My hunting education was in the mountains.
I've hiked miles, climbed rock faces, carried around a 50-pound pack while my bow rested on my shoulders, and glassed vast open public lands. Not infrequently, I find myself in the timbers, among the bears, and routinely walking up to bedded moose. I move and sit and glass and move and move some more. I stalk the animals I'm hunting.
So when Can-Am invited me to hunt white-tailed deer on Doug Duren's farm in western Wisconsin for his annual Doe Derby—a hunt mostly consisting of sitting in deer blinds waiting for first or last light—I had no context of what that would entail. Nor if my aggressive ADHD would allow me to sit still for that long. In fact, I'm fidgeting with my knife as I edit this story.
Likewise, it'd be my first big-game hunt with a rifle. A rifle I wouldn't have a lot of practice with. In a place I'd never seen, or walked, or even knew. All I had was some basic e-scouting using onX. And the first day of our hunt would be cold. Like negative five degrees-cold. The type of cold that freezes your boogers when you inhale. So, everything would be new. Everything novel.
I couldn't wait.
Little did I know that my two-day doe hunt would test my patience to the degree it did, as well as reinforce some things I've learned by reading hunting columns and listening to podcasts. Nor that it would make me yearn to both try more rifle hunting, as well as head back to the white-tail woods next season.
The mercury read minus-five degrees Fahrenheit as we broke from the house's cozy confines on the first day. The warm coffee I'd just gulped down did little to shake the abrasive cold that hit my face as I opened the door to Wisconsin's Driftless Area. Frost covered the dried and brown grass, but the sun shone so brilliantly, the frost sparkled and dazzled in the morning light.
This wouldn't be a very early morning hunt, as we'd only arrived late the night before and we still needed to head to Doug's farm a few miles down the road. The morning schedule included hearing the conservationist talk about the history of the farm, and of his Sharing the Land collective. We'd also be grabbing some delicious breakfast burritos, have a quick safety talk, determine where everyone would sit for the afternoon hunt, and tackle some much-needed rifle practice.
After gathering up and slapping on a set of latex gloves under my mittens to improve warmth retention, we hopped into the Can-Am Defenders idling outside. One already had two does in its bed, while the other had a single doe taking up space. "A good omen," I thought.
We'd take the UTVs out into the field across from Duren's farmhouse to ensure the rifles were sighted in and also that, more than likely, a couple of potential greenhorn writers could hit the broad side of a barn.
I've shot a bunch of rifles and guns over the years—but not very recently. I haven't shot anything for several years, outside of my Sig-Sauer pistol that I carry into the backcountry for bears and lions. One of Doug's Sharing the Land partners is Savage Arms, the rifle company out of Massachusetts, which had sent over a trio of nice new rifles—specifically, the Axis2, 110 Hunter XP, and 110 Apex Storm. All chambered in 6.5 Creedmoor, the rifles were adorned with Vortex scopes, and were ready to rock.
Two targets were set in front of us; one at 50 yards, another at 100. Chip shots for most rifles. But again, I hadn't shot a bolt-action in ages. And yet, I was up first.
Shaking off the nerves, I settled into the same breathing I do when shooting my bow on the 100-yard target. Sitting on the shooting platform, I calmed my nerves, let the crosshairs fall onto the target's bullseye, waited until the valley of my exhale, and then I pulled the trigger. A half-inch right and high of center. I racked another round, eased into the scope, let my breathing settle, boom. Just right of center. My third round punched in between the first two.
We all took a few more practice sessions to feel comfortable, as well as to pick which of the three Savage models we felt the best behind, and then make further very tight Swiss cheese of the 100-yard targets. Finally, it was time to head to the blinds.
As we were all new to white-tail hunting, each of our group had our very own hunting buddy; someone who had more experience within these woods. For my initial sit, I was paired with a veteran outdoor writer—and one of Doug's close friends—Pat Durkin. Pat's been writing about the outdoors and hunting for decades, both for MeatEater and for local Wisconsin newspapers. His wit is as sharp as they come, his humor is very similar to my own, and him and I froze our asses off together, sitting in the blind.
Overlooking an agricultural field on the edge of Doug's property, we were placed between a few corridors that looked ripe for deer to come around. Pat and I spent the first hour or so quietly talking about our backgrounds, his history with Doug and MeatEater, and staring at cornstalks that looked exactly like deer each time we "spotted something." I also did a handful of dry-fire practices on said corn stalks that absolutely were deer. It was fun, as we laughed, cursed the cold (among other things)—and also didn't see a single deer. For that matter, though, neither had anyone else.
The deer and beaver stew that was waiting for us back at Doug's farmhouse, however, was warm, delicious, and the perfect antidote for throwing off the cold and getting everyone into telling hunting stories.
As morning rose the following day, the cold also broke. In fact, it was a balmy 20 degrees as we left for Doug's once more. The day's high was said to be in the mid-30s, which we joked was practically bikini weather compared to the prior day. That morning, however, I left Pat and took up a seat in the Can-Am with Doug before dawn to head to a new stand. Hopefully, it would be one that'd bring more action.
Chatting with Doug one-on-one, there's obviously the same conservationist vigor he exudes when talking about Sharing the Land, as well as Chronic Wasting Disease (CWD). But he's funny, down-to-earth, loves eclectic music, and also couldn't help but dole out hysterical jabs at the two bow hunters he had in tow—our photographer Dylan also bow hunts.
We sat in the blind, one that was far more comfortable and warm than the blind I'd sat in the night prior—thank you, Zero 4 Outdoors—spotted a bald eagle and, well, little else during the first part of our sit. Doug, ever the gracious host, offered to then go for a "walk." His walk, however, was one that he had hoped would cause some does to get moving as Dylan and I sat waiting for a good opportunity to drop one. Most folks call this a 'deer drive'; Doug calls this a 'mooch.'
Unfortunately, the mooch didn't produce any deer. So, after picking Doug up, we went back to the farmhouse to regroup. And it's here, after two failed sits, that my ADHD went into overdrive.
As everyone gathered for lunch, I was left looking over the massive satellite map Doug has hung in the living room of the house. I'd looked this over using onX before my flight, and I'd found some areas that I felt would possibly hold some deer if I was given the chance to go for a walk.
As I stood there, everyone could clearly see what I was thinking, though I felt I wasn't as antsy as I must have outwardly shown. They asked, "What are you thinkin' over there, Jonathon?"
Slightly sheepishly, I asked, "Can I go for a walk?"
There was some deliberation on my request. Doug wanted to ensure that everyone got paired up, as well as landed in some spots that'd hopefully produce deer. He also wanted to make sure that, if he let me go for my hike, I knew about important things like property boundaries, where folks were, and where they'd be shooting. Above all, I needed to understand that I had to be on my best behavior.
In the end, Doug relented, and he sent me out with Pat once again. Only this time, Pat would hang back at a tree stand a little way away from where I planned to go.
In the woods, after I left Pat, I stalked off quietly along a trail, being careful to not make too much noise. Luckily, it had just started snowing, so my footsteps started to be masked. But after a few hundred yards, and spotting a few buck scrapes and footprints, a feeling came over me.
It was the same feeling I had when I arrowed my buck earlier that year. It was the feeling of "Hey, you should nock an arrow." Only on this occasion, it was "Hey, you should rack a round."
And so, I did.
I continued through the woods, making my way through a small section of weeds and willows, and into an area at the perimeter of Doug's farm. Hardwood trees rose up—a testament to Doug's land ethic and conservation—and the patter of snow faded as I was well sheltered, thanks to the branches. And then, as I slowly walked through the trees, I spotted it. There was a doe's head, not 30 yards in front of me.
My heart raced, my eyes contracted, and my breathing shallowed as I attempted to hold still so I wouldn't be seen.
At first, I tried to pick up the rifle and aim while standing, putting the deer's head in my crosshairs. Her body was behind a tree, quartering to me, and looking as if she'd walk right toward a perfect shooting lane. But my anchor wasn't good enough for me to make an ethical shot had it presented itself—I swayed a lot, which is definitely something I'll have to work on. So I dropped to a knee, squared her up again in my scope, and waited for her to give me a shot.
I had learned the importance of being patient while stalking elk last year. How I had rushed while moving to hopefully get a shot on the animal, only for it to peace out of the country once I tried moving.
So this time, I sat there like a statue for what felt like forever, but was likely only a few minutes. I told myself she'd move into my shooting lane and I'd have a doe down. I sat there telling myself, "Be patient." All the while, the doe's head never wavered from the middle of my crosshairs.
But then, the deer turned the other way, and slowly walked into the thick brush behind her. Stupidly, I forgot everything I'd just told myself and moved to try and get to where she was likely walking toward. Twenty yards later, she and six of her doe friends bolted out of the brush. Unfortunately, there was no stopping them. And I never saw them again.
I spent the rest of the evening kicking myself for spooking the deer. Also, thinking about how cool the experience was to have the doe in my scope, walking into a thorn-laden valley, seeing two bucks that we couldn't take (one literally bedded not twenty yards in front of me, mocking my efforts), and also being pelted by the freezing sleet that had come after the snow. It was all awesome. And I learned that I could actually be patient, though I can also immediately forget to be.
None of our group tagged a single doe during our two days. But thanks to my love for a good outdoor walk/well-armed hike, I was still the only person who so much as saw anything. The conditions were hard, though. Now, knowing what I've learned about white-tail hunting, the folks who are the most successful every year are that way because they sit in blinds or tree stands. And the deer I'd seen in the beds of the Can-Ams we used were evidence of that. But hunting is hard and it's full of lessons to be learned.
Hopefully, Doug will have me back next season to swap more stories, have more fun, talk more music and life, and go for another walk. And maybe, just maybe, even shoot a couple of does.
