Where it all began:

The alarm starts blaring; its 4:45 am, November 8, 1997. My dad allows me to sleep for another fifteen- twenty minutes. I wearily wake up and get my long johns on, then my hand-me down camo overalls and jacket, dump my boots out--as to not slide into any awaiting brown recluse or black widow spiders—put them on and grab my gear. As I make my way out of the bunk trailer, I see all the other family members loading up their trucks and getting coffee. Its opening morning of rifle deer season.

Now being since this all started 26 years ago now, I cannot for the life of me remember any kind of practice with my rifle prior to pulling the trigger that morning. I do remember where we were and what happened. A close family friend of ours named Bill allowed me to use a rifle of his. A Ruger M77 chambered in .243 Winchester. My dad went to his own blind, and since I was eight, I still was required to hunt with an adult. My dad’s cousin, we always called him Uncle Mike, was responsible for me that morning, and him being the organizer of the lease and me being the youngest hunter, got first pick of the area to hunt. We sat up in what was known as the Honey Hole, at eight I had no idea what that meant; but the Honey Hole was a ground blind set up at the base of this old live oak tree. The trunk of which must have been 3-feet in diameter. Back then, the older hunters didn’t much care about scent concealment, and we drive right up to the blind and had my dad drop me off about an hour before shooting light.

The lease that my family had consisted of 10 leasers that are all related by blood or marriage to my Uncle Mike. It was an old cattle ranch that belonged to Bill Martin in Menard County, full of black angus cattle, two pastures totaling 1800-acres, and no-man’s land in-between the two pastures complete with a bunk trailer and cook trailer. We had running water from the ranch’s well, but never any porcelain toilets, only a pair of outhouses that must have been built 20 years before I showed up.

Each paying member of the lease was responsible to provide his own feeder and of course share in the cost of the general upkeep of the place, on top of the lease fees. I always felt like the year started at the end of the summer, Labor Day weekend. Every year, all of the family was invited out to the deer lease, which consisted of filling up all the deer feeders, working on deer camp improvements, and maybe getting out in the evening to possibly shoot some dove-which rarely happened. It was always hot, we were always tired, and we always worked hard, knowing that in the upcoming few months it would be worth it.

Back to opening day, Uncle Mike and I get situated in the deer blind, and as usual he pours himself a bog ole cup of coffee, out of his thermos. Mind you we’re maybe 40 yards from the deer feeder and we jumped 10 or so deer getting to the blind. As we wait for legal shooting light, all Uncle Mike was telling me was if we get you a chance to shoot a deer make sure to aim for the vitals (right behind the shoulder, into the lungs and heart). As the early morning progresses, we had about 6 or seven does and fawns and two bucks come in. My dad was under the impression I would be taking my first deer, and likely it would be a doe, but Uncle Mike insisted that I get my gun up and start looking through the scope towards the 2-year-old buck. It was overcast and early, so light was minimal, but Uncle Mike picked the deer out for me to shoot, and I gently squeezed the trigger—BOOM!

We dropped him right in his tracks as soon as he was broadside, maybe 10-15 minutes after legal

shooting light. We sat for another 20 minutes to ensure the buck was dead, and then walked over to where he lay. We got over to the buck, and Uncle Mike was surprised that he was a young 8 point, you know nothing so big to have capped and mounted but to me at the time, he was huge. As Uncle Mike gets to looking at him, he couldn’t see the entry wound in the shoulder and that’s when I told him, I shot him in the neck, so he flips the deer over and the exit wound was about the circumference of the coke can. When asked why I shot him in the neck, I told him, “My dad told me to shoot all deer in the neck.” And he laughed.

We proceeded to fill out my tag, load him into the truck and take him back to camp. We get back, I make a sandwich and get out my brand-new hunting knife. As I make my way over to the back of the truck, my dad strolls in from his morning hunt. I show him what I had harvested, and he was just so proud. Uncle Mike recanted the story about the shot placement and then my dad laughed. As was customary after our each of our family’s first harvest, I had to field dress the deer myself, with supervision of course. I was also ‘blooded’, which means the oldest member at the lease painted my face with the blood of my harvest and told me the story about why we have these traditions. Later on, that evening, I of course was allowed to imbibe in a beer and cigar, I maybe had two or three sips of the beer, and likewise puffs from the cigar.

This was it! I was hooked! I always loved going to that deer lease. It was a great time with family and friends to connect, re-connect, bond, and most of all work to conserve and preserve the sport of hunting. I have since moved out of Texas and have lost that connection with the wildlife that I grew up around.

My father died this past winter, and since then I have felt the need to reignite my passion for hunting and fishing, so my kids can learn from me, and grow up with this passion for themselves. Join me on my journey back into the nature, in the Northwoods of Minnesota.

I love you pops!