The sun was just rising over the water as we pulled up to our spot. Saharan Dust left a film in the air, as if we were looking around through foggy lenses. A small breeze was all that stirred the shallow water around us and the heat of the day felt far away.
My father-in-law, Captain Jack, had invited me to go fishing today for some red fish in his super secret spot and I was excited to get back on the water. Of all the saltwater inshore fish, red fish (or red drum) are some of the most prized for their size, fight, and flaky fillets.
But catching these golden beauties is easier said than done.
Their smaller and slightly more aggressive inshore neighbor, speckled trout, will go after all kinds of bait; shrimp, croaker, artificials, you name it! As if they know they’re highly sought after, the reds tend to be a bit pickier.
After all, why chase a shrimp under a popping cork when you’ve got tiny blue crabs waiting in the sand pockets for you?
Rocking the Mullet
In the early summer, one of the most effective ways to catch red fish is using cut mullet. You can buy mullet from most bait shops and simply cut it up into chunks. It’s economical because you can use the same piece of bait multiple times, even if you catch a fish! (I caught two on the same piece of bait today!)
Mullet swirling around inthe water; they’re the ones you might see leaping out of the waves sometimes!
As we slowed to a stop on the water, Captain Jack bypassed the fishing rods behind us for a cast net instead. Because fresh bait is always best, why not catch our own?
With the rising sun and clear water, we were easily able to see the small schools of mullet meandering through the sand pockets near the boat. When the timing was right, he quickly tossed out the cast net and brought it back in.
Like most prey animals, the mullet were ready to flee at any sign of predators (including cast nets, apparently) and it took a couple of tries before we had a handful in the boat ready to go.
If you don’t have easy access to a cast net or schools of mullet, though, most bait shops along the coast will carry dead mullet that you can cut into chunks.
And Now, We Wait
With bait ready, we eased into the actual fishing spot using the trolling motor on the boat so as not scare off any fish.
At this point in fishing for trout, we’d be tossing popping corks or croaker in the water to pop, reel, and recast until we hooked a fish. For red fish, we simply baited a hook for a bottom rig, cast out to a big sand pocket, and then put the rod in a rod holder.
That’s it.
No poppin’, twitchin’, nudgin’, reelin’, hook settin’, dartin’, bumpin’, nothin’.
Because while we’re waiting on the boat watching the rods, the red fish are cruising the sand pockets nosing around for blue crab, sand eels, and any other bait that might catch their eye. And when that red fish bumps into a free meal of juicy, cut up mullet, they’re going to smack it when they’re good and ready.
Drag Racing
You’ll know the moment the red fish smacks the bait because that rod will bend completely in half with the drag screaming like an alarm bell. “Fish on! Fish on!”
This is when the real fight begins.
The red fish didn’t waste any time pulling drag as we raced to the front of the boat. Captain Jack coached me to keep the rod tip up, reel in the slack, and set the hook while he quickly reeled in the other line.
The fish didn’t give me a moment of mercy; as soon as I set the hook, he took off again with a mighty whip of his tail on the surface. I gritted my teeth in a ferocious smile; this was going to be a feisty one.
As soon as the drag stopped pulling, I started reeling with everything I had. With each of turn of the handle, I could feel the fish straining back against me. Though only a minute or so had passed, my arms burned in the effort just to keep reeling.
Suddenly the line went slack; the fish was swimming right at the boat! I reeled as hard and fast as I could, doing everything I could to keep tension on the line as he flew toward the boat at full speed. Just as he gave us a glimpse of fiery golden scales, he turned tail with a hiss of the drag back away from the boat.
And so we found a rhythm in our fight for a minute or so. He’d pull the drag, then I’d reel him in a little closer until he was suddenly right at the side of the boat. Captain Jack quickly caught him up in the net and brought him into the boat with a thick thunk.
The Five Year Fish
I knew with just a glance that this was easily one of the largest red fish I’d ever caught. A year ago, I had pulled in two 28 inchers within minutes of each other, right at the top of the legal slot in the state of Texas; anything larger than 28 inches has to be released or tagged by purchasing a tag. As the gentle morning sunlight glistened off his sides, I knew he’d be close.
We laid him out on the ruler and I couldn’t help my gasp.
28 and three quarter inches.
Somehow, it had finally happened. After five years of looking, hooking, and losing, I had finally caught an oversized red fish. After five years of watching friends and family catch oversized redfish, I had finally caught mine.
We took some quick pictures and then released him safely back into the water to grow even bigger.
But if I’ve learned anything from fishing with Captain Jack and my husband, Court, it’s that fishing for red fish is a game of patience. And with enough patience, you’ll find yourself in a fight against the laguna’s most notorious game fish.
After a few weeks in between, we finally made it out to the ranch for the final days of spring turkey season in South Texas!
Despite the blistering heat and ferocious wind, we were hopeful that this would be the weekend when we could finally connect with a turkey.
There was one caveat, though; for the first half of the weekend, I would also be performing 45 minutes away in a ballet production!
Talk about an unusual way to enjoy both of your hobbies at the same time…
As the final notes of Sleeping Beauty and phantom gobbles faded into the silence, I can honestly say that it was a fitting end to a great spring season of tutus and turkeys.
You can catch the entire experience on my YouTube channel, Jess in the Outdoors!
I’ve missed y’all! Life changes and exciting new adventures indoors have prevented me from posting lately, but I’m back and better than ever!
Nearly a year ago, I was encouraged by some friends online to try videoing my outdoors adventures to share on YouTube; after a couple of tentative attempts, I finally decided to go all-in.
Thus, my YouTube channel was born! There are so many things I would already do differently, including adding some new gear to my arsenal, and I can’t wait to learn and share more.
At the same time that I filmed my first video, I also fell in love with hardcore, walk-all-day-and-hear-nothing turkey hunting. It’s some of the hardest hunting I’ve done in my entire life, and I loved every minute of it.
Many experienced outdoorsmen and women have kind of joked about turkey hunters being a different breed, but now I completely get it.
But don’t just take my word for it; watch the video below!
If you ever have any ideas for videos or anything you’d like to see, let me know! And to all my other turkey hunters out there, good luck; we’re going to need it!
True to my past record, deer season delayed me getting these put together, but I’m excited to share some of my 2022 Resolutions, even if they’re a month late…
Last year, despite my best efforts, I only managed to achieve 2 out of 5. But in pursuing these goals, I enjoyed the challenge and uncertainty of trying new things. This year will be no different! (You can read about my 2021 goals here!)
So let’s get started!
#1 Harvest a Turkey
Last year, I got to experience the thrill and disappointment of spring turkey hunting. It’s safe to say that I was immediately hooked. We’ve got a strategy this year, and I’m anxious to put it to the test. Hopefully, this will be the year!
These are two Toms from 2020! Would love to finally knock down a gobbler this year!
#2 Land a Bull Redfish (Red Drum)
Over the summer, I had the opportunity to watch a lot of family members land their first ever bull red, and it’s always such an exciting experience! From watching them get pulled around the boat to finally netting that giant and admiring their shining scales in the sun.
Despite gaining a new personal best of 28” on the dot, I have yet to catch my elusive bull red. I’m excited to continue the chase this year!
Court with just one of many bull reds that he’s caught over the years! He’s a great angler and guide!
#3 Increase my Compound Bow Draw Weight
After harvesting my first deer with a bow during archery season, I’m ecstatic to do more bow hunting! Starting off with a crossbow to gain a stronger understanding of shot placement, timing, and distance made my first bow hunting experience a huge success.
That being said, I’m still anxious to get a chance to hunt with my compound bow. I have so much respect for how much skill it takes to shoot them without ever aiming at an animal, and now that I see the potential yield for the freezer, I’d love to do more.
We’ve got about 9-ish months until the next archery season, so I’ve got some work to do!
#4 Learn how to Flyfish
Freshwater fishing in the mountains and watching episodes of MeatEater have cultivated a careful curiosity in me about flyfishing. As Steven Rinella would say, I’m more of a “bloody knuckle angler”, but the skill and strategy of flyfishing is so intriguing…
I might be cheating with this resolution, because through an amazing group called Fishanistas, I’m planning on learning this summer in Colorado! Fishanistas is a community on Facebook devoted to creating a safe space for female anglers to learn, connect with other female anglers, and share their successes. This group includes women from all over the country doing all kinds of amazing things on the water. This was the first women’s outdoor community that I joined, and I’m so excited and humbled to be sharing this experience with them.
Lady anglers, if you’re reading this, join us on Facebook!
#5 Gut my own deer
Alright. Don’t take away my outdoorswoman card until I explain myself.
Before the fall of 2015, I didn’t like being outside. I grew up in a ballet studio in pink satin and fluffy tulle. And when I wasn’t at the studio, I was at home with my nose in a book reading about women who go on adventures and do amazing things.
My boyfriend (now husband) was a passionate and accomplished outdoorsman and wanted to take me hunting. I agreed, hoping I could at least enjoy spending time with him doing something he loved, even if the hunting part wasn’t for me. We were bow hunting, sitting on the ground in the rain and I got busted by a doe that came to about 30 yards from us. That experience forever hooked me on the magic of nature.
So I started hunting. The first time I watched an animal get field dressed and quartered out, I could hardly stomach the smell or the sight. It was unlike anything I had ever been exposed to in my entire life. I think it’s why a lot of people have a hard time understanding hunting; most people have no experience with steak before it’s a steak on a plate.
Over time, I progressed with each animal I was around. Went from watching to holding the deer still while it was hanging; went from holding to putting small cuts of meat in baggies with gloves on; eventually ditched the gloves; and this year, I was finally able to get in with a knife to help skin and quarter it out.
But the gutting part still held me back. I’ve become accustomed to everything else except the guts. There’s something about that transition that I’ve still been working to overcome, and this year, I’m going to do it. I’m so thankful that my husband took things slow with me as a mentor, and I’m ready to finally bridge that gap in my experience.
Skinning out a deer with my husband; this part didn’t bother me so much, so I’m hopeful for this year!
Despite not achieving all of my resolutions from last year, I’m excited to pursue these new goals and experience all the adventures (and misadventures!) along the way!
There was a family that passed the outdoors tradition from generation to generation. Though jobs, college, marriage, and other life adventures had scattered them across the country (even the world at times!), one thing could always bring them back together; deer season.
This admiration and passion for the outdoors quickly inspired a new tradition for the family in 1993; the Buckmaster Competition.
Every deer season, the hunters of the family would venture into the woods to harvest a buck, and at the end of that season, the hunter with the most points would be the victor. There were rules on how the deer and hunters were scored in a way to encourage ethical hunting activity.
After discussion and addendums over the years, the scoring criteria includes:
Each hunter’s score will include the gross measurements of their largest buck of the season, two times the number of tines/points from each buck, and points for archery deer.
Any deer harvested via a bow (any legal means during archery season) will earn 10 extra points (antlered or antlerless).
The hunter with the highest score at the end of the season is the winner.
For example; if I harvested two 8-point bucks with a rifle and a doe with a bow, my score would be 110 (gross measurement of my largest buck) + 16 (for one 8-pointer) + 16 (for the other) + 10 (for my archery doe) = 152 points total.
Harvesting the largest buck of the season is never a guarantee of a win, and in the end, it’s usually the most well-rounded hunter of the year that takes the grand prize.
Each reigning Buckmaster is responsible for adding photos to the book from the season and then choosing a knife to bestow to the next Buckmaster.
The year my husband and I started dating, he had just been crowned the new Buckmaster. We poured over the book one night as he reminisced about hunts and deer from years passed. Each page held precious memories and indescribable moments of triumph as family members explored the outdoors.
This rich tradition had been one more reason to get together to celebrate, and even though I wasn’t a hunter at the time, I could appreciate that.
By the time we got married, he had been mentoring me as a hunter and angler for almost two years, and I was already hooked. Being in the stand or on the boat was something we did together, an experience that we would always share. Those moments in nature together are still some of my favorite.
I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me, but sprinkled in with the “when are you going to have babies?!” question was, “Jessica, when are you going to be the first female Buckmaster?”
I looked up to these experienced outdoorsmen, and I could hardly imagine ever winning. At first. But I gave it my best shot. Literally.
Fast Forward: 2019 Deer Season
At this point in my hunting career, I had the caught the fever. The Buckmaster fever. I had been asked about it to the point that I was anxious to make it happen.
I started that deer season with hitting a different major milestone; harvesting my first buck off of the family ranch. After trying for almost 2 years, I finally had the chance to harvest a funky 8-pointer that will forever be one of my favorites: Kicker.
For me, my season was complete. I had gotten my Goliad buck, and that was all I had wanted. Then came the opportunity to harvest my personal best, the Big Freakin’ Eight. It seemed that my moment had finally come!
Towards the end of the season, Court, my husband, was invited to a ranch and managed to harvest the largest deer in the entire family, Mexican Chocolate. As he measured his deer and added up the points, he apologized; he had finished just 12 points ahead of me.
We laugh about it still, though he felt bad at the time. It took both of us getting our personal best deer to beat each other! I shrugged it off, confident that I could make it happen in 2020.
2020 Deer Season
This was when Big Boy started making more appearances on the family ranch, and I was determined to connect.
We went to the family ranch on three separate occasions, and it never happened. By the last hunt, I was begging for any spike or doe to appear. By then, the deer had seemingly vanished for the season.
Just when it seemed we would be one deer short, we got an invitation to harvest a management deer at the VWR Ranch. I finally received my Red Dead Redemption by harvesting an older 8-pointer.
I still look back on my 2020 deer season with a little bit of disappointment. The outdoors aren’t about winning, getting the biggest deer, or being “the best”. And that season, I allowed my competitive nature to corrupt my purpose for deer hunting.
Every time I look at him on the wall, I am determined not to fall into that trap again. Every opportunity to harvest an animal is a blessing, and shouldn’t be taken for granted. I vowed that I would never value a trophy over sustenance again.
2021 Deer Season
I went into this deer season with one goal; to harvest a deer with our crossbow. I very specifically hoped to have a shot at a spike so that my buck fever wouldn’t be quite so bad, and so that there would be one more doe tag at the family ranch.
With the harvest of TenPoint, my season was complete in my mind. It couldn’t get any better than finally achieving a goal I had been working towards since I started hunting.
A month later, Court put a 3-pointer from the ranch in the freezer and recovered a great 8-pointer; unfortunately, coyotes got to the buck before he did, and the meat was lost.
As we faced a venison shortage, he gifted me instead with a hunt for Christmas with our friends at the VWR Ranch. Another management buck? Let’s go!
On the first day of this year, Gnarles Barkley walked out in front of me and provided a shot at filling the freezer. My heart still races a little when I think about this hunt, and we’ve enjoyed a lot of healthy meals this month because of him.
As we waited for our ride, Court examined him closely. He wasn’t an enormous deer, but he seemed pretty comparable to the 8-pointer my husband had harvested earlier in the season.
And with only one other person in the family harvesting a buck of any kind, it looked like it had once again come down to the two of us for the win.
We started doing the math… Fourteen points for my archery spike, sixteen for my 8-pointer without any final measurements. Court would have six points for his 3-pointer, and sixteen for his 8-pointer without any final measurements.
The question was… just how close are these deer in size?
We made a deal. Court’s 8-pointer was still at the taxidermist, so we wouldn’t know the winner until we got him back. In the meantime, Court would measure my deer and keep it a secret until we could measure the mysterious 8-pointer.
2021 Buckmaster
It was a Friday night, and we got home at the same time. I had to run off to a private lesson with one of my students, but not before I noticed Court carrying the mysterious 8-pointer’s skull in his hands.
I kissed him goodbye and knew that we would have a winner when I returned.
When I got back, he sat me down. “Now remember, between TenPoint (my archery spike) and Brows (Court’s 3-pointer), your buck needs to be within 7 inches of mine to win. Mine scored 113 7/8; yours scored 107 1/2.”
It took me a minute, my tired end-of-the-week brain trying to compute what that meant. He walked me through the math, and his deer was only 6 3/8 inches larger than mine. Which meant…
“Wait… so that means…”
“You did it. You won.”
Holy schnikies, it took me a minute to process what had happened. And I’m still processing it a little bit, honestly.
All this time, I imagined harvesting this enormous buck and that would be the moment that it all came together.
Nope.
In the end, it all came down to TenPoint. If he had been a doe, I would’ve taken second. If I hadn’t focused on my archery goal, I would’ve taken second. It didn’t take a monster buck to win; a humble little spike made all the difference.
So if you’ve learned anything from this story, I hope it’s this; the little things make all the difference in the world.
After 28 years, I am super excited to say that I’m officially the first female Buckmaster!
After a fitful night’s sleep, my husband, Court, and I were back at the ranch early in the morning on New Year’s Day. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but as Justin, Court’s friend, drove the mule through the darkness, a feeling of certainty grew within me.
New Year’s Day: First Sit
This morning, we took an entirely new approach and were stationed in a new blind; the Purple Blind. We were targeting a wide 8-point with short tines that was probably 6.5 years old that would be a great management buck. We climbed into the stand and settled into the warm darkness.
To my left, a long open sendero stretched into the treeline; in front of us, a huge field opened up with a small feeder surrounded by a low fence. Behind us, there were smaller trails where deer could sneak up. The morning was cool and breezy.
With our thermal monocular, we watched as four deer immediately wandered into the senderos to snack on the corn. As the sun rose, more dark shapes entered the clearing in front of us, and it seemed as though we would have our choice in deer.
A thick-bodied deer glided into the sendero, the hint of antlers wide outside the ears barely visible in the darkness. As the morning light deepened around us, we were finally able to count the dark chocolate tines; a 10-point. Darn.
This guy was off limits, but we enjoyed getting to watch him!
We didn’t mind getting to watch him meander among the does, gobbling up the corn.
Another buck trotted into the sendero, and this one was clearly more interested in the does. With his thin neck, long face, and skinny body, we knew right away this one was still too young. He danced around the does like a human male might swagger around a bar in the hopes of picking up a lady-friend; unfortunately for him, these girls were not interested.
Watching deer just doing their own thing is such a treat. You can start to see personalities and it captivates my imagination, wondering what their life must have been like up to this point. At some point, a busted up 6 or 8-point wandered out, saw the big 10-point and puffed up like he was looking for a fight. With his brow tines broken off and the way he threw his ears back, I wondered just how many fights he had been in during his life.
This guy looked like he was ready to pick a fight!
Court’s phone buzzed; again, Justin had a shooter buck at his blind. This one was a gnarly and curly-racked 8 point, extremely symmetrical and tall. Something tugged at my heart, and I joked with Court that maybe we should try to sneak over and stalk it.
Eventually, the deer started to wander back into the shade as the temperature rose again. It had been another bust, but I still had a good feeling about today. I wouldn’t mind a nap and some air conditioning before the next hunt, though.
New Year’s Day: Second Sit
As we rolled up to the stand mid-afternoon, a strong feeling of optimism washed over me. The last time I had hunted this stand was the morning I saw the B.F.E. – and then brought him home.
We climbed up into the stand, the heat heavy in the air around us.
A few does immediately wandered out, but the rest of the sendero stayed quiet.
The longer we sat with minimal activity, a familiar tension wound its way through my body. That feeling uncertainty darkened my mood; what if we didn’t see anything again?
I kept thinking about that buck that Justin had seen from this stand earlier that day, with his curled antlers. If only he would walk out.
I shook off the feeling. No matter what we do, we cannot control what the animals do; they have feet, they’ll wander. This wouldn’t be our last opportunity to hunt if we went another evening without seeing anything, and I had to trust that everything would work out.
My mind and breathing settled into yogi zen-like state as I watched the does lazily meander along the line of corn in the afternoon heat. I released a deep exhale and felt something release within me.
“You know, I’ve come to terms with it; if I don’t get anything, I don’t get anything. It’ll all be okay,” I whispered.
That was when he came.
I hadn’t even registered that a mature buck had walked into the sendero when Court grabbed my shoulder; “I think that’s him!” he whispered, both of us reaching for our binoculars as quietly as we could.
One glance at his body and I knew he was a mature, shooter buck. As I studied him through the binoculars, my breath caught in my throat. It was the gnarly shooter from this morning!
This buck basically recreated this exact picture when he came out, and I immediately knew!
Justin had warned us about this deer. That morning, he had only stuck around for a short time before disappearing into the brush. I was not about to waste an opportunity at this buck.
Court watched him as I quickly and carefully lifted my rifle to the window and settled in for the shot. The buck was wary of the does, barely dropping his head long enough to take a bite of corn before turning away from us to watch them.
Drop, lift and turn. Drop, lift and turn.
This feeling was all too familiar; the B.F.E. and Red Dead Redemption the last two years had tested my confidence as they meandered in and out of moments for an ethical shot.
In my mind, I swatted the doubt away; if this buck was going to be quick to move, then I would have to be ready.
The seconds stretched like hours as he slowly started to turn broadside…
I settled the crosshairs in the center of his shoulder.
He bent to tentatively take a bite of corn.
Let it kick, I thought as I exhaled quickly.
In the stillness between breaths, I squeezed the trigger.
Does scattered into the trees, and the buck crashed straight into the ground where he had stood.
With a quick intake of breath, I finally sat back away from the scope. My eyes slowly adjusted as the pent-up adrenaline started racing through my arms and legs.
Somewhere behind me, Court’s phone buzzed. I lifted up a shaky fist quick fist bump before looking back out the window.
There he was, right where he had been standing. My shaking intensified, I couldn’t believe it. Everything had happened so fast, so much faster than any other time I had taken a shot on a deer.
I checked my watch; it had maybe been 3 minutes from start to finish.
“Justin texted me, that big wide 8-point is at the same stand we hunted this morning!”
Still shaking, I shook my head in disbelief. “Well good thing this guy came out here!” Every time Justin had purposefully put us in a stand for a shot, he had ended up seeing one at whatever random stand he chose to wait in.
Luckily, this guy had decided to walk out twice today.
“Should we go look at him?” I nodded and smiled like a little kid, still shaking.
It was one thing to see him through the binoculars, and then my scope, but seeing him up close was unbelievable. I ran my hand down his gray-tinged neck, chorded muscles lean after the rut. His gnarly curled antlers proved to be beautifully symmetrical and thick as they curled out and around his head.
One thing was uncharacteristically missing, though; blood.
Typically, when a bullet goes through both shoulders, it’ll also pierce both lungs. This is a quickly fatal and ethical shot to take, and usually results in a good trail of blood to follow if the deer doesn’t immediately drop.
We flipped him over to see the exit wound and found else; a knot towards the top of his shoulder blade. Court moved it around with his fingers. “It’s the bullet! It didn’t pass all the way through!” Taking out his pocket knife, he carefully punctured the hide and sure enough, it was the fully intact bullet.
Somehow, the bullet had managed to pierce both shoulder blades, but slowed down enough that it wasn’t able to go all the way through the hide. I pocketed the bullet with the brass casing, just one more wild thing to come out of this hunt.
It looked like our ride back to camp wouldn’t be there for about an hour, so we waited while the sun set.
At one point, Court turned to me. “So, what are you gonna name this one?”
I took the antlers in my hands again, marveling at the creature in front of me. Most of my deer had a few hunts, sightings, or something story behind their harvest. With this deer, everything had happened so fast from him walking out to me making the shot. My furthest shot to date, and with a wild surprise at the end!
“Gnarles Barkley,” I proclaimed, halfway joking. “Gnarles Barkley, the Hot Shot.”
Bless him, my husband cut up laughing. Now I appreciate some humor, but I didn’t want his name to be too goofy. The longer I thought about it, the less I liked any other names.
As I sat on the ground with Gnarles Barkley, I thought back through the past 36 hours.
Of the oppressive heat baking us in the deer blinds.
Of each time a shooter buck walked out in front of Justin, despite his best efforts to get one in front of us.
Of realizing that my .270 was not, in fact, off. It had been me all along.
Of coming to terms with the fact that sometimes, you don’t connect, but there are more opportunities.
Of the moment I had to have faith in myself and make the longest shot of my career.
And of that incredible moment of gratitude when you see that animal up close, knowing you’ve got meat for the freezer and memories forever.
As the 2021 deer season slowly winded down, my husband and I found ourselves with a dilemma; we were about one deer short of the venison we needed for the year.
We had been blessed during archery and early rifle season with two tender spikes, but during his last hunt, coyotes found Court’s deer first.
And with the end of the North region’s season closing in amid the holiday hustle and my ballet bustle, it didn’t look like we would make it to the family ranch in Goliad anytime soon.
It turned out that the VWR Ranch would be our solution.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, Court presented me with a management buck hunt at one of our favorite places to hunt. Between the friendships, community, and incredible deer there, I was beyond excited for this unexpected hunt!
We planned an end-of-year hunting weekend and started preparing.
Preparing for the Hunt
Before the hunt could begin, I had to take care of some business leftover from January of 2021; my buck, Redemption.
I learned a lot about the kind of hunter I wanted to be from last season, and Redemption has been my constant reminder ever since. As I lined up the shot on his shoulder, I was racked with emotion and fierce determination.
He fell with the pull of the trigger, but it had been a marginal shot. Hit through the spine, but it would be minutes for him instead of seconds. I still feel a little bit of shame remembering the sound of Court’s rifle as he brought about a quicker end.
I’m known to be a pretty good shot with a rifle, so the general consensus was that the rifle had been bumped and was no longer properly sited in (I’m also known to be pretty clumsy!”); so before I would take any more shots on animals with my .270, it needed to be sited in.
We set up at the rifle range, and I got ready to take my 100-yard shot. My breathing deepened, the crosshairs settling on the target… Boom!
It hit about an inch above the center of the target where I was aiming. I sagged back away from the rifle, the chip on my shoulder feeling heavier. Sure, it was a good shot, but it never been the rifle; just me.
Instead of letting the realization dampen my spirits, I used it as motivation. This year, I would set my emotions aside and focus on a clean shot.
As we walked away from the range, Justin pointed to his shoulder. “You’re anticipating that recoil, and it’s pushing your shot a little. Don’t worry about the recoil, and you got it.”
The dancer and athlete in me grinned. I haven’t always been good about keeping the emotions out, but I’ve always been good at applying critiques on form.
New Year’s Eve
We huddled up with the other hunters and started planning who would hunt which stands. In the end, we ended up back at a blind we had hunted the last time with a list of criteria to help us identify eligible deer.
Believe it or not, the B.F.E. from my last post was considered a management deer, so you can imagine how excited we were at the prospect of another big freakin’ eight. (You can read about him here!)
I’m not sure about where you’re at, but here in South Texas, it’s been hot. Like, mid-August hot. We might be used to mild winters, but I wouldn’t consider 90 degrees in December “mild”.
Justin dropped us off and stepping into the blind felt more like stepping into a sauna. Despite the oppressively humid heat, we set ourselves up and waited.
One of my favorite scenes in the MeatEater show is when he and Joe Rogan are glassing for deer on Prince of Wales island in Alaska. It’s raining, obviously cold, and the wind is ripping through their little shelter as they’re looking for anything on the opposite ridge.
Steve laughs a little and talks about how some of the best fun is “suffering”. Sure, the conditions are miserable and you’d give just about anything to be somewhere dry and warm, but after this hunt, it’ll be the most fun you’ve had. Those challenges make the moment of success so much sweeter.
You’ll look back on that miserable day on the mountain fondly and think “Man. That was so much fun.”
This was what I channeled as we baked in that deer blind in the South Texas heat.
As we watched the three or so does that braved the heat for corn, we whispered for those hours about hunting and all kinds of things. I don’t think I’ve ever written a post about hunting that didn’t include a little bit about conversations in the deer stand when the hunting is slow, and it’s because it’s one of my favorite parts of hunting.
Obligatory deer blind selfie. I’m not sorry.
I knew there would be downtime with hunting when I first started; I didn’t know it would include some of the most meaningful and most fun conversations with my husband.
The sun slowly sank below the trees, and we decided to call it; I didn’t blame the deer for sticking to the shade of the brush.
We loaded up in the mule, and Justin shook his head. He had chosen a stand near us for some hog hunting, and instead of seeing hogs, he only saw deer. Including a shooter 8-point that would’ve fit the management criteria.
As we drove back home that night, still sticky from the sit, I brushed it off. After all, it wouldn’t be a proper hunt if we got our deer the first sit!
From the moment after my first deer hunt, I fantasized about my dream deer on the wall. Most hunters probably do; the deer that outdoorsmen or women’s dreams are made of.
Mine was always a huge, symmetrical, graceful 8-point. Antlers that reached to the sky like carefully shaped tree branches, a rack that was tall and wide. I just knew it would be many years before I had a chance at something like that. Or would it?
It was just another Sunday, Court and I were sitting on the couch after a day of chores and preparation for the week. Ding. Court checked his phone and let out a little whistle.
“Look what Justin just sent me.”
This is the actual picture we got. I couldn’t breathe when I first saw him.
I peered over the side table at the message. It was a picture of a massive and almost perfectly symmetrical eight-point buck, presumably from his friend’s ranch. Underneath, the text said, “Is this big enough for Jess?”
I chuckled with wide eyes. “He’s a bruiser! That’s just cruel!” I sat back and shook my head. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to see something like that in person.
Court shrugged and replied. Ding. “Do you want to go hunt for him this weekend?”
I froze, heart pounding. “For real?”
“Yes! Do you want to go?”
I practically leapt off the couch. “YES! YES! Oh my gosh, do you think he’ll actually come out?!”
“He might!”
I was over the moon. This was everything I had ever dreamed of in a buck, and it was actually possible. I could hardly sit still for longer than a few seconds.
I turned my focus to the current episode of “MeatEater” that we were watching on Netflix, an episode where Steve brought his friend Janis and Janis’s father on a moose hunt. Steve and Janis talked up a pretty difficult hunt and on day one, Janis Sr. harvested the first moose of the trip. They gave him a hard time, but he just shrugged and in his Latvian accent told them he had manifested that moose, so he wasn’t surprised.
Court caught my eye and pointed at the screen with a wink. “Just manifest that deer!” I shrugged, but got to thinking… Could it be possible?
Now, yes, I know that I do not actually have the power to “manifest” something just because I will it to happen or into existence. But the idea of sending such positive energy into the universe that it comes back to you… It was intriguing enough to try.
Off and on throughout every day that week, I focused every ounce of my will on visualizing that deer appearing in the sendero. By Thursday, I just knew, with all my being, that I would see that deer that weekend.
I regularly told Court this, too. “I just know it, we’re going to see the B.F.E. this weekend.”
“The B. F. what?”
I shrugged. “That’s what I’ve been calling it in my mind… The Big Freakin’ Eight. B.F.8 just didn’t have the same ring to it.”
As I went to sleep at night and as I woke in the morning, that same gut feeling persisted that we would get a shot at the B.F.E.
And on Friday morning, our entire area flash flooded. I mean that even in our neighborhood, which is above the flood plane, I could barely back my SUV out of the driveway because the water had gotten so high. With the ranch just outside town, the roads that weren’t already underwater there would be almost impossible to traverse.
I felt my dream buck slipping out of my grasp. This couldn’t be happening… It felt like a cruel joke. Court assured me that we would try later in the weekend if the roads became passable. It was difficult to stay positive.
The sun burned bright all day the next day, slowly drying up the earth. I manifested, visualized, prayed, and everything else that they tell you to do for those roads to dry up so we could just have a chance. Just a chance, that was all I wanted.
By the end of the day on Saturday, we had decided to give it a go. My heart hammered in my chest as the F250 plowed through thick mud in the predawn darkness that hadn’t completely dried yet. Despite barely being able to sleep the night before, I was alert and ready.
We met up with the ranch manager and he took us out to the stand where the massive buck had recently been seen. I worked to control my thundering pulse as we climbed up the ladder into the stand and settled in. With a thumbs up, Doug was gone and left us there to wait for the beast.
As the sun started to peek above the trees, shadows took shape below us in the senderos. Does and a couple of smaller bucks loitered around a trail of corn, warming their fur in the early-morning sun. We carefully scanned each buck, but they were not the one we were seeking.
Just as the sun finally crested above the trees, a dark shape appeared at the very end of the sendero. Court and I immediately sat up from our chairs in the stand and carefully peered at it through the binoculars.
We could tell this buck was darker than the others even as it waited in the shade of the trees, its thick body still as it bent to munch on some corn. My heart started to race again, but I wasn’t sure if I dared to hope that it was our target buck.
He lifted his head up to the side, and I strained to get a good look at this antlers. They blurred into the tree limbs behind him; we would have to wait until he got closer. Court lowered his binoculars slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “I think that’s him.”
I wasn’t so sure. Luck had not been on our side so far!
We watched with baited breath as he slowly meandered closer. Every time he started to move, we both glanced at him again through the binoculars and the rifle scope.
As he stopped about 200 yards from the stand, we finally got a good look at him, and my breath caught in my throat. There he was, those nearly perfect antlers reaching up into the sky above him as he lazily swiveled his head to survey the deer around him. I had never imagined getting to see my dream deer within the first four years of my hunting career, but there he was. He was purely majestic as he stood completely still among the other deer.
Court and I both turned to each other and said “that’s him!” at the same moment.
I grimaced as I studied him again. He was surrounded by other deer, and there was no clear shot. My heart beat frantically, but I knew we needed to wait for a safer shot.
After a few more moments he started wading through the other deer directly towards the stand. I readied myself as he slowly broke away from the group and stepped to the right, completely broadside.
I took a deep breath, slowly tracing my index finger to the trigger, and then exhaled slowly and smoothly…
Then promptly removed my hand from the trigger as he turned head-on to us and started walking again.
Buck fever was settling in, and I had to fight to regain control of my breathing and heart beat. Court put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, he’ll give you another shot, just wait.”
He meandered a few yards closer, easily within 100 yards of us now. The buck slowly came to a stop and stepped broadside again to examine a piece of corn. I was ready, moved my finger to the trigger, started to exhale…
And dropped my hand away as he turned towards us again. Buck fever was slowly turning into frustration and fear that I would miss a shot. No, I wouldn’t miss; I would take the next shot I was given, no fear. I was 5/5 at this point in my hunting career; I wouldn’t miss, and I would make a good shot.
The buck started to slow down again. Court watched through his binoculars as he spoke. “You can do this…”
The buck had nearly come to a stop…
“Just take the first shot…”
He started to step broadside again…
“He gives you…”
I expelled the air in my lungs until there was nothing but the tiny spot behind his shoulder and my finger on the trigger…
“When you feel…”
BOOM!
So much happened at once. The buck dropped to the ground as the other deer scattered around him. The shell flew through the deer stand. My ears rang as my breath came back and my grip loosened on the rifle that I still held in a shooting position. Somewhere to my left, Court had jumped and was now watching through his binoculars.
He smiled broadly as he grabbed my shoulder. “You surprised me!” He glanced down at the deer below us. “You smoked him, he dropped right in his tracks. Look!”
I let my eyes adjust from staring into the scope for so long and saw him, my dream deer, exactly where he had been standing when I fired. Suddenly, it hit me; I actually did it. This deer that I had sent all the vibes into the universe for was real, and he was right there, waiting for me.
“Should we got get him?” I couldn’t even find the words, so I just nodded wildly and carefully grabbed my rifle to bring with us.
I couldn’t breathe as we walked up to him. He was just so beautiful, everything I had ever dreamed of and imagined in my dream deer. His coat was tinged with some grey, his body thick and strongly muscled after a long season of the rut. A big scar marred his side from aggressive encounters with other bucks. I placed a gentle hand in his fur and looked into his brown eyes.
I took a deep breath as I carefully lifted up his heavy head, the rack wider than my shoulders. Even thinking back to those moments of seeing him up close for the first time, words just can’t accurately capture my admiration for such an incredible creature.
My B.F.E.!
Before I had ever really started hunting, I had always wondered how people could kill something that they revered as something of beauty, especially a gentle creature like a deer. As I’ve hunted more, I’ve learned that the relationship between hunters and their prey is a complicated one.
It comes down to the fact that hunting isn’t only about killing.
It’s about food. I still remember feeling conflicted after my first harvest until my husband made me venison tenderloin and eggs for breakfast the next morning. It solidified that connection for me, that hunting is just as much about food as anything else. It’s just one of many possible outcomes in the circle of life.
It’s about experiencing nature. It’s watching the does and the yearlings trailing after them. Starting when turkeys traipse into the feeder like little velociraptors, heads bobbing every which way. Giggling as a feisty little spike stands guard over the corn. Catching the flashes of emerald green and turquoise of Mexican green jays’ wings as they spiral through the air. It’s seeing these animals in their own world, living their lives.
And the more time I’ve spent around them, the more I’ve come to love them. The few times we interact with them up close are truly magical, even when it’s just before taking them away to turn into food for our freezer. Like I said, it’s complex, and it’s difficult to really put into words, but I hope to find the words for it someday.
The Big Freakin’ Eight (B.F.E.) now stands guard over our living room. During the following deer season, when I would spend every hunt relentlessly searching for Big Boy, the B. F.E. would be my reminder that these big, mature deer are few and far between, and that’s part of what makes harvesting one so special. He would remind me to be grateful for the ability to hunt at all and the generosity of others that are willing to share their resources with us.
Throughout my 6th hunting season, I’ve looked into the eyes of that buck again and remembered how lucky I am to have harvested my dream deer.
As was our tradition, Court and I sat beneath the tree on Christmas Eve in 2018 after spending time with family to open our gifts to each other. Moving to South Texas had allowed us to create our own new traditions together.
There were days filled with anticipation as my sister and I helped them get everything ready for Christmas. There were ornaments to be carefully placed on the tree, tinsel and garland to be wrapped around the bannisters, presents to be wrapped (and secrets to be kept!), cookies to be baked, and eventually, Christmas movies to be watched.
Some days, we would bundle up in fleece pajamas with hot chocolate and Santa Claus cookies and watch movies together on repeat. Even now, I can taste those gingery, melty cookies with a few too many marshmallows in my hot chocolate. The one movie we seemed to watch the most was The Polar Express, my grandma’s favorite one of all. We often managed to watch it several times throughout the season.
Those memories had made Christmas of 2018 a little extra difficult. It had been almost three months since my grandma passed away, and while my Christmas memories with her were dear to me, they renewed that same sense of sadness.
I remember wrapping presents for my grandparents that year, carefully and tightly wrapping the paper around the boxes for a perfect fit. I had wrapped three, and started looking for the fourth one. The realization that there would only be three this year was like a slap in the face. I couldn’t hold back the wave of sadness, or the tears that started streaming down my face. It felt silly, but the idea of not wrapping a gift for my grandma had brought back all the pain of her passing.
So here we were, on Christmas Eve of 2018, opening some of our gifts from my family in Kansas. After rooting around the boxes under the tree, I picked up a small one, glanced at the tag, and froze.
To: Jessica From: Grandma and Grandpa
Taped to the box was a note. I showed Court, and we both paused to read it. After my grandpa had moved out of the house to a retirement facility, my parents had come across two gifts wrapped and addressed to me and my sister. Somehow, they had been forgotten or saved for this year.
I carefully opened the box, to find a gleaming silver bell. An ornament for our tree, exactly like the bell in The Polar Express. They had given us one last Christmas gift.
I chose a space on the front of the tree, moving some random red balls out of the way so it could be front and center. The lights on the tree reflected on its smooth silver surface, as if its presence lit up our Christmas tree more than ever.
Here is the bell on our tree, it always looks so beautiful in the lights.
The past three Christmases, as Court and I have decorated the tree, he has handed me the box with a knowing grin. I have carefully opened it, lightly rung the bell with a smile, and placed it lovingly on the tree. Before putting the box away, I’ve tucked away the little note and tag to be read again the next year.
If you’re reading this, I know that Christmas has looked very different these past two years. It looks different for us again, too. But know that no matter how far apart you are from your friends or your family, they’re always with you. This season is about finding hope, love, and peace despite our circumstances, and I wish them all for you this Christmas.
Epilogue
I originally wrote this post back in 2020, when I first started my “Fiercely Imperfect” blog. For some reason, I never decided to share it. When I transitioned to this new site, I couldn’t quite bring myself to delete the draft, and I only remembered it after opening the box for this particular ornament this past weekend.
Since writing this post, I’ve also lost my Grandpa that gifted thisornament, and placing it on the tree this year felt a little more bittersweet than ever. I’m so thankful to have this memory of them, and to see it light up our home during their favorite holiday.
If the past couple of years have taught us anything, it’s the importance of love and letting people know how much you care. Life is short, so love a lot and leave a little kindness wherever you go.
I’m not sure why, but as a hunter, I’ve developed a pretty healthy dose of pessimism. Even the day before, walking out when all the evidence showed that we would see Big Boy, I just had this feeling that it wasn’t going to happen.
But as we walked out to the Green Stand in the quiet morning hours, I felt different. Hopeful. Maybe even certain that things would be different today.
That feeling remained as we settled into the deer stand and waited for the sun to rise.
Several games of Solitaire later, as the sun barely began to poke through the mesquite trees, the feeder went off loudly in the silence. In the time it took for me to set down my phone and look back up, four does had wandered out into the sendero.
This obviously wasn’t from this weekend, but this is how close how they already were!
Court and I looked at each other, and we couldn’t help matching grins. It was going to happen today.
They almost walked right past the feeder and straight to the line of corn that we had replenished heading towards the deer stand. My heart started to quicken as they slowly wandered closer. Based on the landmarks we had ranged the day before, these deer were still around 50 yards away.
I just happened to glance to my right across Court and saw another deer moving in the sendero that intersected the one in front of us. The window was blurry, but I didn’t think it had any antlers, and this one was much closer!
“Look, another doe!” I whispered, pointing across him.
He glanced out the window, moving the blurry plastic aside. “No… it’s… a spike!”
My heart almost exploded out of my chest with a sharp intake of breath. A spike? It couldn’t have been more perfect.
Now I just needed to make a good shot.
We watched the spike slowly make his way underneath our stand and then continue like he might keep walking down the road. Maybe it was the does, or maybe it was the corn, but he suddenly paused and glanced down the sendero. My heart was thundering; he was right there.
As if he could read my thoughts, he started walking towards the corn. I scrambled to silently move the seat up and the crossbow into position while Court ranged the little spike.
“15 yards… now 20…” It couldn’t have been any more perfect. But I couldn’t allow my excitement to get the better of me; I took deep breaths and started focusing on my target.
Just as he started to turn broadside, the does had caught up to him. There he stood, broadside, with does standing less than 10 yards behind him.
We were so. Close.
As he slowly moved to the right, away from the does, I went back through all of the points I had been talking through with Court for almost a week now.
Wait until he’s completely broadside.
Wait until the foot closest to you steps forward and he’s relaxed.
Aim a little further back than you would with a rifle.
He’s at 23 yards; keep the center of his body between the top and middle tick marks.
Take the safety off, and squeeze the trigger.
Follow through; keep looking through the scope.
And breathe. Just breathe.
It felt like slow motion as he stepped that foot forward. My heart had never beat so hard; six years of preparation were coming down to this moment. I took a deep breath, willing my lungs to cooperate as I attempted to squeeze my breath out.
Wait a minute, this isn’t a rifle; this is a bow!
I had barely finished the thought, when instinct kicked in. I squeezed the trigger and for a moment, thought I saw the bolt collide with his ribs.
Deer scattered in every direction, and it took me a moment to realize I had even made a shot. By the time my mind had processed everything that had happened, my scope was empty; the deer were long gone.
I sat back from the crossbow, my body shaking as the adrenaline finally took over. Even though I thought I knew the answer, I just couldn’t believe it, so I had to ask; “did I hit him?”
Court almost laughed at me. “That was a great shot! You got him!”
Every part of me shook as I examined the empty sendero before me. As my memory started to catch up, I realized I felt great about the shot, that some deeper part of me knew it had hit home.
We waited and I shook harder with the anticipation of tracking the deer. Ten minutes stretched on to what felt like hours when Court finally decided it was time look. We walked out with the crossbow in hand, and it was everything I could do to breathe.
My heart beat until we came upon the place where he had last been standing and then nearly stopped; there was no blood. Anywhere. My confidence evaporated.
A few yards behind his last location, we found the crossbow bolt and sure enough, it had blood from broadhead to nock. Luckily for me, Court is one of the best trackers I’ve ever met, so if that deer had fallen, I knew he would find it.
He pointed out a small gap in the brush where he had seen the spike tear through in the moments after the shot. I have to say, I’m so glad he was with me, because I didn’t even see where it went.
We carefully pressed through the thick, dry brush. The lingering summer had fried some of the colorful flowers to a deep brown, making our search more difficult. I carefully pinched anything that resembled blood between my fingertips, but they kept coming back dry.
Court found the first blood, a small speck on some bushes. Glancing around, we started to see small ruby glimmers, gradually growing larger until…
I gasped.
My spike lay on his side underneath a tree, just steps from the next clearing. There were no words as it finally sank in; my first archery deer.
My archery deer, what an amazing moment.
My eyes moistened as I made eye contact with Court, and we beamed at each other for just a moment. Ever since he started taking me hunting, before my first doe, he knew that this was the ultimate goal. Bow hunting. I honestly couldn’t have asked for a better person to introduce me to the amazing world of the outdoors.
Then I turned my attention to my spike.
I’ve watched every episode of MeatEater, and after finding a downed animal, Steven Rinella takes a moment with it, looking it over as if taking it in. Admittedly, I’ve never really taken a moment with an animal after recovering it; not because I felt bad or didn’t want to look at it, I guess it just never occurred to me.
I got down on my knees next to him and took a moment to take it all in. It always amazes me how small they are up close, especially these South Texas deer. They’re probably one of the most beautiful animals to me, and watching them so closely has only made me love them even more.
I ran my hand down the side of his ribs and was shocked when it came back covered in blood. No wonder there hadn’t been much of a trail to follow; the dew on the trees had soaked his fur and trapped the blood.
I may have taken this deer’s life, but I would honor him as best as I could. We had an entire list of meals we were excited to make with the meat that would share with both family and friends.
We dragged him back to the sendero and I waited with him while Court retrieved the truck to bring him back to the cabin.
He was just so perfect. The perfect spike on a perfect bow hunt.
I thought about everything that had happened leading up to these moments this weekend. The fear and uncertainty of my first hunt, the extra preparation time in the second hunt, and the final moment of truth this morning.
I realized that I wouldn’t have been ready for this spike without those first two hunts.
The first to show me that I really didn’t want my first archery deer to be a monster buck, and that I wouldn’t have been ready if Big Boy had walked out.
The second to build my confidence and help me feel ready for the next day.
And the third to finally achieve a goal I have been aching to complete long before taking a shot at an animal; harvesting my first archery deer.
We decided to call him TenPoint after the crossbow; it’s a little ironic, which I love!
Jess and the Outdoors 