I love watching this happen during interactions with the younger men we encounter in hunting season.

They’ve hiked miles into the forest before first light on a frosty Tollgate morning. Shiny rifles hang straight from squared shoulders garbed in sleek, modern gear.

You know, the specialty camouflage jackets over matching insulated pants. Sturdy boots fresh out of the box, nary a hole in a glove.

Then there’s Camo Man and me. I get how it looks when we pull up in our side-by-side rig, two graying oldsters sipping from coffee cups and sharing a banana.

We’re dressed for success in mismatched puffy pieces found on Bi-Mart’s clearance racks a decade ago. Over my bedhead I wear my favorite beanie with its silly puff of fake fur. Camo’s nose is runny from the cold and his rain pants are ripped.

We’re not hiking, not with our creaky knees, and we’re decidedly not cool.

The young men politely stop, their eyes continuing to search the terrain ahead. Their smiles curve up incrementally.

The thought bubble — “old people” — is enormous, so clear is their dismissal of these grandparent types in front of them.

My husband is oblivious to the muted impatience. Like most serious hunters, he wants to know who saw what, where and when. Everyone is going to lie, of course, but we all go through the charade.

A talker by nature, Camo is eager to share his knowledge with the boys, as he calls them.

“So here’s how you hunt this hill,” he begins, and my personal hunt is on — I’m waiting for the second that realization dawns on the younger faces.

I didn’t come to the sport in my youth, nor did I ever plan to hunt. So hard, I thought, and for what?

Like others, I thought I had a basic understanding about healthy food choices, nutrition trends and “sustainable” this and that.

I wanted high-quality meat for my family, but I was ignorant of the harsh reality of industrial meat processing. That’s another topic, but know this — animals taken for consumption through hunting are living the life nature intended until their last breath. Those bound for the supermarket are, almost always, having a very different experience.

After we’d each lost our spouses of 34 years, Camo Man and I were sadly slogging through our days. When we started dating in 2011, sharing our lives with each other brought out the sun again.

Camo couldn’t wait to involve me in his favorite passion. While I didn’t become his hunting clone, I grew to love time spent in the Blue Mountains. I became proficient enough with my rifle to add to our freezer.

I’ve learned there is maybe nothing about hunting local game my husband doesn’t know.

Minutes into an encounter with him and a newer generation of hunters learn this, too.

Most of these guys are well-mannered. They’ve been taught respect for their elders, and you can’t successfully hunt without knowing how to listen. But they already know everything there is to know.

Camo begins spinning out anecdotes, working in that he started hunting here in his teens. Youthful eyes move over his aging face, doing the math. He speaks of wins, losses, the importance of safety and taking the rules seriously.

Understanding dawns — they are hearing a master of the craft and the listening finally begins. I can almost set my watch.

Still, they’re not going to hear of his state and world records. They won’t know that an Oregon Cabela’s store has a poorly done (and unauthorized, just sayin’) replica of his biggest harvest on its trophy wall.

These youngsters don’t have enough collective fingers and toes to count how many hunters Camo has helped in uncountable ways.

If I end this here, it’s a love story to a man who brought me into his world. Still true, but you should also know that this year he ran me over with our off-road rig as we were hooking up my harvest to ferry to camp.

As I stood outside, ready to help, Camo reversed that Polaris right over my foot. Unable to yank out of the way, I could only wait for the fender to take me down.

It did.

Mr. Expert saw none of this as he attached my elk to the tow strap. It wasn’t until I started screaming he noticed his wife was not in line of sight, as we say in hunting.

I survived and I love him, but Camo’s still got some stuff to learn. I’m going to make sure next year’s hunters know it.

Sheila Hagar lives in Milton-Freewater with her farmer husband and Gracie the cat. She began publicly writing about her family, community and life in 1996 and her columns have been published locally and in metro newspapers. Hagar has worked in journalism for 25 years, reporting on health, education and social services. You can contact her at dnshagar@gmail.com.