My recollections of early youth get a bit fuzzier over time but I remember my first outing with a fly rod. I was probably 12 years old, using an old Shakespeare rod and a top water “popper,” a floating frog imitation that made a lot of noise when retrieved quickly. Friends gave permission to fish their large pond, and the surface feeding activity as light faded told me there were plenty of fish. When I finally managed to drop the fly near the expanding rings of a feeding fish, I was wholly unprepared for the smash and splash of a rampaging largemouth bass with an empty stomach.

Somehow, I avoided most of the errors of the novice fly fisherman and landed that fish, about three pounds of gluttony on the prowl. It would not have mattered if it had been 10 pounds, a new state record for New York, because that fish was the thrill of my young lifetime, a dream come true. Bad luck for the fish, it was heading home with me to show off to my family and then into a frying pan. There were so many fish in that pond that they needed thinning out. Sixty years later I would probably release that fish no matter how much I enjoy sauteed black bass fillets.

Most of my early fishing had been done from a row boat with my father showing us the ropes. On Sodus Bay of Lake Ontario or Pog Lake in Ontario, Canada’s wonderful Algonquin Park, we spent many happy hours lowering bits of impaled worm overboard in hopes that a bluegill or rock bass would gulp it down. These were small fish, but they gave us plenty of fun and gradually we refined our craft. By the time we were 10 years old or so, we were entrusted to take the boat out alone, crossing our hearts that we would keep the life vests snapped tight and stay close to shore.

Every veteran of the outdoors remembers the first fish, deer, duck, or turkey. I know it is the same for a birder who spots their first bald eagle, or the sailor who completes the first solo race around the buoys in a Sunfish. These milestones, or “firsts,” are often defined by a frantic, heart-pounding urgency, especially when the achievement is done on our own.  Remember the exultation – I did it! At tender ages, we were not there for the scenery; we were there for the result.

Years go by and we pile up more “firsts,” gaining in skill and results, and winning more accolades for our prowess. We upgrade our equipment, pursue new challenges and go further afield in search of the rush of accomplishment. The thrill of catching that initial fish is supplanted by a burning need to catch a big bucket of fish, to win the reputation of someone who can flat out catch ‘em! But over time, the thrill begins to fade, the internal fire begins to dim, and we look for other rewards from our chosen outdoors passion.

This evolution of the outdoors person is a well-documented phenomenon. In the 1970s, two researchers from the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, Robert Jackson and Robert Norton, identified what they termed the “Five Stages of the Sportsman.” Their research was supported by detailed interviews with roughly 1,000 hunters across the state of Wisconsin. Their report concluded that humans are not static; we grow through distinct phases of development. Their premise was that the motivations and pleasures of young hunters and fishermen would change during the course of their lives along a predictable path.

The first step was labeled the Shooter or Catcher Stage. You begin with an urgent need for validation and success is binary: if you bring something home, you won; if you didn’t, you failed. As proficiency grows, hunters move into the Limiting-Out Stage, obsessed with achieving the legal bag limits and measuring success by the weight of the cooler.

Eventually, quantity loses its luster, leading to the Trophy Stage. The goal morphs from volume to quality — finding the rarest bird in the forest or the elusive lunker trout. This eventually gives way to the Method Stage, where the challenge of the tool (switching to a traditional longbow or producing your own hand-tied trout fly) becomes more important than the harvest itself. I will come to the final stage a bit later…

While Jackson and Norton’s 50 years old framework remains a valuable cornerstone of outdoors education, society has changed and social science has developed an interesting “Identity and Motivation” twist to the old model. Millions have moved from the country to urban areas, so many young people have no one to take them afield and show them how to immerse themselves in nature. Today, there is a surge in adult-onset outdoorspeople — folks who did not grow up in the countryside but are drawn to the outdoors in their 20s, 30s or 40s for a different, more authentic experience. In some cases, the motivation is a “locavore” desire for organic, ethical food. With these people, the starting point of the five stages has moved from childhood into adulthood.

Unlike the youngsters of earlier generations, these participants sometimes skip the initial stages of the Sportsman framework. Because of their age, education, wealth, or maturity they frequently enter the woods and fields already sitting in the Trophy or Method stage. Their motivation isn’t a primal urge to pull a trigger, but a desire to connect with the outdoors in their chosen hobby. For them, the journey isn’t a slow crawl but a leap directly into the deep end of outdoor recreation, conservation, and ethics.

Whether you started at age six or age thirty-six, there is a near universal pull toward what we now label mentorship. Having learned the “how,” there is a quiet pleasure in passing that skillset and the appreciation that comes with it to someone else. There is a special satisfaction in sitting back and watching a daughter land her first trout or coaching a new hiker to their first wilderness camping trip. Seeing the spark ignite in another person may become more fulfilling than any “harvest” or score the mentor could have made themselves. Call it the legacy mindset.

How well I remember the first time I took my small children to another big farm pond. Around three and five years old, the children were excited to have their own starter fishing outfits but my primary concern was to keep them out of the pond while catching their first fish. The pond was bursting with fish so the problem was not catching fish but keeping one line in the water long enough for me to unhook a fish and rebait the hook. The kids were tickled pink, and I had a blast!

I recall a talk delivered by noted local ornithologist Nat Wheelwright, as fine a teacher and birding guide as you can find. Nat talked about the origin of his love of birds, long walks with grandparents who took the time to share nature with him, and to gradually instill an interest in learning more about birds. Nat described the special tricks his grandmother taught him to remember distinctive bird calls, catchy mnemonics that he now passes on to his birding groups. “Peter, Peter, Peter” for the tufted titmouse or “Quick, Three Beers” for the olive-sided flycatcher. Finally, Nat talked about that pivotal gift, a worn but serviceable pair of binoculars that opened up a lifetime of learning and joy for Nat and his students.

So now we return to the fifth stage described by the good professors. The evolution of an outdoors person culminates in what Jackson and Norton called the Sportsman Stage. This is the destination that was there all along even if unknown for many years. It is the mountain summit for your hobby, where the urgency of youth has mellowed into a deep appreciation of all that you have learned and loved over time.

In this stage, success is freed from the weight of the game bag, the bulk of the fishing creel, the tabulation of new bird species counted in the notebook. It might be defined by the sweet music of a vernal pool on a warm spring evening, the eerie trill of the common loon at dusk or the easy banter with old friends around a campfire under the Milky Way. The “catch” has become a bonus, rather than a requirement; something sought but not demanded; finally, a gift from the natural world.

A sportswoman in this final stage can spend hours on a river, feeling the current pull at her legs, listening to the birds in the bushes, catching absolutely nothing, and heading home at peace. Finally, she realizes that the woods were never just a grocery store or a trophy room; they were a personal challenge, a refuge or temple. The best part of time afield is not a measurable gotta-have-it goal, but the solitude that surrounds it and the stories that follow.

In my 50s my outdoor friends gave me the nickname “Hurricane,” not as a compliment so much as an observation on how I spent my time working in the forest and field at our old farm. I had a passion for habitat improvement and insufficient time to maximize it. Now I have lost a couple steps so a young friend I have been mentoring has taken to calling me “Zephyr,” a gentle breeze. Thad had to get a knee replacement to keep up with me but he gets a kick out of knocking me down a peg or two. I love teaching him about the natural world as much as I enjoy having my son and son-in-law out-fish me on the water.

It has been debated by scientists whether reaching the Sportsman Stage is merely a matter of age, or if it comes as a result of sufficient years logged in the pursuit. I prefer to think of it as a coming of age, finally reaching the point of maturity where it is no longer about me and my ego needs, but about the experiences, the teaching, and the friends with whom I have been blessed. Having lost dear friends from my outdoor life to premature deaths, it behooves me to make the most of the years remaining and to treasure those friends who still grace my days afield.

If you find yourself feeling less frustrated by a slow day afield or more excited to help a friend to use that shiny new camera than to capture your own wildlife photos, you are not losing your edge. Whether you followed the traditional path from childhood or jumped in as a student of the land later in life, the result is the same: an eventual realization that we go into the wild not to conquer it. We go to learn what we need from the wild.

As one friend summed it up: the best view of the woods is the one you take in when you finally stop worrying about what you are bringing home.

If you like Ed Robinson’s writing, check out his two Nature Notes books! Click here for more information.