Hunting has given me more stories than I deserve. I’ve hunted Alaska twice, both times with great people in truly wild, unforgiving landscapes. Less than a month ago, I killed a giant bull elk in Wyoming. Chased public land whitetails all over the plains and Midwest. Listened to the pop of a warm fire as heavy, wet snow blanketed my wall tent during a winter storm warning in October. Packed out a whitetail under nothing more than the November full moon after my headlamp died. These experiences have quite literally shaped the person I am today, but the story of my first deer holds a place all on its own. It was an 85-pound yearling doe, and I’ll never forget it.
My “strategy” for harvesting that first deer wasn’t anything special. I sat 12 feet up a white pine in a homemade ladder stand overlooking a bushel of apples and shelled corn. I’ll never forget the feeling of my heart racing when the small doe emerged from the swamp to my right. Moving from right to left, she approached the bait pile. I anxiously hung onto my bow, and—when she stopped broadside at a distance I’ll never know because rangefinders were still years from popularity—I shot. The arrow passed through right behind the shoulder. She headed back for the swamp, and after the sound of rustling leaves and breaking limbs faded, the deafening silence of Wisconsin’s north woods returned.
I’ll never forget following my dad and his good friends Glenn and Carl with an old Maglite flashlight. Step by step, we traced the scattered drops of blood that marked the deer’s path, and just as my heart was beginning to sink, Glenn said, “Here she is.” I was elated. We took the small doe to the bowling alley to register it and enjoy a celebratory Sun Drop. After we completed the registration paperwork, the bartender came out to take a photo of my dad and me with the deer. We dropped the tailgate of his ’99 F-250 and snapped the picture, which hung on the bulletin board inside the bar for several years.
So, why am I sharing this? Because we’re all guilty of passing time and scrolling our season away. The hunt I just recounted took place long before social media. Cell phones looked and felt more like bricks, and while I don’t have an endless photo app of digital photos to relive the experience, I remember it vividly because I was present, soaking in the detail of every aspect of the hunt. The smell of chili on a camp stove at lunch time, coming out of the woods early to watch a Badger football game only to fall asleep on an old, worn out couch – these quiet moments are my greatest memories.
As we head into the heart of hunting season, I urge you to focus on the journey, not the result. Don’t take things too seriously. Come out of the woods at 10 AM for coffee and donuts, go grab lunch at the local diner, stay up too late and sleep in after your hunting partner fills a tag. Moments like these and the people you share them with are the greatest gift of hunting. Filled tags will always be memorable, but it’s the camaraderie and the bonds forged through shared experiences that keep us coming back.
