Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, The Writing Huntress was cleaning, cleaning like a house mouse. Her blog was neglected as she hung the dog’s stockings on the chimney with care, In hopes that her statistics wouldn’t plunge horribly, waiting for Saint Nick to deliver all she wanted, under the tree, right there.

The dogs were nestled, after walking round’ and round’ in circles, all snug in their puppy beds, while visions of marrowbones and crack-addled, suicidal squirrels danced in their heads. Hubby in his leprechaun boxers, and I in my Red Head orange hunting cap, had just settled our hunting-heavy brains for a short, Carolina winter’s nap.

When out on the pond there arose such a clatter, I sprang from our log bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a Chuck-Norris flash, I would have tore open the shutters and threw up the sash, to the porch I went in a dash!

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen frost, gave the warm-weather creatures in woods a start, making them appear lost. When what to my groggy, tired, annoyed eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight trophy reindeer.

I made a start for the shotgun in the cabinet, but soon realized I would have become the most hated huntress on the planet. Their master, a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a deflating moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than pterodactyls his mouth-watering courses they came, and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by cut!
“Now Dinner! now, Shoulder! now, Pate and Flank! On, Back Strap! On, Rump! On, Tenderloin and Shank! To the top of the tin roof! To the top of the log wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild Carolina hurricane fall, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the wall. So up to the cabin-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of ammo, and St Nicholas too.

Our dogs woke with a start, barking like crazy, as I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little meat-toting hoof. Hubby lay unconscious as I held tightly my shotgun and was turning around, when down the chimney St. Nicholas came with an earth shattering bound.

He was dressed all in rabbit fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. He stared me down like a gunslinger as I checked out the sack, filled to the brim with hunting goodies on the Old Man’s back,

His cheeks weren’t rosy, his eyes weren’t merry. He looked exhausted, nothing at all like a cherry. He told me I wasn’t the first of the night to assault him with gun or bow, that he knew his fat reindeer drove even a sane man to stoop that low.

Our deer season thus far has been sad to say the very least.  I couldn’t bring my bow to full draw on a bunch of does who were simply waiting to become my supper.  A buck meandered past my bare stand last week only to spook when he caught sight of a suspicious blob on the tree he was dangerously near.

So now, here I am, with a gun doe tag that expires tomorrow.  I have a map — taking me, I was told, to the land a coworker generously offered, a track that, weekly, produced some of the finest trail camera images I’ve ever seen.  But I’m here for does and, once I figure out where I am, I intend to bring home dinner.

The map is starting to resemble my surroundings — emboldened, and with a faint connection that could be loosely described as “cell service”, I call my coworker who informs me that he has no idea where I am, and that I am certainly not where I should be.

Three miles, one farm visit, one frightening encounter with a protective, blind cattle dog and his corgi brother, and one low-maintenance (read: barely drivable) road later, I arrive.

I unpack my vehicle, load my firearm, and walk until I find the hay bales on the map (these were, at least where they should have been) — then, I sit.

Once the sun begins its descent and there are only mere moments from myself and the night, I creep from my hiding place to walk a gully filled with small places for big deer to hide.  I sing, I scream, I taunt the ambulating venison to the best of my abilities but not one hoofed creature heeds my tune.

I abandon the unhelpful map on the way home, using only the compass I’ve expertly downloaded on my phone.  I head east as the sky’s spotlights begin to dance.  The prairie stretches out from either side- enveloping its solitary visitor in a western embrace.

It is only when I see the bright lights of the city in the distance do I stop in the middle of the dirt road.  The last time I saw a car was four hours ago — no headlights are bouncing along the curvy path — so I turn up Eddie Vedder (the Into The Wild Soundtrack) and dance alone in the moonlight.

Before today, I’ve always known where I was going to hunt — there was set land we’d always return to, we’d always go together or I with someone else.  I never took a solitary “let’s find this hunting land” drive or sat in a field fully knowledgeable of being the only human present for miles.  I cleaned my gun that morning, got permission weeks prior, loaded my car (didn’t even forget a thing), picked my spot and decided what to do at final light — all by my lonesome.

Throughout this season, as you well know, dear reader, I’ve been introduced to some remarkable things from the Badlands’ buttresses to dove hunting in a North Dakotan desert, to acting like an 8-year-old in the presence of something truly stunning, to everything in between.  But I’ve also become, blessedly, after years of learning, living, and listening — a strong, self-reliant huntress.

The next day, my husband joined me for our last gun hunt of the deer season — this night, too, yielded nothing.  We walked away, crumpling our tags in our fists, melancholic — for venison doesn’t have the tendency to simply appear magically in one’s fridge.

That last hunt closed not only the first chapter in our deer hunting lives in North Dakota but also my tenure at Deer & Deer Hunting.  This experience has been a blessing for more reasons that can be enumerated here. Allow me to thank you, readers, for your patronage, and to Mr. Dan Schmidt who helped me get my wings back.

Until next time, reader, I bid you adieu.

The Deer Huntress still writes for her blog, Hunt Like You’re Hungry, and expresses her alter-ego on her twitter, The Writing Huntress. Archery is open until January 6^th so a deer she will most certainly have in the months to come.

My mom, a woman who has never hunted, still recalls the smell of gun oil that pervaded the air when the men came in from hunting as the womenfolk put the finishing touches on dinner.  Fellow hunters who have faded in and out of my life have all told tales of Thanksgiving hunts — first bucks, perfectly cooked wild turkeys, the hunt that was rained out, the hunters that were snowed in.

Two Thanksgivings ago, I lost my first archery doe, the first deer I had ever shot at with an arrow. As I searched in vain for hours, I discovered the true definition of humility, and a lesson never to be forgotten — to wait for the perfect shot. While I learned much that day, I can’t help but recall a Thanksgiving four years past when hunting was as new to me as anything could be, when a life with an amazing man in chilly North Dakota — a mirage.

What is written below began my foray into blogging and has been revised many times since — but there is something about that day, that memory, that single shot, the euphoria following, the lonely dinner, and how far I’ve come since my passion for hunting revolved around a man who had treated me so badly — that I cannot escape.

The Deer Huntress circa 2009

It was a bitter Thanksgiving morning.

My boyfriend at the time and I were at a turning point in our relationship.  After a year of relatively good times, things were starting to go sour.  The weekend after opening day, I came home to a half-empty apartment.  It felt terrible because, at first, I experienced a sense of relief.  Relieved that I wouldn’t have to hear him complain everyday, wait up for him, or have to be the one to tell him to leave.

Once the initial shock melted away, I was sad, lonely and angry.  I had moved to the town I lived in, essentially, so we could be together. I worked hard to pay for everything and wasted money that needn’t be wasted on a guy like him. Most of all, I was angry because I didn’t know what would come of my hunting season.  We had been hunting his friend’s property and I wasn’t sure if I would be welcomed back.

I eventually got a hold of him. He told me how much he loved me and that we’d be together but he needed to move out in order to be less of a burden on my shoulders.  A complete cop-out if you ask me, but since he didn’t ask, I didn’t mention it.

Weeks went by, I went hunting every morning and afternoon I could. Some days he’d be there, some days not.  Each time I saw him, a part of my heart would ignite.  That part shrunk smaller and smaller as the months went by and, eventually, went out.

But we’re not there yet.

We’re here, it’s 4:00 a.m., it’s Thanksgiving and I’m watching Titus, my then-solitary canine, pee.

Once he sniffed all he could sniff, I ran up the stairs of my tiny studio apartment and threw my camo on.  The holiday air was sparkling, festive — my mood was anything but.   I drove to the land alone.  Snow was gradually turning to rain.  A damp chill infiltrated every crevice of the car.  When I finally pulled up to the land, he was standing there.  I faked a smile and loaded myself down with gear.

Calling the distance between the stands and where we stood a road is implying that the strip could support vehicle activity.  What we were faced with was a river of mud and freezing water.  Walking was turned into an aerobic workout in a matter of moments.  Gunky mud held fast to my boots, which were deeply submerged in the sludge.  Staring at my stagnant, sad footwear I realized all I really wanted to do was go home and watch Thanksgiving parades. Somehow, I ventured forth.

I finally got to the stand and waited.   The morning was relatively quiet and nothing moved.  Once everyone descended from their tree stand thrones, the men decided a push was necessary to get the deer moving.  I was told to scale a monstrous stand, to keep my eyes open for ambulating venison.

The guys started screaming and singing as they walked through the brush.

I stood and waited, my gun shaking in apprehension as my hands refused to calm.

Then came the moment the deer decided to peek outside the thicket.

I breathed and calmly lined the cross hairs.

A second later it was done and I could barely move.

Numbly, I cycled another shell, just in case.

Once the push was over, the guys came out yelling and high-fiving one another as I looked down from the stand.  Encouraging me to come down and survey my handiwork, the menfolk gathered around my first harvest. I shakily put my safety on and climbed down.

Walking over to where they had circled up, I spotted a mound of deer in the brush.  I quickly knelt down and patted her stomach.  I said a silent prayer and thanked her for the meals she would provide.

The whole ordeal took only a second but forever I had been changed.

That Thanksgiving Day altered me in ways that I’m still attempting to fully grasp.

I felt empowered.  I felt like there was nothing I couldn’t do.  And I fell in love with hunting.

Later, after the hunt was over, I made a makeshift turkey dinner and extended an invite to my soon to be ex-significant other.  He said he’d call when he was done with another push.

He never called.

But that night, I ate my small dinner and drank deeply from a cheap bottle of wine alone. Christmas movies were prematurely playing as the melancholic rain transformed into radiant snow in the opaque sky.  For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t sad and I knew all would be well.  As long as I could hunt, life would be good.

Hours tick by and as the squirrels toy with my fraying emotions, convincing me they are a coat-racked buck, a fat doe, a creature far larger than their two pounds, I fall into a slumber — a poetic one.

Used to this sort of fitful, literary tree stand nap, I awake with a start and begin to jot down all I had seen, heard and felt.  Stanzas eerily similar to those of Mr. John Keats rise from the depths but the words do not talk to nightingales and death, they preach of the hunt, life, and beauty:

Ode to a Nightingale Squirrel

Penned by the Writing Huntress (with a little, ghostly help from Mr. Keats)

 My hands ache, and a freezing numbness pains;

My expectations, as though of deer desperation I had drunk,

Or emptied some pungent doe estrus to the lanes

Five hours past, and deer activity had sunk:

‘Tis not through envy of your happy lot,

But being too overjoyed in my unhappiness,

That thou, fluffy tailed Dryad of the trees,

In some mischievous plot,

Of barren branches, and shadows numberless,

Chatters of my failure in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of Gatorade! that hath been

Cool’d in the freezer-burned fridge,

Tasting of glaciers and the country green,

Line dance, and country song, and dirt-covered bridge!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the clear moonshine,

With beaded corn bubbles lazing at the brim,

And my green camo-stained mouth;

That I might hunt, and leave my world for thine,

And with you, squirrel, fly into the forest dim:

Fly far away, dissolve, and never forget

What you, silly squirrel, among the leaves, has never known:

The bone weariness, the buck fever, and the empty-tag fret.

Here, where hunters sit and hear deer groan;

Where ghosts of hunts past shake a few, memorable, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows strong, and wild-game thick, and thrives;

Here, where to think is to be full awe,

Of wonder, of changed lives.

Thou was not born for death, immortal squirrel!

No hungry huntress shall hack thee down;

The thwack of arrow breaking ribs wasn’t heard

But to waste a broadhead on you, I’d be the clown:

Perhaps I should return down that path-

Through the flat heart of North Dakota, then for home,

I’ll stand in tears amid the hewn corn;

Knowing no deer, once again, hath I.

No venison! the very phrase is like a bell

To bring me back from your squirrely world to my old self!

Tonight, the hungry hunter will not eat so well,

As she is famished now, you- the deceiving, flying elf.

Till next time, you sad huntress!-Your plaintive chatter fades

Past the olive Jeep, the still plains, over the empty stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Does the buck now call?—Do I shoot him or sleep?

Was it all a mirage, or a wishful dream?

]]> http://www.deeranddeerhunting.com/featured/the-deer-huntress-ode-to-a-squirrel/feed 0 http://www.deeranddeerhunting.com/featured/the-deer-huntress-about-those-facebook-hunting-pictures http://www.deeranddeerhunting.com/featured/the-deer-huntress-about-those-facebook-hunting-pictures#comments Thu, 01 Nov 2012 14:05:45 +0000 Jacob Edson, D&DH managing editor http://www.deeranddeerhunting.com/?p=142821 Read More]]> “I will NEVER get a smartphone,” I said, glaring at the camera as if Rudy, Huntographer extraordinaire, were made entirely of flesh-eating bacteria.  “It would ruin the inherent beauty of the hunt,” I added as I looked down to my husband’s then-iPhone.

A year to the day from that statement’s first utterance finds me here, sitting atop this tree stand, staring at my Casio Commando as if it is the last source of entertainment on earth.

That scene on the Huntography DVD always makes me laugh, for I am now a proud Android user and cannot imagine going about my everyday hunting life without it.

Alas, here I sit, staring at my phone.  I switch between Facebook and Twitter, Instagram and back again.  There’s a book in my bag and a fully charged kindle for backup but my fingers are too cold to turn the tender pages of whatever beloved novel was unceremoniously shoved into my bag.

Twitter got pretty boring for a Sunday night, no one had shot anything of awe or wonder, so I got on Facebook and began to stalk my friends’ deer hunting pictures.  After an hour of this, I came to realize, not only do I have entirely too few hunting friends on my non-Writing-Huntress platforms, but that my outdoor brethren have some seriously interesting poses with their kills.

Hence, without further adieu, really what additional adieu do you need, we’re both sitting here, up in a tree, with nothing in sight for miles except the turkeys that insist on congregating over in that field and the entirely-too fat squirrel who has tempted my arrow for weeks upon end, here are a few of my favorite poses.

The Christmas Morning

Also known as “First Deer Syndrome”, this is a capture of the insane, euphoric, life-altering moment experienced by two brothers.  No care is given to how it looks, whose name brand is seen, the number of points coming from atop its head- it’s all about the moment.

The DIY

Rouge Huntress, as she is known in the world of social media, displays this pose beautifully- from the solo kill, solitary field dress, lonely lift onto the tailgate, and stunning self portrait.

The Optical Illusion

This hunter, a dear friend of mine, shot the spots off this doe and posed in a way that made his kill look as big as possible, although the addition of my muzzleloader probably wasn’t the best prop.

The Perfect Shot

While many a hunter chooses to pose with his kill, this photograph of one of our deer from North Carolina was harvested with a literal perfect shot, which overshadowed any picture we could’ve taken with him.

The Night Rider

JC, tow truck operator, clearly defines this pose with the midnight-black-I-swearched-for-this-deer-for-hours-and-I’m-serious-about-it-WHERE-IS-KITT-WHEN-YOU-NEED-HIM facial expression.

The (Supposedly) Photoshopped

Jackalopes are real, not sure how many times I have to tell y’all, but they are- many poses fall into this category, but I tell you, dear reader, this is not one of them.

By the time I looked up from my phone, a doe had clandestinely crept into the lane approximately four feet from my stand.  She sniffed the air and then began to urinate, obviously covering up my musty human smell.  I silently thanked her for the help and for the reminder that hunting is an odd duck, from the funny stories told to the lifelong memories held, the narrowly missed shots to the strange images that make it to Facebook.

I routinely stick my tongue out at loved ones, coworkers and bosses. I laugh uproariously at stupid jokes, I find amusement in the most unlikely of places (example: In Germany, entries are labeled “einfahrt.” There was no end to the jokes, jabs, and giggles each and every time we meandered past such a sign adhered to posts on the streets of Cologne and Munich.) Given that I am, for all intents and purposes, relatively new to hunting, as this is the fourth season I’ve taken to the field, it does not take much to excite, confuse, or astound this novice, juvenile mind.

Growing up, when I was sick, my mom would make me “fizzy” Jello, or Jello that was made with ginger ale to sooth the often-sickly tonsils that were removed from my person at a not-so juvenile 19. Given that my tonsils were evil entities hell-bent on making me sick every single time I went on a hockey tournament, Jello was constantly on the menu.

To keep my school well aware of my illnesses, I would always attend school even when the most deadly of illnesses fell upon me. Of course, teachers didn’t want the embodiment of a succubus plague festering in their classrooms, so I would be sent to the nurse where I would await my ride home to the couch, to rest, and watch limitless episodes of  “Wings” on the USA Network.

After a few days, I would return to the world of the able-bodied, assuming, as any child does, that all is well, pretending that my sneaky, parasitic tonsils weren’t lying in wait for the next available air-borne illness to meander past.

Many years later, I found myself ill once again, sans tonsils. While strep and tonsillitis are things of the not-so-distant past, sinus infections are not. Hubby came down with something the second we stepped off the plane from St. Maarten and passed it swiftly to me.

Facing the first morning I could hunt since before the honeymoon with a sore throat and nose plugged up like a cork in a 1789 Bordeaux wasn’t ideal. So, I made myself some Jello, kicked back with the adoring canines, threw some Nyquil on ice, and slept.

The next morning, I was feeling more like a human so, like any healing hunter, I decided the best course of action would be to beg our buddy and tow truck operator, JC, to sit in his stand on an acquaintance’s private property. He obliged, as he had already shot a nifty 8-point from the same stand.

I stuffed my pockets full of Kleenex, cough drops and apple juice after throwing on my long johns. I, stupidly, believed 49 degrees to be warm enough for a long shirt and thin jacket to swaddle my ill person, 20 feet up a tree. My savior came in the form of a black Hoyt hoodie I had thrown into my truck days before.

Once I had found the land and prepared myself for the brief walk, I paused at JC’s trail cam. I busted a couple of moves, stuck my tongue out, and even pretended to walk down a flight of invisible stairs for good measure. As soon as I felt all dignity drain from my body, I ascended the tree stand and waited.

I then began counting the turkeys that were converging on an adjacent field. I watched the fattest squirrel I had ever seen scurry up and down the same tree. I pondered briefly about the size of the squirrel in correlation to his activity level, which seemed, at least to me, quite high for such a small animal. I then saw more turkeys scuttling their way to the group meeting spot; I then questioned how turkeys know when season isn’t open, even though they cannot read calendars or Fish and Game’s posted dates. I got mad at the turkeys and resumed watching the fat squirrel finish his cardio routine.

Throughout all of this pondering, I started to become cold – really cold. My nose began fauceting, coughs began to pierce my throat as I attempted, in vain, to keep them in.  When 5 o’clock rolled around, I told myself if nothing was happening by quarter ’til, I’d leave.

Just as I began packing up, trees to the right began to rustle. One doe led the way as two fawns followed in her wake. Two more does appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic.

The leaves around me had already been shed so I was at the mercy of my statue-replication abilities. Striking an uncomfortable pose, I watched, transfixed, as the fawns followed reluctantly in their mother’s wake. One of the fawns began sniffing the air, head held high, searching the area for the unfamiliar stench. The trio walked within six yards of the stand, pausing only to nibble on some grass.

It was about this time that I began to shake so uncontrollably that I figured myself a victim of hypothermia.

By the time the two other monster does came within shooting range, I abandoned all attempts to pick up my bow. I was too transfixed, too absolutely overcome with the sensation of being privy to something so natural, that my body refused to comply with the wishes of my arms.

Before that evening, the culmination of my stand sits consisted of a whole lot of nothing. I’ve killed four deer in my hunting lifetime, that’s one a season for four years, or once every 365 days. Of these kills, I’ve only seen ONE other deer while hunting.  Meaning, out of 1,460 days, I have seen 5 deer total, or one deer every 292 days. Add these figures to my status in the hunting world as an 8-year old and you get one bewildered huntress.

One of the does, a curious girl who continued to look my way, as if she knew I was there, circled my tree twice. I had stopped shaking enough by that point, with the other four out of sight, that, if she had given me the opportunity, I would have taken a shot.

Relating this to my husband, a man who killed his first, and biggest, buck at age 8, couldn’t understand why I had frozen so badly. I told him all that I have just told you, from the shock, to the excitement, to the wondrous awe.

When he still didn’t get it, I reminded myself that I was the new one, the easily impressed one, the one who has not grown up around gaggles of deer meandering beneath stands.

Often I’ve been told that I resemble an 8-year old, not only in stature, but also in temperament. My mind is a kaleidoscope of the nuances of the hunting world that are dismissed, or even overlooked by hunters who have been around it all for so many years. Oftentimes, I wish that I had begun hunting earlier so I could call myself equal to my husband and our hunting friends, who have known this world all their lives.

But, it was this evening’s hunt that proved to me I began hunting at just the right time – the right time to appreciate the hunt, to revere the process, and to be able to share it here, with you.

Follow The Deer Huntress on Twitter, @WritingHuntress, on Instagram @WritingHuntress, at her blog, www.blogspot.huntlikeyourehungry.com, or contact by email, huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com

As a newly-minted huntress, I told whomever I was dating that my perfect honeymoon would involve a cabin, a good measure of snow, and, of course, hunting — preferably in Alaska.  In my imagination, my future (tall, blue eyed) husband and I would cuddle around a roaring fire after a day of caribou seeking.  We’d hunt, we’d relax, we’d bask in the beauty of that which surrounds, we’d hunt, we’d eat.

And now here I sit, atop a captain’s chair with rods and reels extending from every inch of the back of this vessel, pointing straight out towards the never ending blue.  I’m not wearing camouflage, I’m not stalking the latest grunt, my heart isn’t racing because I’ve seen the biggest rack of my life, it’s pounding because it’s more than all that, but it’s so much the same.

Months prior, a wedding was planned; a wedding that we derailed when the promise of a better life beckoned in North Dakota.  Almost everything was refundable, except the honeymoon, a week of freshly-wedded bliss in the salty crests of Saint Maarten, the west Indies, the home of pirate ships, mouth-dribbling fare, but no hunting.

None, at the time, I figured, at least.

Along with the stunning digs and airfare came a deep-sea fishing trip, hosted by a seafood place located right across the street from our hotel, a fishermen’s paradise called, simply, Lee’s.  Deep-sea fishing, something that my husband had done but I hadn’t, immediately scared me.  It wasn’t so much the ocean, the proximity to land or the four seasons of Deadliest Catch I’ve followed with a morbid curiosity, no, it wasn’t any of that- it was the fish.

I’ll admit it now since I’ve never put this notion to screen: I am terrified of things that live in the ocean.  Sharks, fish with teeth, fish without teeth, yellow ones, purple ones, ones with that gross headlamp on its head, ones that emit electricity, ones you can’t see and ones whose lengths surpass past football fields; all of ‘em.   Their watery landscape that never ends, the fact that humans can’t even reach the depths to which the ocean extends, it just doesn’t settle well with me.

Lee, the owner of Lee’s, was tickled at my phobia.

“Scared of fish, you? You, Mrs. Mighty huntress? HA!” he laughed when he heard my tale of woe.

Dealing with my ichthyophobia head-on seemed to be the best bet before fishing so I went snorkeling for the first time in my adult life.  My dive-master husband held my hand as I explored the rocks near our hotel’s beachfront.  Fellow guests, sipping their rum punches, must have gotten a kick out of the small girl, screaming like a banshee anytime a fish ventured too near.  After an hour of not being eaten or picked to pieces by fish smaller than my foot, I grew confident.  After more than two hours of snorkeling off of Pinel Island, I was ready.

Deep-sea fishing, to my understanding, was in deep water.  So, I took Dramamine.  My goals at the time of slipping the small, yellow wafers into my mouth weren’t lofty.  Years of barely fruitful hunts have taught me to keep my expectations low, painfully low in some cases.  Hence, I yearned to:

1)     Not throw up all over the boat, over the edges. or onto our guide.

2)     Catch one fish.  Just one, even if it is an anglerfish with its headlamp glowing like the aura borealis.

As our fishing day unfolded, I was struck at how similar the rising actions, climax, falling actions, and dénouement of deep sea fishing are to deer hunting.

Upon arrival to our boat, our guide began prepping the food plot bait.  He had a particular technique and was engrossed in his work while we trolled into the wide, open forest ocean. After we had battled the ocean, climbing every tree stand wave, we found the spot and began to set out our doe estrus bait lines.  Then, we sat and waited.

The boat trolled for what seemed like hours. Its platform, the deep, endless blue, curved with the earth, so out of reach.  Sitting atop the boat cushions, I could only marvel at the world, the water it calls home, and the evil creatures that dwell within.  As soon as philosophical thoughts began to take over, a tide of nausea rolled over me like a behemoth bowling ball. Gripping the side of the boat, trying to stand and roll with the wave, I tangoed with the ocean until it seemed as if she had won.

“GET TO THE CHAIR!!” our guide screamed as the whizzing of line began to overpower the sound of the ocean and my churning stomach.

Akin to the buck that refuses to budge another inch, this fish fought its slimy body away, far away from our boat.  I fought, only as a fisherman can, straining with every revolution of the reel, screaming at the fish to just give up already, just give up.

Later, I recall my muscles breathing a sigh of relief, sagging against my bones like an egg breaking on a sidewalk.  I recall the way the salty water, the humid air mingled in dance that played on my face, causing freckles to abound, my Irish-lass springing free.  I recall my first barracuda fighting for a return to its motherocean, the final snap of his jaws, and the bat that eased his suffering.

Generally, when asked about what happened during a deer harvest, especially with bow, I fail to recall the moments prior to or after the arrow passed through my shaking fingers.  I shoot, and it, hopefully, falls.  I recount the moments I can, I thank the animal for the meals it will provide, I praise God for putting the animal on the earth, but I don’t believe I’ve ever remembered the way the air felt, the sound of the THUD on bone, or the way my body reacted to the shot, but now I realize, I’ll must try harder to remember.

Our hunt fishing trip ended, we returned to port where more edible fare awaited our palates.  The barracuda caught that day would be used to catch bigger fish, in the future, so we settled for the indescribable red snapper caught by hands that weren’t ours.

At dinner that night, Lee, after applauding the eradication of my fish-phobia over a meal of the best seafood I’ve ever ingested, told us that all of what he does from his deep-sea fishing to his extremely popular restaurant isn’t for the money.

“I have no planning, I don’t save, I live.  All this,” he gestured around to his seaworthy kingdom, “it’s here,” pointing to his chest, “it’s all about heart.”

Ancient Greeks have been documented as believing the kidneys are the location of the soul, given that they, like the ocean, filter out the bad and leave the good.  They may have been onto something there, for I have found a new heart, a new respect for what I do, and it came from outside a forest, a stand, or a blind, for it was here, in the ocean.

Deer hunting here, albeit on public land, has been unfruitful so we tried our luck on private land. Given that the land is vast, the farms unlived-in, and the farmers unreachable, we haven’t had any success getting deer hunting permission. So, we’ve been doing more waterfowling because, generally, farmers are all too pleased to allow exterminators to deal with duck and goose “problems”, which suits us just fine.

A friend, more like a family member, of ours, aptly dubbed, “Uncle Buck,” brought us to this place, to shoot some divers, whack some geese, and introduce us to quite possibly the nicest farmers I’ve ever met.

Their farmstead is near a town with a population of 40 near the sinister sounding Devil’s Lake. The town’s post office is located in a blue, double-wide trailer. The bar hangs heavy with a ring of cigarette smoke billowing out the windows. The wind, with its screeching and whistling across the empty plain, is the loudest cacophony, making it the point of noise creation, beating out cars, children, and planes 100,000 to 1.

A lot can be said about the town, the farm, its menacing equipment, the landscape, but one thing can be said about hunters who visit this farm: they never have to pay to play.

“It was the year of the lobster,” the elder producer laughed. His eyes glinted as he took the assembled back to the days of yesteryear when he ran the farm and men came from all over to hunt his land.

“It was Christmas Eve and there was a knock at the door. A deliveryman stood there, shaking in his boots, practically buckling under the weight of a huge box. When the poor deliveryman left, obviously thankful to return to his family, we opened the package. Inside of it were lobsters, soups, breads and everything else we could ever possibly want for a Christmas feast. We have a big family and all that food lasted till after Christmas, which was a feat in itself.”

“There, at the bottom of the box, was a small card signed with one name, a name of a man who hunted our land every year, who said thank you, and who came with a big group, but he was the only one who ever took his thankfulness that far.”

Uncle Buck, looking astounded, turned to his old friend and proclaimed, “I put in for that basket, three of us did!”

The old farmer chuckled, looked at Uncle Buck with all the admiration in the world and muttered, “Well, your name wasn’t on the card.”

Anyone who hunts private land, especially with permission from ranchers and farmers, knows this outpouring of generosity comes from the urban legends heard year after year, a 101 on How To Get Permission To Hunt [Those Gigantic, Amazing, Corn-Fed, Sheltered, Mouth-watering] Deer On Private Land.

I’ve heard them all, from being nice to not toting your gun to the door, from coming early in season to coming the day before, from playing the “my little wife is with me” card (my husband, has, admittedly used this in the past to great success) to the “I have my three (possibly borrowed) kids with me for their first hunt” card (I’ve heard that no landowner can resist the smiling, camo-clad faces of little kids). So, I decided to see what really works with farmers, and what doesn’t*.

WHAT NOT TO DO

1. Attempted Murder

Do not, under any circumstances, shoot towards the farmer’s cattle, family members or homestead, even if a 30×60 mule deer, the biggest you’ve ever seen, is standing in their yard.

“I had one guy,” the elder farmer said, “who actually tried to shoot a pheasant about 20 feet from my house. My wife told me about it, since she was about 10 feet away from the guy at the time. I confronted him later, since he proudly said that he had tried to get a pheasant from the front yard of ‘that’ farm, which happened to be mine.”

2. Freeloading Friends

We’ve all done it, or had to deal with it. Your buddy just got permission to hunt some amazing land and, as his friend, you automatically think that since you’re an extension of him, you are best buddies, of course, that you get to hunt the land too. However, this is one way to lose permission with the swiftness of a North Dakota wind.

“I just want to know who’s on my land. We don’t charge for hunting privileges, and our land isn’t posted, but I just like to know who’s here because if I give permission to someone to hunt deer and 10 people show up on their acreage for a morning goose hunt, it causes problems.”

3. Farm Help

I’ve heard that, in order to make a farmer happy, you should exchange some of your time to help out, in exchange for access to hunting land. During hunter’s safety (course) in New York, this was, according to them, one of the best ways to get a farmer’s permission. The 1980’s movie that accompanied that lecture showed a hunter, fully camoed, driving a combine as a happy farmer looked on. Of course, the happy hunter killed the biggest buck of his life on that land and everyone lived happily ever after.

When I told this tale to the farming patriarch, he laughed and laughed and laughed.

“No one,” he said, “No one would ever get my okay to do that. You just don’t take a tractor and do work, those things cost in the upwards of $400,000 and beyond. It takes time and practice to drive one. It’s a nice thought but I don’t think I’d accept any help.”

WHAT TO DO

1. sk Questions

And keep asking them. Best areas to cover and be 100 percent sure of: where can I hunt, what seasons are in, where people have seen [duck, deer, pheasant, woolly mammoth], if the permission is for the day or for the season, how much the farmer charges, if anything, and always leave your information for the farmer’s records.

According to Uncle Buck, the best question to ever ask a landowner may mark the first contact you ever have with them.

“I met this family of farmers because I was lost, driving down a dirt road when I saw a big, red tractor in the distance. I stopped and flagged him down as he went past. I told him, ‘Hey, I’m lost, I just got here and I don’t know where I am, I want to hunt and I have a day to find land.’ He directed me to the farm and now, 20 years later, here we sit.”

2. Convey Thankfulness

[Reread introduction, that whole bit about the lobster and the cold deliveryman who lacked upper-body strength.]

Just saying thank you, according to this farming clan, is good enough.

However, if you ask Bucky, his friend M.W. will tell you there’s a system that works every time involving an end-of-farm-day visit and a cold (not lukewarm or room temperature) gift of hops, barley, and water.

3. Be confident

I abhor asking for permission. Before this visit, I was scared the farmer was going to be mean, that he wasn’t going to like my (585) area code, or would slam the door in my face. But, according to this producer, “most farmers, and hunters, are wonderful people.”

“Ninety-nine percent of people that we’ve met have been good people,” the farmer concluded. “Out-of-staters are usually just as welcome than in-staters. Out-of-staters are coming from a place where they don’t have what we have and are, generally, just as thankful to hunt here.”

“All you have to do is ask, take some time out and get to know the person you’re asking permission from. As you’ve seen,” the hunter gestured towards Bucky, “great hunts, and lifelong friendships can start with a simple, ‘Hey, I’m lost!’”

*Please note: The opinions and statements divulged here are from one farm and two generations of farmers. This is meant more as a general, huntress-approved guide but not as a reflection of the entirety of every farmer in North Dakota. Honestly, I want to hunt and that would be extremely time consuming, so please read and simply enjoy.

We came upon the first riverbed by accident, as we almost fell into it on our way in. The falling walls ended some thirty feet down. At the bottom, once we found our way, we stood in a riverbed of natural salt. It covered us, turning our boots into slip-and-slides of the footwear world.

That first ascended wall wasn’t bad; it was pretty easy, in fact.

Another river bed, another not-so-steep climb later and we stood here, looking up, realizing that to canvas the area for that elusive and delicious muley meat we had been craving, we had to go up, way up.

This area, we assumed, looked the best and safest to climb. He made his way, propelling his 6’5” body up the side like a camo-clad spiderman. I, perfectly aware that the only thing to break my fall were rocks and no harness had I, was hesitant. But hunting is what we came here to do, so I put my boot forward and climbed.

Had I known then what I know now, I would have saved myself the moments of pure terror, the seconds of sheer, heart-stopping climbing, by strapping my bow to my back. No, I had stubbornly told myself, I could do this. It turned out, I couldn’t.

With one hand gripping the side of the rock face and the other my bow, I looked down and saw my head smashed against the rocks, blood pouring from every crevice of my small body. I saw him screaming, scaling the cliff down, again like Spiderman, but this time in the full superhero regalia.  I saw my dogs running from across the valley, crowding around my lifeless body in an effort to rouse me more quickly.

I saw all this at the moment that I saw the small ledge. I stood, legs earthquaking, and slowly strapped my bow and quiver, to my pack. The world swayed slightly as I hefted the gear to my back. From above, kind of like God, except not at all, more like a movie rendition, my husband directed which way to go, told me to take it slow, to press myself against the rock ledge, throw all my weight at it as if by some force of will, I could make it so that I would not fall.

Minutes, or hours, I’m unsure which, later, we stood atop the cliff. I looked down, around, and up. I collected myself, swearing that it was only sweat that dripped down my face, staining the rock-hard clay below.

Once we paused for pictures, our trek continued.  We saw another ledge that would prove to be a better vantage point, so we scaled that one too.

Ten miles later, here we sit, looking at all we had done. Well, I sat, he stood. His rear end had battled a hidden cactus when an impromptu lunch break turned into a half hour of extracting hidden spines from his pants. It would have helped, in retrospect, if he had looked before he sat but he was committed to sitting and enjoying that bottom-of-my backpack-squished sandwich.

Cows meandered by, some 400 yards away. We watched them, wondering what it must be like to have full reign of the area. Our answer came in a skeletal form buried deep in a pit we almost fell into, just as she did.

We never saw another human, sans the random cyclist that my husband, for an iota of a second, believed to be a muley strutting only three yards away.

A concave, oblong circle, much like the Native American historical site in Menoken, N.D., sat below us. We walked the clear exit, the entrance, the circle in the center where the fire roared. We wondered how it must have been, to wake up to this alien landscape every morning, to the rainbow of colors, the dust, the wind, the land not yet, or never, touched by the modern hand, to hunt the buffalo atop it, or to battle those within it.

Our bows stayed out almost the entire hunt. We canvassed for a muley, assuring one another, “if I get a shot, I’m going to take it.”

I shot everything I could.

The cracked ground sprouting vegetation, contradicting life itself, boasting breath when none should be. Petrified wood pushing through rock walls, salt pastures. Cows running free, following the heard, seemingly unknowing of the surrounding beauty. Tables for giants, set up along a rock wall, waiting for a tankard of ale, a whole sheep, wool and all.

I shot it all not to remind myself of its beauty but to prove that it was real, that I had been there, climbed it, saw it, lived it.

It’s safe to say that I am no longer the huntress who patiently waited for a whitetail to meander by my larger-than-life stand. I no longer relish in walking to and fro my plastic, man-made stands, the sounds of the near road broaching the otherwise still silence.

That huntress gauged the success of a hunt in the deer seen, the venison harvested. As the number of hunts has progressed, so has my attitude towards it. I had always believed the hunt to be ancient, spiritual but now I know, it never leaves you, nor do you it.

I stare once again at the revolutions of my fan, blowing the chilly forty degree air around this fortress of a house. Blinking, I see the Badlands, my torn hands reaching over one another to make it another foot up the wall, my tired legs pushing up another hill.

Next time, I’ll taste the natural salt, walk two more miles, and maybe look down that rock wall.  But as for now, I’ll relish in the memories.

The hunt may have been, for all the purposes of mainstream outdoor TV, unfruitful, as no monster, trophy muley sagged from the bag of our truck, bouncing with the uneven road. But in reality, it was anything but.

It was solitary, it was stunning, it proved that I could reach outside myself, it was all this, and it was mine.

Check out The Deer Huntress’ Facebook Page, Hunt Like You’re Hungry, for more breathtaking photos of the hunt!

The first season I ever hunted was, on paper, easy.  I had a slew of New York tags for everything from bear to turkey to deer, but I was only focused on the last.  I had tens of thousands of acres to hunt but I only focused on the front fifteen, maybe twenty. I participated in one push, I walked the tree lines, the men of my party believed it to be the “easiest” for me to tackle, I was trotting down a mud road, a toddler could have done it.

I hunted from two stands that first season, one that looked out to the aforementioned dirt road and a quasi-open thicket, and one that resembled the Taj Mahal. If I’m leading you to believe that this was some sort of deer hunting super-structure with turrets, marble pulpits, and inch after inch of priceless artwork adorning the sides, then I’m doing a fair job of describing the monstrosity.

It appeared, at least to my novice eye, that the stand could be seen from space.  It was crudely thrown together in a haphazard way, as if the foremen overseeing its construction went to Home Depot and proclaimed to the irritated shop keep looking to lock up, “Put whatever you have left in the cart, I’ll take anything you’ve got!”, and they did.

Three minutes is what it took to climb the seven staircases that led to the zenith, a rickety piece of plywood that wasn’t attached to anything and swayed whenever the lightest of breezes past through it.  The tree, a necessary part of a “tree stand” I came to understand, was buckling under the pressure of the massive structure.  It called out to me as I took a seat on the rusted patio future strewn about the top, I didn’t make out what the tree said but it looked as if it was dying, slowly turning into what adorned it.

For weeks, I walked to one of the two stands, scaled them, sat, looked around for a while, waited till dark, got down, was escorted by whomever else was hunting back to my Jeep, and went home.

Hunting, I thought then, was easy.

In the Badlands, the extreme opposite proves true.

We had heard about the mystical landscape before we moved here.  People talked about the Badlands but have never gone, didn’t go near it, or took pictures long enough to show friends back home that they had “been there”.  Months, chaotic ones, have passed since we made our move North.  We hadn’t carved out time to drive the two hours to the alien landscape- creating and maintaining a life here in Bismarck was at the top of the To Do list.

Friday last, we went on our first deer hunt to an area we had heard was good for deer.  Another area that was completely underwater last summer, the acres were rebuilding, save for the miles of water-hewn trees, their still-standing counterparts wearing the insignia of their battle, water marks to their midsections.

Solo hunts were on tap so we kissed as we usually do; I went my way, he went his.

Three hours passed.  I happily sat on a log, read a little, and looked around.  Starting to feel as if this was the huntress of yesteryear, I got up, started walking.  I kicked up a doe, the first deer I had ever seen on any first day of a hunt.

We reunited and walked some more towards the Missouri River.  When we reached the furthest point, he said, “I think it’s time to make the trip.”

“The trip, the big one?” I had asked, knowing full well what he was thinking.

He looked into the distance, eyes sheltered from the sun’s rays by his giant hands, and nodded.

Four the next morning, I was awoken by three tails (well two, the little one has a nub) smashing against the side of the wall.  Jovial in the way only dogs can when awoken hours after they had gone to sleep, their eyes screamed WE’RE GOING SOMEWHERE, WE’RE GOING SOMEWHERE WITH MOM AND DAD! MOM AND DAD!

Our troop was left sadly for the day and they howled their disappointment as our truck eased from the driveway.

Night became deeper as we fell an hour behind.  The flat North Dakota landscape continued to be so.  Flat farmland, a flat area adorned with oil pumps, drills.  Dickinson rose from seemingly nowhere.

We stopped to get something to drink on the way in.  A man in a gigantic truck smashed into the concrete barrier between our truck and the gas pump.  He missed us by half a centimeter.  His buddy, more concerned for us than his buddy’s lack of driving skills, yelled from the window, “Did he getcha?”

Morning rose and as she stretched, she found us taking in our first glimpses of Badland beauty.  Before our eyes, the landscape changed into ancient river beds, dried valleys, towering buttresses, swooping curves, and dazzling colors.

Theodore Roosevelt National Park opened like an envelope for us, inviting us inside to be sent away, to somewhere unlike anywhere else.

We had planned to GPS our location and then walk as far as our hockey and football abused bodies could go.  Our phones decided that moment was the best time to lose signal.  I, a worrywart by nature, looked to him like a puppy caught in a rainstorm.  He shrugged his shoulders, mumbled something about being “fine” and started off.  I, agast in his wake, finally got half a bar of signal.  I GPSed our site and sent it to his mom with the note, “We’re going off, this is where the truck is, just in case.”

Please check back next week as The Deer Huntress continues her quest for a Badlands muley.

The Deer Huntress writes, hunts, and wears a lot — a whole lot — of camouflage face paint. She has a soft spot for adopted pets, which makes it no surprise that her home is run by three rescues, Dixie, Titus, and Avery. TDH is married to an admitted huntaholic who is refusing treatment and oftentimes is lost for days only to be discovered wearing a ghillie suit. She can be found, with him in tow, surely, at the nearest blind, tree stand or whiskey emporium.

Feel free to follow TDH on Twitter, @WritingHuntress, on Instagram @WritingHuntress, at her blog, www.blogspot.huntlikeyourehungry.com, or contact by email, huntlikeyourehungry@gmail.com