Hunting Diary

I’m having a strange day; drawn into things I’ve intuitively known about but never really had the desire to articulate. It’s been a summer drenching—raining all day and dropping about three inches of water on a lawn that should have been cut and a garden that needed tending. Because it’s been so dark, I’ve fallen back into my winter routine of putzing in the basement among my flies, magazines, and books. It's the kind of quiet afternoon that invites deep reflection, even if I’ve never been the type to keep a formal hunting diary of my own.

Early today, I received an email from John, a former board member at the Fish & Wildlife Service, sharing an article of interest. When I clicked the link, the long title caught my attention: "Why some of the most respected hunters in America are publicly pushing back against trophy hunting culture right now."¹ The piece engrossed me so completely that I paused my actual work to read it.

The author, Daniel Whitaker, is spot on. He highlights a growing cultural correction from within our own ranks, where respected insiders and veteran conservation groups are forcefully criticizing modern "trophy culture." This internal backlash isn't an effort to end the tradition, but rather an urgent defense of its long-term legitimacy and "social license"—the unwritten public approval that allows hunting to exist. Leaders like the Boone and Crockett Club warn that public acceptance plummets when hunting is perceived as an ego-driven sport rather than a means for habitat stewardship and food gathering. If the non-hunting public sees only a commercialized spectacle, they will eventually vote to ban it.

Veteran hunters argue that the rise of social media influencer marketing has replaced traditional values like woodsmanship, humility, and camp life with an obsession over status, clout, and curated "hero shots." In short, social media puts our egos on display, and the craze of trying to be an influencer distorts what hunting is actually supposed to be.

We all know digital spaces are flooded with these images. Today, the written word has mostly turned into YouTube Shorts, and everyone is begging for a "follow." I'll admit it was cool at first to watch hunting and fishing shows whenever and wherever I wanted. I always liked Jimmy Houston Outdoors and Hunting with Hank, but those pioneers did it to promote a wholesome culture. We believed they ate what they killed and ethically cared for the woods and water. But things feel entirely different now—and that contrast is exactly what sent me looking backward.

Out of sheer boredom with Netflix and the soccer match on TV, I stepped away from the screen, reached for an old Summer 1970 edition of The American Sportsman on my bookshelf, and started thumbing through the pages. I credit two things with fueling my lifelong passion for the outdoors: my dad, and The American Sportsman television show. This already nostalgic day took an even deeper turn as the hardcover, perfect-bound journal magazine transported me back in time.

Turning the pages, I came across a photo of side-by-side shotguns, a few woodcock, and some ink sketches on a desktop. "Leaves of a Gunner's Diary" by George Bird Evans graced the opposite page. The subtitle, adorned with an etching of a single grouse feather, fit my mood perfectly: "As a hunter pores over his shooting diary on a summer evening, he lives again the crisp fall days of seasons past."

Oh my...

Well, you can guess what I did next. I read the piece and found myself nodding in agreement with everything Mr. Evans pointed out with such reverence. He artfully told a story, using his statistics to reminisce, make a point, and remember his dogs. He even added some humor about an ill-fitting gun, concluding that "reading his older diary entries, it is astonishing how many things are different from the way I remembered."

But it made me wonder: what if old George had possessed an Instagram account? Do we want to believe he wouldn't be posting at the end of each day? Would he be more influencer or educator? More about the ethics, or the self-promotion?

As the publisher of The Upland Almanac, I honestly struggle with this social media dilemma. We love our readers and want more of them. I want generations younger than the sixty-something plus crowd to embrace our fine authors and support our artists. Social media seems like the modern way to grow a brand, but I’m not sure it’s good for my soul or the essence of the magazine. Our success isn't measured in financial terms or digital metrics, but in the kind comments that come directly from our readership.

Sitting there with that old volume in my hands, the modern influencer culture felt a million miles away. Social media posts capture the ego, but a handwritten diary captures the soul of the hunt. The ego displayed on digital platforms clouds why we go afield, but the cold, honest math of an old shooting ledger somehow brings back the romance of the day—the data alone triggering the past and reviving the details of gone-by seasons as vividly as an unexpected flush under a springer's nose. A traditional diary is an internal benchmark, not an external boast. It doesn't ask for a follow; it simply asks you to remember.

As it is now well past my normal bedtime, this rainy day has strangely allowed me to answer a looming question regarding the next steps for our magazine. We will maintain a limited focus on social media and stay the traditional course. We will choose quality over "likes," and rely on word-of-mouth promotion over my clumsy attempts to coordinate a sixty-second video with music.

But before I say good night and go hunt down a blank notebook to finally start a hunting diary of my own, I’ll leave you with my favorite quote from the OG himself, which reminds me entirely of why we publish The Upland Almanac: "But even more important to me than the records and conclusions about the birds I shoot, there are the dogs I shoot them over."

¹ Daniel Whitaker, "Why some of the most respected hunters in America are publicly pushing back against trophy hunting culture right now," Bushcraft Base Camp (2026).