancient art of scouting transforms what many might consider luck into a calculated and strategic endeavor. It is more than just a preliminary step; it’s a critical phase in the hunting process that sets the stage for success. It involves studying the land, identifying food sources, and observing animal patterns long before the opening day. This isn't just about chance - it's about preparation, knowledge, skill, and pursuit.

Many people think hunting is all about luck - being in the right place at the right time. But those who truly understand the craft know better. Success in hunting is not born on the day we shoulder our rifle or nock our arrow. It's cultivated through weeks, sometimes months, of careful scouting. We are essentially becoming detectives, piecing together clues to build a comprehensive understanding of the land and its inhabitants.

Scouting is our way of reading the wild. It is how we decipher nature's complex language, interpreting the subtle signs and signals that most people miss. A snapped twig, a tuft of fur on a tree trunk, the pattern of browse on a shrub - these are the letters and words in nature's story.

Our ancestors understood this intimately. Their very survival depended on their ability to read the land and predict animal movements. They did not have the luxury of luck; they had to know.

Today, we continue this tradition. Modern hunters who embrace thorough scouting are doing more than just increasing our chances of a successful harvest. We are connecting with a primal part of ourselves, tapping into an ancient wisdom that is encoded in our DNA.

First, we learn to read and study the land. We pour over maps, understanding the terrain, noting elevation changes, recognizing natural features such as streams, ridges, and bedding areas in order to identify potential food sources, water supplies, and bedding areas. We look for natural funnels and pinch points that animals might use. Each of these elements plays a crucial role in where animals will likely be found.

Then we hit the ground. We walk the land, confirming what we've seen on maps and discovering what they could not show us. We look for signs of animal activity - tracks, scat, scrapes, rubs on trees.

We set up trail cameras in strategic locations. These silent sentinels work 24/7, capturing images that reveal patterns of movement and behavior.

Observing these animal patterns is very important. Animals have routines and habits that are influenced by factors like food availability, weather conditions, and predator activity. By identifying these patterns, we can predict where they will be at different times of the day or year.

But scouting is not just about collecting data. It's about developing an intuition, a feel for the land and the animals that inhabit it. It's about becoming so familiar with an area that you can predict where an animal will be before it even gets there.

As the scouting season progresses, we refine our understanding. We narrow down our focus areas, identifying the most promising locations for our hunt.

And then, as opening day approaches, something shifts. The energy changes. We are no longer just observers. We are becoming part of the landscape, inserting ourselves into the story we've been reading all these months.

This is the moment when the scout becomes the stalker. All the knowledge we gathered, all the patterns we observed, all the intuition we developed - it all comes into play.

We move through the forest with purpose. Every step is calculated, every movement considered. We are no longer just reading the wild - we are writing ourselves into its story.

This transition from scout to stalker is more than just a change in action. It is a shift in mindset - from passive observers to active participants in nature's age-old dance of predator and prey.

But even as we take on this role of predator, we carry with us a deep respect for our quarry and the land that sustains it. The months of scouting have given us an intimate understanding of the animal we pursue. We appreciate its beauty, its cunning, its vital role in the ecosystem.

This respect, this connection to the land and its inhabitants, is perhaps the greatest gift that scouting gives us. It transforms hunting from a mere sport into something deeper, something more meaningful.

The wisdom of our ancestors teaches us that luck had little to do with their success in the wild. Their very survival depended on an intimate knowledge of animal behavior and habitats. They understood that to thrive, they needed to become experts in reading the signs of the land.

Early hunters relied on keen observation and deep understanding. They learned to track animals by reading footprints, identifying broken branches, and recognizing feeding signs. These skills were honed over generations and were vital for their survival. Technology has given us new tools, like trail cameras and GPS mapping. However, these tools are just that - tools. The fundamental skills of reading the land and interpreting signs are still crucial for a successful hunt.

Today’s hunters who embrace thorough scouting are continuing this age-old tradition. We may use modern tools and techniques, but the core principles remain the same. Scouting is not just about finding a trophy - it’s about connecting with the land and understanding its rhythms.  It’s about connecting with something primal, something that's been a part of us since the dawn of humanity.  It’s about becoming more than just a hunter - We become a reader of nature's story, a decoder of its secrets. And in doing so, we are writing ourselves into that story, becoming a part of the wild in a way that few ever experience.

A successful scouting not only increases our chances of a harvest, but also fosters a deeper connection with nature. By learning about the animals and their behaviors, we develop a greater appreciation for the wildlife we pursue. It’s not just about the hunt - it’s about the journey and the respect for the natural world.

As you prepare for the upcoming season, remember that every moment spent scouting is an investment in your success. By understanding and respecting the land and its inhabitants, you honor the traditions of those who came before you and enrich your own experiences in the wild.

The next time you head out for a hunt, think of it as a journey of discovery. Embrace the challenge of reading the wild and turn what might seem like luck into a strategic advantage.

Video Produced by: The Huntsmen Media

Cinematographers: Patrick McKewen, Cade McKewen, Teagan McKewen 

Location: Dawson Forest, Georgia 

Music Credits: 

• "Once Upon A Time In Texas" by Vlad Krotov
• "River Tram" by Olexy
• "Acoustic Guitar 3" by Łukasz Pajzert
• "Thinking of Home" by Unknown Artist

Words & Photo by: Patrick McKewen

If you would like to be the first to see these articles when they are published, consider subscribing to our The Pursuit Newsletter so we can let you know directly.

Humans in modern, domesticated societies often act as if the natural environment is a foreign, hostile world that we are merely visiting, rather than recognizing it as the ecosystem we evolved within. We’ve made this all too easy for ourselves to feel disconnected. 

We spend the majority of our time sealed away and sitting comfortably in our well-lit, climate-controlled safe spaces, our eyes glued to screens watching TV shows about people struggling to survive outdoors - rather than being physically outside and observing the cycles of the sun and seasons.

We spend so much of our time in the built and digital environments that when we venture into nature, it's often with a sense of trepidation….as if we're visitors rather than participants in the grand ecosystem of life on this planet. When we do venture out into nature, we feel the need to bring an abundance of "life support" gear with us.  We pack our bags with gadgets and supplies, determined to survive rather than simply be.

Meanwhile, our bodies are succumbing to a growing number of degenerative diseases as our genome becomes less adapted to the environmental conditions we evolved to thrive in on this planet. The very conditions of life on Earth that our species is fundamentally adapted to.

In our retreat from the natural world, we've begun to lose touch with something essential - the rhythms and processes that our very biology evolved to sync with. As our lives become increasingly sedentary and disconnected, we succumb to the ravages of a growing number of degenerative diseases. The genome that once thrived amidst the challenges of the great outdoors now unravels, deprived of that essential connection.

It is certainly important to be adapted to the built and digital realms, as our ability to function and thrive in modern society depends on it. But it is arguably even more crucial that we remain adapted to the natural world that we ultimately originate from. Somehow, though, this connection has become easy for many of us to overlook or forget.

Perhaps it's time to reexamine our relationship with the wild.

To shed our protective layers and immerse ourselves once more in the primal currents of this living, breathing planet. Not as conquerors, but as participants - learning to navigate, adapt, and find our rightful place within the natural order.

For in rediscovering that ancient kinship, we may just unlock the key to restoring our own health and vitality.

Words & Photo by: Teagan McKewen

If you would like to be the first to see these articles when they are published, consider subscribing to our The Pursuit Newsletter so we can let you know directly.

As winter began to approach in the Southeast, cold fronts got even colder, lakes and rivers started freezing over, and wildlife started to come out of their summer shells. After a successful deer hunt in November, I started looking more into duck hunting.

It had always been something I wanted to try but never got around to it, and honestly wasn't sure if I'd pursue it. I started talking to my brother about it, and he said "lets give it a go and see what happens".

Now, looking back in time, I'm glad we had that conversation.

We have a lake within decent driving distance close to where we live, but I never knew how good it was for duck hunting. A couple of weeks later, I had saved up enough money to buy a cheap jon boat to help me get to some places I couldn't on foot to look for ducks on our local lake.

After a few weeks of scouting on our local lake, one night I was sitting around a fire with one of my good friends. I knew he'd been duck hunting in the area for way longer than me, so I very briefly mentioned to him that I was going to start duck hunting. As most people would normally brush this off and just say "good luck", or not care to share any tips or advice, my friend looked over at me with a grin on his face and said, "let me tell you some stories".

For about the next hour he went on telling me stories about how his dad would take him duck hunting in this one swamp on our local lake, and some of his best memories from hunting with his dad and some other friends over the years. Without me asking, he then went into telling me some tips for hunting our local lake and told me what to expect at certain spots. I had been scouting in my jon boat and dropping pins on the map, so I showed him a few of my pins, and when I showed him the last pin he said, "that's the swamp".

The very next day I launched my jon boat and set out to get boots on the ground in the swamp. As I tied up the boat and started walking around the swamp I realized this is the place my brother and I needed to be on opening day of duck season. I scouted and picked out multiple spots to set up to play the wind right and make sure I had good, ethical shot angles.

Fast forward to opening day - my brother and I are up super early in the morning and set out to one of the spots I scouted to set up for a North wind. Right after first light, I look over and see multiple groups of ducks flying in our area, looking for a place to land. But there was no shot.

Unfortunately our first hunt was unsuccessful, but the experience for the first time was unbelievable. I instantly knew this was something I would want to continue to pursue.

After a few weeks of my brother and I going out and trying to harvest our first ducks, I realized this is a whole new style of hunting. I noticed it was more engaging than any other hunting I've done. Between getting out to the water very early in the morning, trying to mimic the sounds of the ducks to get them closer within ethical shooting range, and always keeping your head on a swivel to make sure you don't miss an opportunity. I'm not saying any of the other hunting I do doesn't feel like that, but this was a different feeling.

About a month into the season with no success, I ran into a lake about 2 hours south of where I've been hunting. I dropped multiple pins on this lake knowing I had some time off from work coming up, so when the time came to make this trip, I wasn't going into this lake completely blind. My brother and I planned a trip to this lake 2 hours south. The plan was to hunt and camp their for 3 days.

When we got there, we set up camp and immediately got into the boat and started scouting this lake. We scouted for about 2 hours and found a few more spots to drop pins and potentially hunt the next morning. When we got back to camp, we ran into a local man who was fishing for some bluegill off the dock. We started talking about the lake and he told us a few spots to go and hunt for the morning. With what we scouted on the boat and what we heard from the locals, we had a plan for the next day.

We got up early the next morning and took maybe one of the most eerie boat rides I've ever taken. The fog rolling off the water in the pitch black of this new place put a different feeling in our guts. Although this may have been a little creepy, I almost found a sort of peace in it. We were the only ones out there, the only noise was the water being pushed by the boat motor, I felt like I was a part of nature this morning.

We hunted that morning and the next several days, and saw a good amount of ducks and geese, but never got any shot opportunities. Even though we did not harvest anything on this trip, we still had an amazing time being in nature trying something new to us, and made lots of memories we will never forget.

We got back home with only a few days of duck season left, and my brother and I went back to the swamp on our local lake to try and harvest our first ducks before the season ended. The last day of the season came around and we woke up a little extra early to get to the swamp and set up for our last hunt of the season.

The weather was brutal that morning - 18 degrees, 8 mph north wind, and just about every pocket of water was frozen over, except the one we set up on. There wasn't much water open where we were, but there was just enough.

As first light came I heard ducks circling the hole trying to find a spot to land. As I looked over my shoulder I saw a group of about 5 wood ducks coming through the trees straight to our hole. In a split second I shouldered my shotgun, picked out a few ducks from the group and took my shot.

I got two shots off and luckily I connected on my second shot. Finally, after all the work my brother and I put in that season, it paid off.

We retrieved the duck and just took a few minutes and sat in the swamp and took in everything that happened. We did not shoot a full limit of ducks, but it didn't bother us one bit. That hunt was more about the experience rather than going on a killing spree. We were more than happy with the 1 wood duck I shot. With that, we headed home and shared the hunt with the rest of the family who was super excited to hear about our success.

To wrap up the morning I cleaned the duck and prepped it to cook. With no idea of how to cook wood duck, I figured I would cook it like a steak. I cooked it on the grill for about 3-4 minutes per side and I did not expect it to taste that good, but I was wrong.

Needless to say, my brother and I will continue to pursue these birds for the next several years to come and make up our own recipes on the way. It's not always about how many animals you were able to harvest - it's more about the experience, spending time in nature, and not being afraid to try something new.

Words & Photo by: Cade and Patrick McKewen

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As summer's vibrant hues begin to fade and the first whispers of autumn dance on the breeze, a stirring occurs deep within the hearts of bow hunters along the east coast. It's a calling as old as humanity itself, a primal urge that connects us to our ancestral past. Bow season is approaching, and with it comes a chance to reconnect with nature in its most raw and authentic form.

The anticipation builds as we dust off our bows, feeling the familiar weight in our hands. It's more than just a tool; it's an extension of ourselves, a bridge between the modern world and the ancient skills that once meant survival for our species. As we nock an arrow and draw back the string, we're not just practicing a sport – we're engaging in a ritual that echoes through millennia.

Those early morning forays into the woods, when darkness still clings to the land and our breath forms misty clouds in the crisp air, are moments of pure magic. The crunch of frost beneath our boots isn't just a sound; it's a reminder of our temporary presence in a world that exists beyond the confines of our daily lives.

The act of scouting isn't just about finding the perfect spot to set up a stand. It's an intimate dialogue with the land, a chance to read the secret language of the forest. Every track in the soft earth, every broken twig, and every rubbed tree tells a story. As we decipher these subtle signs, we're tapping into an ancient wisdom, learning to see the world through the eyes of both predator and prey.

The meticulous preparation – from sharpening broadheads to practicing our shots – is a form of meditation. In a world of instant gratification, bow hunting teaches us the value of patience, dedication, and the pursuit of mastery. Each arrow loosed at a target is an affirmation of our commitment, not just to the hunt, but to a way of life that values skill, precision, and respect.

As we venture into the woods, we're not just seeking game; we're seeking a part of ourselves that often lies dormant in the modern world. The stillness of the forest awakens something primal within us. Our senses sharpen, our awareness expands, and we find ourselves fully present in a way that's increasingly rare in our technology-driven lives.

The moment of the hunt itself is a culmination of this journey inward. As we draw back our bow, time seems to stand still. In that perfect moment of tension, as we aim and release, we experience a connection to our ancestors who relied on these same skills for survival. It's a humbling reminder of our place in the natural order, a chance to participate in the age-old dance of predator and prey.

But bow hunting is about more than just the kill. It's about the entire experience – the preparation, the anticipation, the quiet moments of reflection in the pre-dawn darkness. It's about challenging ourselves, pushing our limits, and growing not just as hunters, but as human beings. Each hunt, regardless of its outcome, offers lessons in patience, resilience, and respect for the natural world.

As we sit in our stands, watching the forest come to life around us, we're reminded of our smallness in the grand tapestry of nature. The rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird, the sudden flash of movement – all of these become profound experiences, connecting us to something larger than ourselves. In these moments, the worries and stresses of our everyday lives fade away, replaced by a sense of belonging to the natural world.

The ethical responsibility that comes with bow hunting adds another layer of depth to the experience. The commitment to making a clean, humane kill isn't just about sportsmanship – it's a moral imperative that requires us to hone our skills and make thoughtful, considered decisions. This level of engagement forces us to confront our own mortality and our relationship with the animals we hunt, fostering a deep respect for the life we may take.

As the season progresses, we find ourselves changed. The lessons learned in the quiet of the forest – patience, persistence, humility – begin to permeate other aspects of our lives. We carry with us a newfound appreciation for the delicate balance of ecosystems, the cycle of life and death, and our own place within it all.

When we finally hang up our bows at the end of the season, we do so not just as hunters, but as individuals who have touched a deeper truth about ourselves and our connection to the natural world. The memories of frosty mornings, close encounters, successes, and failures become part of our personal mythology, stories that shape our understanding of who we are and our place in the world.

Bow season, then, is more than just a time to hunt. It's a pilgrimage back to our roots, a chance to strip away the complexities of modern life and reconnect with something fundamental and true. It's an opportunity to challenge ourselves, to grow, and to experience the raw beauty of nature in a way that few other pursuits allow.

As we look forward to the coming season, let us approach it not just with excitement for the hunt, but with reverence for the tradition we're part of and gratitude for the opportunity to engage so intimately with the natural world. For in the end, what we're truly hunting isn't just game, but a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the grand tapestry of life.