They can be delicate times in a budding outdoors enthusiast’s life. Go about it the wrong way, and they may never try the sport again.

For instance, when you start a kid out fishing, you don’t go after muskies. You go instead for panfish, which are almost always a safe bet for some action. Keep their interest, keep the trips short and you might just end up with a hunting and fishing partner for life.

I was of this mind-set last weekend when my dad Phil and I introduced my 7-year-old son Hunter to pheasant hunting.

Instead of hunting for birds on public ground around here where the pickings are slim and the terrain is often rough, we had a somewhat controlled environment at Wern Valley. My dad asked that we be set up in a small field that was dry so the walking could be friendly for little legs.

At 5 the morning of the hunt, Hunter slipped in my room despite being told not to for another hour.

"It’s almost time to go dad," he said. "I’ve got my stuff all ready."

I restrained myself from yelling at him for coming in too early. After all, I would have done the same thing 29 years ago when I was his age.

A first hunt meant the kid could eat fast food and drink soda, which was what he had for breakfast. I figure we can worry about high fructose corn syrup and caffeine for days not reserved for firsts.

After hearing "how long till we get there" three or four times, we finally got there.

Dad had set up just behind the clubhouse. "It’s nice and dry and should be easy for Hunter to walk," he said. "You guys ready to go?"

We got our gear and dad’s red Lab Sailor ready to go.

"Hunter," Phil said, "it’s very important that you don’t go ahead of us at all. And it’s also important that you don’t drag too far behind. Stay just about right in-between your dad and me."

No argument as to why he couldn’t run ahead. No debate as to why his gun couldn’t be loaded. He just listened - with a smile even. It would have been nice if my wife Lisa had been in the field to see it.

"Make sure you keep an eye on your gun barrel," Phil cautioned. "Make sure it’s always pointed in a safe position. Whoop, look Hunter, see how Sailor’s tail is doing circles? He’s on a bird."

Seconds later, a small rooster popped up, and fell down almost as fast.

"You got one, daddy," Hunter yelled.

One for one was a good way for us to start, but our average went down from there.

What I enjoyed more than dropping pheasants was just seeing the little joys for the kid.

"Hey look, a pheasant feather," Hunter said. "Hey look, a shotgun shell."

And each time he found an intact clay pigeon in the field, it was gold. He came home with more than a dozen he planned to show his friends and use as targets for his BB gun. It was sort of like an Easter egg hunt, and everything he found was treasure.

"So Hunter," Phil said when it was all over, "you think you’d want to go again sometime?"

I held my breath waiting for an answer, but when a smile came to Hunter’s face, I knew.

"For sure," he said.

It was a good day.

We had three generations in the field that day - four if you count the fact that my dad and I were both using grandpa Eli’s old Brownings.

(Dan Durbin writes a weekly outdoors column for The Freeman. Call Durbin at 644-7940, or e-mail him at ddurbin@bastdurbin.com if you have a story idea.)