The people that shape us

I’m keenly interested in environmental issues and the role farmers could play in generating positive change.

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It drives what I cover as a journalist, what stories I share with friends and family, and what I’ve decided to research in-depth as a Nuffield Scholar.

Like any good hobby or passion, there’s an origin story — often involving someone who introduced us to what we come to hold dear.

My granddad, Duane McIntosh, was that person.

Granddad was an outdoorsman. He adored hunting among the northern woods and fencerows of southern Ontario, fishing rivers and lakes across North America, and generally being outside both on the farm and in the wilds. He was witty, an absolute crack shot, and never tired of relating stories of the landscapes he traversed, the game he harvested or sometimes let go, nor the people he adventured with.

He was also very observant, seemingly omnipotent in predicting the behaviour of wild animals and fish.

“Have an eye,” he would say, before a wild creature would invariably make itself known.

That’s how he appeared to me, a farm kid trying desperately to remember how to tie fishing line or shoot accurately from a standing position. If I’m being honest, I’m still trying.

Granddad’s appreciation for the outdoors was not exclusively rooted in extraction. While I’d never call him an environmentalist per se — some less-than-ideal behaviours from bygone decades stuck with him throughout his life — he was certainly a conservationist.

He cared about the trees, lamented the loss of fencerows, bush lots and the upland birds to which they provided habitat. He expressed happiness at the recovery of Ontario’s wild turkey population, and of pioneering conservationists like Jack Miner, outdoor writer and hunter Jack O’Conner, and others who inspired him to observe and exist in wild spaces.

I know these things because he told me, and often.

Granddad was one of my best friends. He was also one of the greatest mentors a person could have, and someone with whom I spent countless hours. He took me hunting and fishing in places near and far. We watched Michigan Out of Doors on PBS every Thursday night.

We went for walks, for picnics, into excessively large American sporting good stores, and local fish markets after perch and pickerel eluded our own attempts at capture.

We also worked together on the farm, making sure to take well-timed breaks to capitalize on whatever my grandmother happened to be baking that day.

It’s because he took the time to share his knowledge, his passions and interests, that I can field dress an animal, fish with at least some degree of occasional success, and traverse wild places, among other skills for which I am eternally grateful. His support for conservation also helped transform my professional career, and enabled other lifelong friendships to boot.

People have asked why I write about the environment so often. There are many answers to that question, the type of reply frequently conditional on whether I’m elated or frustrated with whatever subject I’m investigating at the time.

Fundamentally, however, it’s because Granddad helped me see past the human world. He enabled me to see the forest, and its individual trees.

Granddad died last month. Being more or less immobile in the last few years was pretty tough on him, though it had been many more since he last picked up his bow or walked the bush behind our family farm. I remember the last time he did both, because again, we were together. We were so often together.

In those last years, during his more lucid moments, he would recount stories of his own adventures on the farm and in the woods — stories I knew well, but never tired of hearing. He would also ask whether I remember what we did together. Of course I did. How could I forget?

The great outdoors is indeed a wonderful place to be. Granddad made being there even better. I hope, in my own way, to make his legacy even more impactful.

Happy hunting, Granddad.