Steve wore a lot of hats over the course of his life, but after “Dad,” the hat he wore most proudly was that of “hunter.”

I’d known Steve since we were 15, and in all that time, the only thing that never changed about him was his passion for the hunt.

I, on the other hand, have zero desire to hunt. I never have, and I never will.

I grew up around plenty of people who hunt, and although I respect it and those that do it greatly, it’s just not something that I ever wanted to do.

Steve and I developed a plan: I’d never ask him to stop hunting and he’d never ask me to start. We’d give the kids the option to try it and support whatever decision they made about it.

It was impossible to be around Steve and not get drawn into the conversation, though. Whether it was listening to him tell hunting stories, or watching the videos he made of his hunts, or working the laundry cycle around his strict use of no-scent detergents, or any of the other million ways he ate, slept, and breathed hunting, for better or worse, hunting infiltrated my life.

There were parts of hunting that we agreed upon. Steve was a highly ethical hunter. He was careful about where and what he harvested.

He did his best to improve conditions where and how he could for all the wildlife in an area. He preached conservation and intelligent use of resources.

He also never harvested more than he could eat or use himself, without knowing he would have another outlet for it. These were all things that made me respect him as a hunter, even when I wasn’t particularly a fan of hunting itself.

When Steve died, a legacy was lost. While his knowledge and experience are irreplaceable, I know that he spent a great deal of time teaching our kids over the years, and I had to hope that he imparted enough knowledge to at least give them a firm foundation if they wanted to continue to hunt.

One thing that I know he had taught them was how to observe their surroundings and think for themselves. He was also a role model for how to acquire knowledge, always asking questions of those around him that might be able to teach him something and turning to books when and where he could to supplement his knowledge.

As I’ve been sorting through things, reorganizing things, and yes, packing up some of his things for safekeeping, or to pass down to the kids, I’ve gained a greater appreciation for all the hobbies he picked up over the years. Books on mushroom hunting, dog training, pumpkin growing, and what feels like millions of books on hunting, trapping, and fishing are all over the house.

In addition to the foundation he provided, he also left the tools that they need to continue their own journey. Over the last few months, I’ve noticed G gravitating to Steve’s equipment, or clothing, as he dresses to go out in the field. Whether it’s a pair of boots, a knife, a fishing rod, I know it’s his way of holding on to his dad and keeping him as part of his hunting and fishing experience.

G is currently the “mini-Steve” when it comes to hunting. A gave it a try for a few years, but never quite developed the love for it that he needed to place it above his extracurriculars and sports teams. Steve always left the door open for him to come back out and hunt if he wanted to and I hope to continue to allow for that option. But G is another story.

As fall arrived, I could see him subconsciously looking for deer signs, checking the weather regularly, paying attention to where and when we saw animals that he might want to pursue, but at 14, he was still too young to be able to go out on his own.

A few years ago, after I commented on the rare unsuccessful hunting season he’d had, Steve explained to me that these next few years were going to be about the boys and getting them their deer. He didn’t plan to shoot one himself until they’d filled their tags, and if that took until the last day of the season, so be it.

I realized that someone needed to take up the mantle of not worrying about their own tags being filled, and just be available to take G out to hunt. Who cares less about filling a tag than me? So, I finally did the thing that Steve never asked me to do: I got my first hunting license. I still feel very uneasy about it; however, I have no intention of ever shooting anything. I’m just there to support G.

Earlier this week, I took G and Duncan on our first pheasant hunt together. After all the work I’ve been doing with the dogs, I felt pretty confident in my ability to at least not lose Dunc in the field. Whether or not he did the job he was supposed to was going to depend on him and on G.

Sure enough, Dunc flushed a bird. Although G fired two shots, he missed. I was surprised at how disappointed I was. G kept his wits about him and continued pushing on with Dunc leading.

A short time later, Dunc sent up another one, and this time, G knocked it down. I did a few “mom things” wrong, like squeaking when the bird turned out to be not quite dead and trying to take pictures and video of every moment. G said I’m allowed to go back out with him, though, so that’s something.

That night, as I was going through pictures, I found one from the mentored youth hunt that Steve had taken last year.

Although Duncan and G are both a little bigger now, the picture is the same in every other way. G is holding a bird aloft with a smile on his face, and Dunc is sitting next to him with his tongue hanging out, giving the appearance of a big smile, too. I can’t say that I’m looking forward to that day when I have to help him gut a deer, or when I hope the bear he just shot is not “mostly dead” like the pheasant was, but I am looking forward to watching him continue to develop a deeper love for something that he and his dad shared. Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News.