5:30 a.m.
Crawling out of bed, especially before sunrise, has always felt like a chore. But not this morning. My anticipation of the day ahead had already repeatedly awoken me well before the alarm sounded. And as that familiar foe called out, the burden of waking up melted away.
By 8 o’clock, we’d already eaten breakfast, climbed to the top of a ridge in a rainstorm and were glassing the surrounding mountain sides for any sign of movement. Despite visiting this property for more than two decades, this was my first time seeking out this view.
And then the snow fell.
Sitting 250 feet up, you can see the storm before it hits you. You can watch it slide down the slopes, thickening every raindrop as it draws closer.
“It’s time to go,” he said.
Guiding me on my first hunting trip was my boyfriend, Cole Bergstad, and the crisp air ushered in by the storm was slickening our rocky path. So down the face of the mountain we went, carefully selecting a secure spot for every step.
When we returned to our cabin, water had permeated every layer of clothing we had on and we welcomed the fire’s warmth. But the day was hardly over. After some lunch, a change of dry clothes and a game of solitaire, we set out on the mountain and returned empty-handed.
***
“I think that’s a real-deal deer,” Cole said, staring through the pair of binoculars strapped to his chest. It’d been three weeks since our initial hunt and we’d yet to see anything shootable.
We’d sat under a juniper bush to “glass” the landscape while seeking shelter from the bone-chilling wind sweeping across the field above us. More than 900 yards away was a mule deer laying under a pine tree. After carefully inspecting the animal for several minutes, a crucial feature became apparent: it had antlers.
Although the deer only wore a matching set of forks, regulations prevented us from shooting does.
The hunt was on.
We quietly fled to the next ridge, trudging through deep snow and crawling up hillsides to get there.
700 yards. The deer was unbothered by our movement, but glanced in our direction from time to time. After scaling a shale mountainside, Cole and I met up with my dad on the next ridge to discuss the best path.
400 yards. An experienced hunter with the right equipment could likely take the shot, but a first timer like me needed a closer look.
“Keep your eye on that deer,” Cole said.
After what seemed like a lifetime, we set out for the final ridge, where I would take the shot and fill my first tag.
280 yards. The next 30 yards were spent on our stomach, crawling from one sage brush to the next.
“I understand why predators are so close to the ground,” I thought to myself.
After approximately three hours of stalking the deer, it was time to take the shot. Laying in the prone position – on my stomach with the rifle perched on one of our packs – I lined up the shot.
Anxiety, excitement and fear left me physically shaking. “Don’t get buck fever. Stay calm. You can do this.”
A deep breath.
“Ok, I’m ready,” I told Cole, who was watching through the binoculars to make sure the deer stayed down.
The shot rang through the trees, but mostly through me.
“I really wish I’d worn ear plugs.”
Tears had unwillingly begun streaming down my face. Shaking worse than before, I remembered Cole’s instructions to chamber a second bullet just in case.
I fumbled with the bolt and attempted to relocate the deer through my scope.
“You didn’t hit him,” Cole said. “Shoot again.”
My head spun as I continued to relocate the deer. “Where was he?” I wondered, frantically scouring the mountainside.
Cole’s hand on my shoulder redirected my view to him. “Take a breath,” he said. “It’s okay. He didn’t even move.”
The deer likely hadn’t come across hunters this season and was unbothered by the blast echoing through the area.
Frustration replaced my anxiety when the second and third shots didn’t strike their target.
“Just take the shot,” I snapped, moving away from the gun.
Further inspection explained that in the heat of the moment, the scope was zoomed in too far and never adjusted as we crept closer to the deer. But it was too late, the deer was gone.
***
Although another opportunity to fill my tag appeared later that day, I was still reeling with emotions from earlier. My father took the shot, filling his deer tag.
But I wasn’t quite ready to give up entirely. There was still a week left in the general season, and I’d cashed in on some vacation days to maximize my time outdoors.
Despite seeing a bull elk and a mule deer buck, situations beyond our control prevented us from filling our tags each time. However, returning empty-handed from my first hunting season was one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve ever had. I learned to understand land uses and honed in my ability to read a map. I learned to identify a deer’s species by the shape of its antlers or the color of its tail. I learned to listen for even the slightest crunch of snow out in the woods. The list goes on.
These lessons, among the many others I’ve experienced, have been my reward in addition to the memories made with the ones I love. We’ve danced in the snow, we’ve made snow angels on a hillside, we’ve gone places I spent the last 20 years dreaming of seeing.
But the most important thing this hunting season has given me is the knowledge that I can do hard things, that I can be brave and that I can push myself.
Congratulations to those hunters who filled their tags for the first time this year, I’ll join you next year.
