Remembering my Dad — lessons he taught me as we explored Arizona and the U.S.

Last weekend, I fished the Blackfoot River between the bridge and the highway. I hiked upstream through a wide valley bounded by mountains that were laced with traces of spring snow ... I found myself thinking how much my father would have loved this scene and started singing “Sweet Betsy from Pike,” just like he had done, so many years ago, along the trail in southeastern Arizona.”

I was hiking behind my father, Owen Shteir, in southeastern Arizona’s Huachuca Mountains when we heard the mountain lion roar. It sounded like thunder, but the sky was clear and blue. I readied my Nikon camera, but Dad placed a hand on my forearm and said, “Don’t worry about photos, if you see the lion you’ll be the luckiest boy in the world.”

Rangers had reported the lion the day before, but it remained hidden. I have never forgotten my father’s gentle tone, the thrill of exploring the wilds, the way he sang folk songs on the trail while carrying a little red knapsack and the tan pork pie hat perched atop his head.

My father passed away this February after being ill with Parkinson’s for many years. Studies show that a father’s involvement with his children is associated with their positive mental, cognitive, social and physical outcomes. My father showed his love for me by teaching me many things. Dad was inquisitive, tenacious and he loved nature. He shaped the man I am today.

When I was 10, he took me on a trip to the Southwest that changed my life. At Arizona’s Ramsey Canyon Preserve, we watched iridescent hummingbirds sip sugar water from feeders on the porch. We skinny dipped in a remote desert creek while bands of coatimundis roamed the banks and watched the sun set over Utah’s San Juan River as it carved its serpentine path through endless red rock canyons. After that trip, I decided that I would live out West.

Dad loved learning for the sake of learning. While living on a wooded property in central New Jersey, he created a beautiful native plant, wildflower and rock garden with trout lilies, bloodroot and pink ladies’ slippers. My father marveled at the trees that towered over the garden: American beech, shagbark hickory, white oak, black oak and tulip.

He introduced me to the great photojournalists of the 1930s and 1940s — Robert Capa, Eugene Smith and Margaret Bourke White. We spent hours poring over photography books, marveling at their courage in the face of economic uncertainty and war. In springtime, we watched songbirds that visited the garden for food, shelter, and nesting sites. My father was passionate about nature and believed that plants and animals had their own inherent value and right to exist.

Dad was kind and soft-spoken, but he had high standards. He wanted me to have a strong work ethic and be a critical thinker. My father taught me how to write by critiquing my essays. He pointed out inconsistencies in organization, grammar, and use of language and then had me fix them. When he caught me taking shortcuts on household projects, he would say, “Don’t do things half-a--ed,” which has become a running joke between my partner and I when we tackle domestic chores. My father showed patience for me as a son who was a late bloomer and experienced the world in a more physical and less cerebral way than he.

When I became an adult, dad occasionally questioned my choices but never forced an issue or became angry. He was fond of the ancient proverb, “There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and lip.” Perhaps he liked that quote because he recognized life’s twists and turns could be unpredictable and sometimes even tragic. Dad seemed content to let me choose my own path and even appreciated my adventures.

Last weekend, I fished the Blackfoot River between the bridge and the highway. I hiked upstream through a wide valley bounded by mountains that were laced with traces of spring snow. From the tangle of cottonwood, aspen and willow beside the river, I heard the unmistakable staccato trumpeting of sandhill cranes, a harbinger of spring. I found myself thinking how much my father would have loved this scene and started singing “Sweet Betsy from Pike,” just like he had done, so many years ago, along the trail in southeastern Arizona. 

Editor’s note: Seth Shteir is a natural resource specialist who lives in Helmville, Montana. Owen Shteir, May 30, 1933-Feb. 9, 2025, was a husband, father, friend, naturalist, physician and lover of good books. Please send your comments to AzOpinions@iniusa.org. We are committed to publishing a wide variety of reader opinions, as long as they meet our Civility Guidelines.