The Daughter Delight of a Wannabe Mountain Man

The nurse handed over my first-born wrapped in a tiny pink blanket. Transfixed by the onslaught of emotion, I gazed into her angelic face while wondering what in the hell I was going to do. Thirteen months later, this same scene repeated itself.

Bailee Butler and her daddy, Brandon, proudly pose for a photo with her first turkey.

A Midwesterner by birth, my only goal upon college graduation was moving to Montana to become a mountain man. I moved to Montana, but instead of being swept downriver by a rushing current, I was swept off my feet by a woman. We married and had two daughters before I ever arrowed an elk.

Football, fishing and hunting, these are the things I understand. I was supposed to have sons. I was going to teach them the thrill of busting through the line to smash a running back, the many advantages of a slip-bobber and the importance of always keeping the wind in your face. I was meant to date cheerleaders, not raise them. But sons weren’t in the cards for me, and now, nine years later, I thank God every day. 

Being a father of daughters is the greatest gift a man’s man will ever know. My little girls have developed my softer side, and I am a better human being because of them. Hugs and kisses everyday, resounding laughter, intense curiosity, curled lips and crocodile tears constantly pull at different heart strings, and responding to each unique daddy/daughter situation is a test I never prepared for. The give and take of my relationship with my daughters requires a level of carefulness void from other aspects of my aggressive nature.

As a new father of a baby girl, everyone wants to tell you, “Girls like the outdoors, too.” But you don’t believe them. It’s “fisherman,” not “fisherwoman.” You know it won’t be the same. And it’s not. But in many ways, it’s better. One reason it’s better is because you pay closer attention to girls. You remain more present in the moment. Men are hardwired to be protective of females, and on the water and in woods it shows. I’ve observed friends, great dads, with their sons, and it’s different. Their leash is longer.

Bailee is now nine and Annabel is eight. They’re amazing, and similar in a lot of ways. They’ve had no chance to escape the wonders of nature in our household, and thankfully they have each embraced the outdoors. They share a pony and outstanding Labrador. They’re gleeful when they hear the whistle of a bobwhite quail. They know the value of morel mushrooms, even though they don’t like the taste, yet. As much as they share, their profound differences are also apparent.

Bailee is a hunter. She’s incredibly athletic and has inherited my competitive, aggressive nature. She killed a turkey on her first hunt when she was seven. Then she cried this past spring when she missed. Bailee fishes, camps, hikes and turns over rocks in the river just to see what’s crawling on the bottom. She wants to skydive. I won’t let her.

Annabel Butler fights a rainbow trout in Dry Run Creek.

Annabel is a butterfly. She floats through life. Her nickname is “Oppsy,” because trees and rocks jump out in front of her. Letting a breeze sway her hammock as she draws pictures is her paradise. She’s also found joy in fly-fishing, which is fitting. Fly fishing requires a unique concentrated aloofness. She and I took a trip, just the two of us, to Arkansas last winter and spent three days fishing and floating. With each trout she pulled from Dry Run Creek, her confidence grew. It was like watching a balloon fill. But then the balloon would pop, and she’d want to go take pictures of birds.

Grandsons would be cool someday. But for now, life as a father of daughters couldn’t be better. I never suspected love this intense could exist, nor that it could be so fun giving myself to these two tiny creatures who scare me senseless, yet motivate my every next move.

Raising cheerleaders, and they both do go to cheer camp, was not the dream of this wanderlust, wannabe mountain man. Today, all I can say is, “Give me a D, give me an A, give me a U, give me a G, give me a H, give me a T, give me an E, give me a R, give me a S. What’s that spell? HAPPINESS.”

Brandon Butler is the Executive Director of the Conservation Federation of Missouri. His syndicated outdoor column, Driftwood Outdoors, appears in 11 newspapers each week. His work often appears in Outdoor Life, Eastern Fly Fishing, and the Outdoor Guide.