Why I deer hunt

Throughout my life, I’ve spent a good deal of time in self-reflection.

This can be a difficult balancing act. Too much self-awareness can lead to an inflated sense of importance, overthinking, and general anxiety. Lack of it can lead to entitlement.

On either end of the spectrum, you can quickly lose perspective.

For better or worse, I have long been dedicated to taking stock of my logic and reasoning in my pursuit of living an intentional and purposeful existence.

Throughout my 20-plus-year deer hunting career, I’ve found this to be particularly true when I am sitting in my tree stand. Even the most engaging and active hunts generally offer adequate time for introspection.

I am a firm believer that, as a hunter, you should have your mental ducks in a row long before you even load your firearm, much less pull the trigger. After all, hunting is making the conscious decision to take a life, sometimes multiple, as ethically as possible. I couldn’t fathom undertaking such a responsibility without a firm set of principles leading me to that choice in the first place.

These principles were top-of-mind as I sat in my stand in the pre-dawn hour awaiting the opening of this year’s gun deer season.

In the chilled, mostly silent darkness I recalled a conversation with my dad on the way up to deer camp the night before. He remarked that, while he was looking forward to the weekend ahead, he just wasn’t quite as excited as he was in prior years. I conceded I felt much the same way.

On opening morning, as I quietly sat bundled up like a blaze orange marshmallow awaiting dawn’s arrival, largely devoid of any visual or audible stimuli, my brain began unpacking the origins of that feeling. I was searching for my “why.”

Maybe it was a relative lack of deer. Though shallow, it was a hypothesis based in facts. In recent years, our deer sightings had dropped off. Diminished hunting pressure in the area coupled with lackluster acorn production made the passthrough property we’ve spent most of our lives hunting seemingly less appealing and necessary to deer than it once was.

Still, this was hardly a legitimate gripe. In the 19 years I have been fortunate enough to receive an invitation to hunt this land (that is not ours, by the way) I can think of just one when I didn’t see a deer. And I can’t recall any when at least one member of our 4-man hunting party didn’t harvest at least one deer off this 30-acre property. That’s a hell of a run.

While I am far from the upper echelon of hardcore hunters, I’d like to think I’m nowhere closer to being fair-weather. But if a couple slow years were dampening my spirits, was I really that dedicated to this?

It turned out, I didn’t have much time to wrestle with that question. About 10 minutes after legal shooting hours started, as the day’s first rays of light came through the bare canopy of the woods, I looked to my right. There stood a doe at 75 yards.

Despite the silence of the pre-dawn forest, I never heard her. Concealed by darkness, she managed to navigate the abundance of frozen dead leaves strewn about the ground without so much as a single crunch. In that regard, the woods did not betray her.

As I carefully maneuvered myself toward a better angle, I noticed her nose was to the ground. She was eating, gracefully and deliberately making her way from morsel to morsel, quartered slightly toward me.

Every once in a while, I briefly lost sight of her as her next bite of breakfast led her behind one of the small, yet thick, patches of brush that dotted the landscape in that direction.

Anticipating her path, I came to the conclusion that she likely wouldn’t get much closer than she already was before vanishing into the thicket on the opposite side of the logging trail.

But that was irrelevant.

If she stayed the course, I’d get a golden opportunity for a shot just before she made it to that trail.

The next time I lost eye contact, I slowly raised my gun, assuming she couldn’t see me either. Using the trunk of the oak tree that held my stand as a brace. My breathing intensified. As I placed the crosshairs on my shooting lane, I realized my aim wasn’t as steady as it needed to be. Full of anticipation, the adrenaline was getting the better of me. I took a few deep breaths, as quietly as I could, in an attempt to remedy this.

My plan was to steadily hold the crosshairs in this shooting lane until she stepped into it. A slow squeeze of the trigger and I’d have myself a deer.

I waited for what felt like minutes. In reality, it was probably a handful of seconds. Then, she stepped right into the view of my scope, just as I drew it up.

Gently exhaling, I pulled the trigger.

The tranquility of the morning was shattered as my rifle rang out. The doe jumped straight up and, upon reentry to the atmosphere, her black hooves hit the ground running to the other side of the logging trail.

Then she stopped.

“Give it a second, she’s going to drop right there,” I told myself. Besides, I didn’t have an angle for another shot anyway.

My eyes were glued on her as I waited for the unmistakeable crash that accompanies a successful deer harvest.

But then, she just went back to eating as she was a few moments prior.

My thought is: if you’re going to miss, miss clean. And it appeared I had done that. But this was just insulting. It was though my attempt on her life was little more than a minor inconvenience, a small oddity in what had otherwise been a normal day. She eventually wandered into the thicket and out of my view. My ego was bruised.

I planned to check for blood when we got out of our stands for lunch. But, in my heart, I knew there was little point. If you’ve shot enough deer, you know what a wounded one looks like. This one displayed none of those characteristics or behaviors.

Before I could get too upset, it occurred to me: all of the feelings I had in the lead-up to that shot felt as though I was experiencing them for the first time. Just as they always do. I was so excited, I had to physically attempt to calm myself. In the deepest levels of my brain, the fire and passion for deer hunting were still there. That’s a good thing.

I saw a deer, first-thing in the morning and had the opportunity to shoot at it. Missing it was my own damn fault. Those are the only two things a deer hunter can ever really hope for and I got both, right out of the gates. I tried to keep my focus on that fact and maintain a positive outlook.

But my mind eventually diverted to another path: is my favorite part of deer hunting the killing? That would be psychotic.

There was plenty of time to ponder this. After all, the season had just started 15 minutes ago and lunch wasn’t for another six hours.

Now I’m not a calloused, cold-hearted killer. I don’t think many hunters are. I, like many of my counterparts, just like seeing deer. And there is something about encountering one, in its natural habitat, when the stakes have increased. But there is no getting around the fact hunting necessitates killing.

At the risk of sounding like a softy, I’ll admit, if there was some method of catch-and-release “hunting” for deer, I’d likely participate on occasion. Yet, in this hypothetical scenario, I’d still mostly hunt the way I do now because I enjoy eating venison and hitting the woods with my rifle is one of the most reliable ways to get it.

While my family and I don’t need venison, I like having some in the freezer. As a society, we often forget what a luxury it is for hunting to be an optional activity. In early human history, hunting was a required part of survival. We are all the product of a hunter somewhere in our bloodline. Hunting allows me to connect with that part of my lineage, the specifics of which have long been lost to history. It’s a small reminder of where I came from.

My train of thought was interrupted by an explosion less than a couple hundred yards from me. I jumped out of my seat.

Only two people could have been the source of that bellowing commotion: the landowner’s brother-in law Karl or my dad.

Moments later, the screen of my phone provided me with an answer. It was the latter. My dad had shot a doe and was getting out of his stand to field dress it. Our hunting party’s decades-long run of success remained intact for another year. Another reminder of how fortunate we truly are.

Later, at lunchtime, we compared notes back at our trucks. We came to the conclusion that my dad’s doe was likely the one I had missed a couple hours prior. While my lack of marksmanship didn’t provide a need for her to raise her guard too high, her nonchalance ultimately led to her falling victim to the next hunter she encountered. It’s tough being a deer in Wisconsin in late November.

As I settled back in to my stand for the afternoon sit, I was cautiously optimistic. I had only seen two deer in the first seven hours, but afternoons have been historically good to me in this spot. Many of my deer have come in the latter portion of opening day. One year, I got two deer on the first afternoon in a span of minutes. Recalling these memories fueled my hope.

But with roughly an hour of shooting time left, I was running out of gas. I hadn’t seen a deer all afternoon and I speculated my hunting partners likely hadn’t either. Still, I was at peace. I had my chance earlier in the day and I didn’t capitalize. It happens. Besides, there was always tomorrow.

I stood to stretch my legs. They were stiff from lack of activity.

*BOOM.*

A shot rang out and it only could have come from one person: the landowner, Jerry, whose stand is closest to mine.

Jerry doesn’t miss often, but the portion of the property his stand occupies generally holds multiple deer simultaneously. When the others run for cover and come in my direction, there is typically only one route they take and it’s a path that’s typically fruitful for me.

Still standing, I quickly reached for my gun, hoping the commotion from the shot would divert attention away from any noise I made in my haste. But before I could ready myself and take up a shooting position, I saw him.

Off my left shoulder was a buck walking in a steady, yet not hurried, pace from right to left. He was big. How big? I wasn’t sure, he had slipped behind some trees before I could get a full grip on the situation. With the little intel I had available, I pinned him as a nice 8-pointer. I was certain he was one of the larger bucks I had seen in-person on this land.

Out of his line of sight, I sat down and readied my rifle on the side rail of my stand. The plan was essentially identical to the one I employed in the first moments of the day: anticipate his trajectory and be ready when he re-appeared.

If my calculus was right, he’d walk right into one of the widest shooting lanes I had, at about 30 yards, and he’d be there soon.

I leaned in to the butt of my rifle and peered down the scope, anxiously awaiting the sight of his left shoulder within it. My nerves were seemingly absent. No shaking. No heavy breathing. Frankly, there wasn’t time.

Within seconds, I learned that my mental math was correct. My scope was filled with brown. But the buck was still briskly walking. I made a small tweak to my aim to compensate and pulled the trigger.

By the time I looked up from my scope, the buck was 15 yards from where I shot him, tail down. He tripped over some downed timber, did a front flip and piled up. The woods was silent.

I stood in shock. It all happened so fast. The biggest buck of my life was on the ground just a short walk from me. While every deer hunter spends plenty of time dreaming of this moment, mine had finally arrived and it was surreal.

“Wait,” I told myself. Though it was the last thing I wanted to do, I’ve heard far too many stories of deer playing dead only to run away as the excited hunter approaches, never to be seen again.

I glanced at my phone. There was a message from my dad, “Was that you?”

“Jerry. Then me. I got a buck’,” I tapped out as best my fingers would let me. The adrenaline was kicking in now. I hadn’t even noticed the apostrophe in place of what should have been the exclamation point. Typos were of little consequence at the moment.

Putting my phone away, I prepared for the descent from the stand. I unloaded my gun, attached it to the tether and lowered it down. Step by step, I went down the frosty ladder, each step a tad more wobbly than the last. I was so excited, my knees weren’t as reliable as they generally are.

Safely on the ground, I removed my rifle from the tether, chambered another round and slung the gun over my right shoulder. Unforeseen shenanigans were not an option when stakes were this high.

Full of anticipation, I made my way to the buck, trying not to snap any twigs or create any other type of audible disturbance. Then, I got my first good look at him.

As I assessed his bulky brown body, I realized this deer was even bigger than I thought. Talk about a special feeling. It’s one thing to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you have just dropped the biggest buck of your life. To discover that you undersold his stature in your own mind is almost indescribable.

Approaching his head, I squatted down and grabbed hold of his antlers. I began counting. To my added surprise, when I got to “eight,” I wasn’t done. This was a 10-pointer. No one in my family’s direct line of hunters had ever shot a 10-pointer, to my knowledge.

In delighted shock, I took a few steps back. I took my gun off my shoulder and rested it on a nearby tree trunk. Then, I took a seat on the cold leafy ground and spent a few quiet moments by myself soaking it all in. I wanted to be sure I’d never forget this.

Before long, I made out the cadence of muted footsteps coming down the logging trail from my left. It was my dad. I stood to greet him as he approached.

“Holy shit,” he said in an exaggerated stage whisper as he caught his first glimpse of my buck.

“He’s a big one,” I replied as I gave him a hearty embrace.

Over the years, this moment had played through my head more times than I can count and it was finally here. I dreamed about being able to give my dad a giant hug as we stood next to a big buck I had just shot.

My dad has invested an immeasurable amount of time and money teaching me the ins and outs of deer hunting and the last two-plus decades have been filled with ups and downs. He bought me my first rifle and drove me all over God’s green earth to any range that had open shooting until I got comfortable with it. He sought out hunting opportunities to get me my first deer at an age far younger than he was before he even started deer hunting. He has been there to celebrate my successes and console me in times of frustration.

This hug was the culmination of all of that. This was the pinnacle. A lot of hunters never get to reach this climax and many that do aren’t able to share it with the person who guided them down the path at the very beginning.

After we snapped some pictures and I fired off a few messages, my dad helped me field dress the deer before we dragged it to his truck.

That night, after dinner at Jerry’s house, I glanced at my phone and noticed a missed call from my friend Ben. I’ve known him nearly my entire life but, as often happens when we get older, I hadn’t talked to him much in recent months. In fact, I’d hardly seen him since his wedding in July.

“What’s up, brother?,” I texted him.

“Just called to discuss the buck,” he quickly replied.

I excused myself from the group so I could give Ben a call. I can’t tell you the last time I spoke with him on the phone.

Ben had shot his own buck back home in Sheboygan Falls shortly after shooting hours opened earlier that morning. We took turns sharing our stories and ended up talking for nearly half an hour, like the old friends we are.

When I returned to Jerry’s living room, where the rest of our crew was gathered, I told them I was just given a reminder of one of the many reasons I hunt. The bonds formed through shared experiences of the outdoors are truly unique. I’ll concede that I can and should put more effort into keeping touch with my oldest friends. But that call never would have happened if it were not for hunting and my soul was full because it did.

The following weekend, I had the chance to hunt with Ben and some of my other friends during our annual deer drive. As we assembled at our annual meeting spot, my smile grew wider with each member who arrived. This weekend was one of the only opportunities I had to spend time with many of these guys nowadays and it was great to be in their company, even though we were missing a couple key members of our cohort. There are plenty of quiet moments, but I find deer hunting to be a largely social activity. People are a huge part of it.

Our drives yielded four additional deer for our group. As is tradition, we spent Sunday afternoon, the final day of gun deer season, processing our harvests together. Many hands make for light work but, this experience is so much more than that to me. It’s an opportunity to contemplate our place at the top of the food chain, to intimately know and take pride in where your food comes from. I feel those things have largely been lost in our modern American society.

The reality is: to have meat on your plate, a living thing must die. It’s really that simple.

While I am not someone who feels you should only eat meat from creatures you have personally killed, I think it’s valuable to come face-to-face with that reality every once in a while. It’s healthy to be part of the process, from start to finish, to be reminded of the work that goes into putting food on the table. Though we live in an age of convenience, someone has to put in the work, even if it’s not you.

Being at the top of the food chain doesn’t mean we’re free of responsibility. In fact, it means we have the ultimate level of it. As humans, we collectively have the ability to make life and death decisions for every living thing on this earth. Hunting forces me to contemplate that and that’s important because this reality exists for hunters and non-hunters alike.

I acknowledge my feelings on this deer season are somewhat shaped by the success I was lucky enough to have. But I am glad I was forced to reaffirm my “why.”

Because there isn’t any single reason I deer hunt. But I can once again confidently say there are plenty of good ones.

And I’m grateful to be reminded of that.