I panicked. Sick to my stomach over such a mistake, I sent out the SOS to my friends and raced against the clock to make the 26 minute drive to town, wishing there was someone else to blame for my situation and sending up a prayer that everything would be ok. It had to be ok. It just had to!

Yes, I know I am over dramatic. But when your newly-tuned and strung bow suddenly starts shredding arrows at 7 pm on September 30, you get a pass. Dramatics are called for and hushed tones are used to soothe the frantic soul on the other end of the riser as she beelines it to the bow shop before closing time with the "patient" in stable but critical condition in the backseat. No self-respecting McDonough County deputy would even think about giving me a speeding ticket under those circumstances - a police escort to 1025 W. Grant Street would probably be more appropriate. 

I had a fair guess as to the malady - a malfunctioning drop away rest was my informal diagnosis, but I lack the technical skills to do anything about the situation. I cursed my idiocy for not testing the string earlier, for letting work get in the way of sport and taking it for granted that my Halon 6 would be just fine after her makeover. I knew better, and this is how my foolishness would be repaid - potentially sitting out Opening Day hunts as a cold front moves through and harvest is in full swing. The bitter injustice gnawed at my brain as I pulled in to the parking lot and burst through the door, a whirlwind of windblown hair, mismatched socks, and a release still clipped around my wrist and forgotten in my haste to make it to the shop before closing.

What stopped me in my tracks was the volume of people in the modest shop showroom at Crooked Creek Outdoors. Some were shopping for new equipment, some were desperately seeking last-minute repairs, and others were swapping stories and trail cam pictures as the minutes standing between them and daybreak slipped away into the dark. Employees looked beat, yet upbeat, and the air hummed with an energy that had been steadily building as temperatures slowly swung from hot and humid to cool and crisp. Our Huntsmas Eve had arrived, and I was in the midst of the bow shop equivalent of shopping for gifts on December 24.

Greg, the shop owner, and Clyde, the bow guru, deftly answered questions and switched from sales to service like a well-oiled machine. With a little assistance from the part-time help, my suspicions were confirmed, my rest was adjusted, and the whole rig was paper-tuned to perfection within 15 minutes. As the crowd thinned near closing time, we settled around the arrow counter to finish fletchings and recount memories of the busiest day of the year. This night showed a steady stream of people, busy for certain but not a circus like some years. Every customer had a story, inside knowledge, or hit list buck picture to share as our community of bowhunters emerged from a summer spent in campers and boats to return to the woods in search of the next booner for the wall or doe for the freezer. The bow shop becomes our fall headquarters to boast and bitch (depending on the situation) and get better at what we do through their expert tips and tweaks. Collectively, we feel the pain of every missed shot and celebrate the ethical harvest of every animal - even more so if you bring in your trophy straight from the field so we can "ooh" and "ahhh" at it in the bed of your truck. Have deer sticks to share, straight from the butcher? Yes please, I'll take two.

For all of these reasons and many, many more, the bow shop is an incredible place to be, more fulfilling to me than a gym, easier on my liver than a bar. Our year kicks off tomorrow, and none of us could enter the woods without the work that is done for us by the local bow shops. As the paper tear straightened from nock low to dead on bullet, I could feel my blood pressure relax and my heart rate return to normal. A true Huntsmas Miracle had been performed, and from the looks of the crowd tonight, many of us need to be setting out cookies and milk (or SoCo and pecan pie, if you please) as an offering for the expert men and women who support us getting to the stand in the morning. Here's to you, Mr. Archery Pro Shop Man! This Bud is for You!

    People always tell you to fix all the details of the most important days of your life in your mind, to focus intently on every moment because in a blink they will pass, leaving you with the papery husk of the memory devoid of the juicy details, like a food truck tamale during a hurried lunch break. Graduations, marriages, and births are the traditional joyous milestones we strive to cement in our brains and hearts, photographing events with a fervor that devours data and storage space – but the moments are captured, savored, and shared for years to come.
            What no one tells you, dear hunter, is to do the same for your firsts, each and every one.
         As an adult, I’m often somewhat shameful of the firsts I have left to experience. A relative newcomer to bowhunting, I’ve been pursuing that magical first for three seasons now, growing more and more impatient with each passing year. My first season was more of a training exercise really, rarely venturing out unaccompanied, clutching my $50 used youth bow and taking terrible shots left and right. Shooting and recovering a deer at that stage would have been a downright miracle, as my “experienced” hindsight tells me now. Season two was far more serious, hunting alone on every free day with upgraded equipment and hundreds of hours of practice under my belt, but this too produced no results other than more money down the drain in lost arrows and a downright comical theme that dogged me all fall and winter of 2016.  The day I fled my blind with ground bees in my pants was a particular high point. Thank goodness I was raised to laugh at my misfortunes, or season three might have ended before it even began.
            I started counting down the days to October 1 the first day of shed hunting. I had access to a new property rife with bucks the likes of which I had never seen. My family farm has more deer than you can shake a stick at, but decades of “if it’s brown, it’s down” mentality has left us with a distinct lack of mature bucks – it’s a doe haven with a sprinkling of bucks so adolescent I can practically smell the BO and zit cream as they pass by. Each shed at the new place seemed unreal, like a prop from a movie set deposited in the timber in some sort of highly constructed adult Easter egg hunt. I was enthralled, if unbelieving.
            Spring led to summer, and summer meant trail camera season. My disbelief at the promise the new farm held was resoundingly shot down as Mother Nature showed off what solid deer genetics can really produce. I watched those velvet nubs grow every week, from good to great and finally to wowza, identifying each big boy by name, learning to distinguish between deer by the angle of the eye guards, the number of kickers, the height of the tines. I have never had so much fun looking at a computer screen in my life, smashing the arrow keys faster and faster so the deer practically moved on the screen. The day I saw the first one shed its velvet on camera, I almost cried.
            The off season really has no off button, and between practicing with yet another new bow, sweltering in the summer sun to put in food plots, hanging stands, and traveling to the Heartland Bowhunter Film School, fall was upon me before I knew it. September days grew thin, and flipping the calendar brought such a rush of emotion because this had to be The Year, the one where I finally brought in my first bow kill. It took twenty-three days for my first to fall.
            October was hot, sticky and hot, dry and hot, just plain hot. The days I had free to hunt weren’t ideal, but I took what I could get, literally sweating through clothes in a blind that felt more like a tiny sweat lodge rather than a scent-free dome of concealment. Another morning found me in a rickety stand in the rain, fighting motion sickness as the wind blew my tree first this way, then that, and finally in a delightful circular motion that prompted me to send a text to a friend disclosing the location of my secret money stash for his children in the likelihood of my impending doom. I did have one shot on a meaty doe, but from the wrong location as the early evening sun blinded me and left me with a busted broadhead from a shot placed square in the shoulder socket of the poor doe unlucky enough to be in range. Others stayed at 65+ yards, or presented only when it was dark enough that I couldn’t see my pin for the shadows. Maddening would be the word I would use to describe my early season, plain and simple. And I loved every second of it.
            I climbed into the stand for one more debacle on a cool and misty Sunday evening, a night I shouldn’t have been out, for I worked the next day and should have been home preparing for a busy week. Carefully, I ascended to my throne for the evening, a site called Charlie’s Stand overlooking a fresh rye food plot complete with some of the biggest scrapes and rubs I had seen all season. Thankful for my decision to invest in new rain gear, I hunkered down and watched vapor turn to drips and then drops, pooling on the leaves of my white oak and beading up on my bow.
            Through the light rain, I watched first one doe and then a second leisurely stroll up the trail to my left, entering the field with the “well, what’s for dinner tonight” attitude of a pair of gals out for date night. I stood and raised my bow smoothly, setting the distance on my sight from memory, as I had ranged every blade of grass with all the free time on my hands. My heart gave a solid thump in my ears, and then resumed its normal pace – this part of the show, I had seen before. The story changed as a buck stepped out on the trail, young but definitely male, his antlers at a clear contrast to the decidedly damp landscape. He wasn’t chasing the ladies, and they paid him no attention, grazing and having silent girl talk between them in that telepathic way I assume all animals communicate. In a moment, my decision changed – I knew he was a deer I should not harvest, that I should let grow, but I couldn’t pass the chance for my first bow kill to be on a buck. I shifted my focus and waited.
            He took his sweet damn time entering the field, practically sauntering over to a downed branch I knew to be at 33 yards. Presenting me with a beautiful Texas heart shot that I distained to take, I watched his rump as he grazed and groomed, licking first one leg and then another. I stood at attention, release clipped on, ready to pull the second he came even the slightest bit broadside.
            I don’t recall drawing my bow back, and I vaguely remember aiming and letting go. I suppose this is what all archers work for, to get to the automatic stage of the draw-aim-shoot cycle. In my case, it was certainly more of an adrenaline black-out, but I clearly saw the arrow smack his side, watching him crouch and then run, my arrow ricocheting from his flank, snapped in half (as I discovered later) by his shoulder blade as he bolted from the spot. It was the best shot I had ever taken on a deer, but I wouldn’t let myself get too worked up until I had recovered my trophy. I’ve been disappointed before, and have learned to not get my hopes up too quickly. To my astonishment, his steps grew unsteady after just a few bounds, and I watched him drop 15 yards from the point of impact. He never moved again, and yet from my stand, I wouldn’t let myself believe.
            I had a few more opportunities that evening to harvest another deer, but I let them all pass, first a fawn, then two more does. My eyes alternated between watching the sliver of white rump I could make out in the grass for movement and texting my buddy that, at long last, I thought I had one down. Despite my excitement, I stayed in the stand until dark to give the deer time, climbing down only when I thought I had just enough light to look for blood. I recovered my arrow immediately, and the need to search for a trail was erased when I saw my deer was absolutely, definitely, down. I marched directly over to claim my prize, and it was the sweetest I have ever known.
            The rest of the story will be told in future snippets, for I want this one, this first, to be savored, relished, and stand alone as the shining moment that three years worth of work finally paid off. I double-lunged my buck, making a helluva shot that I will always be proud of. I didn’t cry, I didn’t vomit, I didn’t shout from the rooftops. I knelt by my deer, examined the entry wound, and agreed with my friend who, when I started this journey, told me there was nothing else in the world like bowhunting, and I would get hooked on it for life. As much as I hate admitting it, he was so, so right.

     Neutral is not an option. In a world of black and white, yes and no, do or die, neutral is nothing, a lack of movement, acquiescing into retreat through indecision. I had lived in neutral too long. Movement was necessary.
     Like an old man lifting from a recliner, potato chip crumbs falling to the carpet for the dog to inhale, making changes happens slowly and painfully. A snap decision this past winter was the catalyst, prompted (like many snap decisions) by an evening scroll through Twitter. The offering of a film school promoted by the Heartland Bowhunter television show caught my eye, two words jumping out at me, peaking my interest like a dog catching a whiff of bacon . Film. School.
    Ask any female her interests, and I will guarantee “photography” will appear on the top ten list. Yes, I have a camera. Yes, I took a photography class in college, spending countless hours in a darkroom, fingers pruny from chemicals that will probably cause my unborn children to grow third eyes and second belly buttons. Yes, I enjoy black and white photography. Yes, I appreciate abstract shots and overly dramatic portrait work. All of the above stereotypes are true. Now that we are on the same page, let’s move on.
     What you don’t understand is how photography makes me a better hunter, a better fisher(wo)man, a better outdoorsman. Learning to view the world through an eyepiece gives you focus, causes small details to pop and grab your eye. Learning to look for the proverbial “cat” in a photo helped me hone my hunter’s eye for movement in the field, the rustle of brush at 200 yards that can’t possibly be the wind, the flicker of a tail in the distance that to the unobservant eye would be easily missed. And above all, a photography background taught me patience, the reward of waiting for long periods of time, just to capture the exact image at the precise moment in the perfect window of light. Just as a hunter knows in the split second before the trigger is pulled or the arrow is released that the shot will be perfect, a photographer has that moment of clarity before releasing the shutter that yes, this is it. This is what have I waited for, and it will be wonderful.
     To this point, photography has played a sidecar role in my hunting and fishing adventures. A battered cell phone is my constant companion, shoved deeply in the back pocket of my jeans at all times, as vital to a day outdoors as my knife and hat, for as a friend once said, “if there’s no proof, it didn’t happen.” This is the same friend that constantly gives me grief for repeatedly pausing to capture images during every outing, but I suppose you can’t have your cake and eat it too with some people. These images are hasty and often ill-composed, far from worthy of hanging on the refrigerator, let alone the wall. But that is not their purpose; their true purpose is to allow me to remember this moment, this day, this exact detail that struck me, made an impression, and illustrated the story of hunting, fishing, and loving life outdoors. For this purpose, my Motorola will suffice, but like Ariel, I found myself wanting more (cue impassioned musical transition here).
     Walking in the door to the HB Film Academy was nerve-wracking, to say the least. I knew I would be in the minority from the get-go, a doe among a sea of bucks, but the added weight of being an amateur hunter and photographer stressed me out to no end. It’s hard to explain how much more difficult it is to be a woman in the testosterone-soaked world of outdoor life, and I’m not just talking about physically challenging. Although the number of women engaging in the industry continues to increase in recent years, females still play a very small role in the land of hunting and fishing, and are frequently seen by our male counterparts as pretty accessories that are as interchangeable as a new stabilizer or sling. I am not pointing fingers or calling foul, just simply stating the fact that things like #fishbra illustrate how seriously people really take outdoorsy women. Look it up.
     I have no intention of allowing my “wits” to earn my place as an equal, so improving my skill and craft in the field is vital. That’s why I traded to a more competitive bow, practicing from 50 yards regularly, focusing on accuracy as well as increasing my strength and draw weight. That’s why I read incessantly about food plots, deer genetics, stand placement, and movement, for I lack the institutional knowledge most of my male friends take for granted, and it’s an arms race to catch up. And that’s why I chose to throw myself in the deep end at film school, to select yet another skill to master, one that will help document my story and illustrate what the hunting world looks like when you are 5’2”.
     That mindset, coupled with a few stiff drinks and a solid Jack Handy speech before the mirror, helped me power through the nerves, and I am so glad I did. The entire HB team was on deck for the two-day training; it is almost surreal to be in a room with Really Famous People Who Are On Television, and yet are the real deal when it comes to not only hunting, but filming and post-production editing as well. From the basics of good photography to tips on the best websites to order lenses and even drone photography lessons, the team covered it all. I furiously took notes, partially because I am that kind of person and also because I knew I could only absorb a fraction of what was happening in front of me, and I had to record it for posterity and later reference.
    However, two sessions stuck with me, and the lid remained down on my computer, an uncharacteristic move.  The first was more of an informal time-killer, viewing unreleased episodes of the Heartland Bowhunter show, meant to entertain the group as we had lunch. The quality of the video, the cinematographic style, the attention to detail and the world around the hunter was simply breathtaking in every single shot. While the hunting was excellent, I was captivated by the visuals, partly because each image resonated within my soul, bringing up vignettes of personal experiences and leaving a clanging “that’s how I see the world as well!” in my brain.  Right in that moment, I drank the filming Kool-Aid.
     If that is the “why” to my filming epiphany, the “how” came at the end of the course. I am a nuts-and-bolts person, needing concrete, tactile evidence of how things work. The cameras and equipment they brought presented a veritable orgy of touching, and I was able to see what filming could possibly look like for me in real life.  Owning a $30,000 camera will never be in my future, but DSLR filming is completely doable, particularly for my purposes. However, all the moving parts of what outdoor filming looks like snapped into place when we took the class outside, hanging stands and climbing sticks and modeling how a filming setup looks in the tree. I could see where the tree arm would sit, feel it glide as it extended to the correct position, waist high on the cameraman (or woman, in this instance). Watching all the pieces of the puzzle come together made the picture much clearer, less abstract, more doable.
     Just as valuable as the technical presentation was the unwritten curriculum of camaraderie and community. Hunters from across the country – literally – gathered in one place, for one purpose. A couple from Oregon was toying with the idea of filming as a way to strengthen their bond in the field. A father-son team from Georgia, travelling the world in pursuit of completing the Grand Slam challenge, wanted to learn how to assemble their existing footage for posterity (and hilarity. They were my seatmates, and made the experience even better with their laughter and warm-hearted Southern charm). Men and boys gathered, sharing stories and asking questions one after the other, assembling in groups in the evening to compare stories and photos over brews. The other lone female hugged me as we departed, a sweet gesture from a woman who knew nothing more about me than I love to hunt, and a person who hunts can’t be all bad. Seeing people with the same passion, same vision, connecting and growing – that was truly beautiful.
     Driving home, my brain felt fat and sluggish, as if it needed to put on stretchy pants after a Thanksgiving dinner of information. The wheels are turning upstairs on how to incorporate film into my hunts, but I know this experiment not be without strife. I asked several of the HB team about how filming has changed them as hunters, and the answers I received were both honest and heavy. Filming will cost me shots, they promised. It will take longer to pack in, set up, pack out. I will drop and break very expensive equipment. I will make mistakes, losing an entire hunt to a full SD card or dead camera battery. I will delete clips accidentally, and perseverate over editing to an unhealthy level. However, one statement struck home, and it is one I hope to cling to as I begin this part of my adventure; bowhunting is a feeling, and words simply can’t do it justice. As fall approaches, I plan on marching to the stand, bow in one hand and camera in the other, moving forward and gaining momentum as I climb into position.

     He swore he could smell them, and moved through the woods like a seasoned coon dog after prey just as soon as he saw the first lilac buds pop open on the bush in the driveway. Fueled by a furtive dip of Red Man tobacco, grandpa would head to the timber in Old Blue, a traditional three on the tree Ford that liked to shift about as much as grandpa liked getting caught chewing by grandma. Shuddering down the road, first with siblings, then children, and finally grandchildren, my grandpa taught each of us what spring in Illinois is truly about: morel mushrooms.
     One of three sons, my grandpa was raised during the Depression in rural Illinois, learning to make the most of what you had available and foraging and hunting for the rest. He was taught about living off the land from his father, a gruff brawler that I never met, who lived alone on a white dirt farm outside one of the many one-horse towns in our area. Grandpa was the best fisherman I knew, and hunted for small game and dove between hours devoted to his garden and family. However, that small window in mid-spring where temperatures and precipitation hit "just right" sent him to the timber with his walking stick, faded hat cocked ever so slightly, suspenders fighting mightily against gravity, and a purple mesh potato sack stuffed in his back pocket. Better for spreading the spores from picked mushrooms, you know.
     Over the past few years, mushrooming on my family farm has been less than stellar. It seems that the morels started to leave when grandpa passed, and all our secret spots have left us empty handed, year after year. We can blame some of the problem on the cattle grazing heavily in the timber, some on uncooperative rains, some on global warming, bad juju, or Russian fungus espionage. Whatever the reason, our dead elms bore no fruit this year, or last, or the year before last. To find morels, I had to leave home.
     One text with a glorious mess of mushrooms spread on a kitchen counter led me to invite myself to my buddy's property...thank heavens I have good friends that put up with my boundary issues. We spent an afternoon with rubber boots and plastic sacks walking up and down a sandy creek bed lined with chestnut saplings and clumps of multiflora rose. I had grown accustomed to mushrooming that was far more walking than picking; you know the kind, and I was prepared for more of the same, using mushrooming as an excuse to spend some time outside. Oh, how wrong I was. I think I found my first morel within the first three minutes, less time than it takes to cook a potato in the microwave. It happened just that fast.
     It seemed that everywhere we looked, we found mushrooms. I even shimmied down a precarious bank to pluck a monster growing at the root of a tree exposed by the creek below. We were right in the sweet spot of the season where the small greys had passed but the giant yellows had yet to come, leaving us with a mess of meaty mushrooms ripe for the picking. We stuffed our sack quickly, and found ourselves filling hats and pockets as we separated to comb different areas. Inevitably, one of us would abandon our post because the other came into a fresh bounty. It was as if Mother Nature had designed the best adult Easter egg hunt, and I filled my basket with the enthusiasm of a child.
     The day's end found me two pounds richer, the only time a woman is happy to have more weight than less at her disposal. Although it was late when I got home, I took the time to carefully clean, slice, and soak my mushrooms just as I remember doing as a kid. The next day, like a dutiful daughter, I brought my mushies home to my parents, and we devoured half of them in the blink of an eye, dredged in flour, fried golden-brown, and accompanied by a cold beer, per tradition. As I chewed on the last morsel, I contemplated what my grandpa would have thought of the pile--if his keen eye would have found more that I passed by, if he would have fallen in the creek and come back to the house, soaking wet but with a potato sack full to bursting. It's funny how a mushroom can be so tied to a memory, fleeting but familiar, like the intangible scent of morels on the warm spring breeze.

     Call it reconnaissance, call it an educational field trip, call it a vacation; whatever you want to consider a three-day trip to Wisconsin built around the Deer and Turkey Expo, that's what my dad and I agreed to do as winter shifted into spring in the Midwest.
     To provide some backstory, this is not the first family road trip my dad and I have taken together; late last summer, we took an impromptu journey north, loaded with fishing poles and distinctly lacking in any sort of travel agenda or organized plans (catch that story in full here). The older I get, the more I appreciate time spent with my dad, and I am singularly luck that I live close enough to revel in spending quality adult time with someone who truly is the the Abbott to my Costello. So naturally, when an advertisement for the Expo came across on social media, my first two thoughts were "wouldn't miss it," and "better call dad." 
     If you have never attended a Deer and Turkey Expo, I thoroughly encourage you to find the next one in your state and immediately clear your social calendar. You'll thank me, I promise. The one in Wisconsin, supposedly the best around, is sponsored by Field & Stream magazine, and every attendee receives a free 1-year subscription to either Field & Stream or Outdoor Life, as your mood suits you. Spending a few hours learning about deer and turkey in the land of beer and cheese seemed like the perfect spring getaway; I reserved tickets online immediately.
     Six weeks we waited, looking at the calendar and counting off days until our trip. When March 31st finally rolled around, we were beyond ready to hit the road, grabbing a sack of car snacks as we sped down the driveway, leaving Illinois in the rearview mirror as quickly as we (legally) could. The goal was to arrive in Madison just as the doors to the Alliant Energy Center opened at 2:00 pm, and the crowds were fairly thin as we started touring. 
     Now, dad and I have trained for years on the art of navigating crowds. We have a standing date every December for a marathon Christmas shopping trip, and we love visiting with every Tom, Dick, and Harry at farm shows and fairs. All this training was about to pay off, because we had hit The Motherload of people to talk to, and I had a checklist of must-see vendors to visit.
     The purpose of the Expo really is twofold: to connect businesses to consumers ready for the newest gadget and strategy to improve the success/quality/comfort of a hunt, and to educate the hunter(ella) about best practices in habitat and game management. We travelled up and down each aisle, trying out new bows in the shooting range, discussing methods of preserving new tree plantings from hungry deer herds, testing blinds and stands that are well outside our price range but are within our DIY skill level, and debating potential legislation in Illinois to allow for supplemental deer feeding. We even spent an hour at the Bowfishing Association of America booth, learning all about a new activity that combines dad's love of fishing with my passion for bowhunting. I even went three for three in the 3D bowfishing tank...we won't mention the half dozen children that were able to do the same thing.  What I had originally expected to be a three-hour tour turned into us closing the show down on Friday, shuffling out after the 9:00 pm "last call" with the custodians and cashiers.  On the short walk to the hotel, dad and I both agreed that we would pop for another round of tickets for the next morning, and then stayed up until 2:00 am decompressing and talking about everything we had seen. I think we planned the 2017 hunting season at least one thousand times that night.
     The next morning was more of the same, and when I say more, I truly mean MORE. The crowd was at least triple what it had been the night before, making it distinctly more difficult to get around, but we are hardly afraid of a challenge. That day, we scored free mineral from the Ani-Logics booth, a new set of six broadheads from All-Blade Archery (www.all-blade.com) in exchange for a photo of my first kill with them, and a handy camera mount for my bow from Bow Mount (www.bowmountvideo.com), a company from just outside my hometown that I had to discover 350 miles away. Every single stop allowed us the chance to learn something new, validating some of my existing plans and getting my dad (the landowner) 100% on board.
     I would be completely remiss if I did not share the best part of the story, and perhaps my secret ulterior motive for making the trip. I live for Bowhunt or Die, a web hunting show hosted by Todd Graff and Justin Zarr. New episodes are posted on Fridays, and my favorite way to unwind from a week is to reward myself with the latest show. I did my Twitter research in advance to see if any of the featured pro staff would be attending the Expo, and noted which booths I should look for to get a glimpse of the guys in real life. My persistence paid off, for at the Big Horn Outfitters booth, I found not one, but TWO of the show regulars, John Hermann and Dustin DeCroo. Yes, I was embarrassingly excited to meet the guys, and yes, I asked for both a photo and for them to sign my favorite Bowhunt or Die hat. Roll your eyes if you must, but I allowed myself this one groupie moment with no shame. However, what I didn't anticipate was that both guys were so down to earth and happily chatted about episodes and upcoming hunts just as if I was a Big Time Hunter rather than just Little Ol' Nobody me.
     Maybe that is the moral of the story in the hunting community; it doesn't matter who you are, or where you're from, we all have one passion and interest that binds us together in the pursuit of getting better and creating something special from our corner of the wild. The gadgets and gizmos at expos and hunting shows are just the excuse to gather en masse; take them all away, and you will have the same stories and pieces of advice shared around the world as hunters help each other in the pursuit of that next fin, feather, or fur.

    I have a love/hate relationship with television. I honestly don't watch very much, between work and play, but when I do, I want new content. I don't mind watching movies over and over again, but television is a different story. To make matters worse, I am also a binge watcher, burning through episodes of new shows at a shameful rate. While I understand the need for a break in the action, the season finale always leaves me with an empty feeling, a combination of "can you believe it" and "how am I supposed to get through the next few months without something new!" March Madness is enough to kill me, I swear.
     For those of you out there who share my frustrations, I apologize for the break in Hunterella action. Hopefully, snippets of stories on Twitter (@RealHunterella) and Instagram (@RealHunterella) were enough to tide you over as my work schedule ramped up to overload. On the downhill slope now, I have a great line up of stories to kick off the 2017 season. And it all begins with one big change...
     I love my bow shop. Greg at Crooked Creek Outdoors is one of my greatest resources and cheerleaders, and I have learned more in the last year from a wooden bar stool than I have in all my years of grad school. Whether I have a good day shooting or not, sitting at the counter, swinging my feet as the stories pile up higher and higher always ends my day on a good note. Last July, during one of these visits, Greg convinced me to give a new bow a try--what would it hurt, and there weren't any other customers in the shop, so we had time to kill. I was completely happy with my Eva Shockey by Bowtech and had no interest in buying something new, so to humor my friend, I slapped on a release and stepped into the tuning room. All it took was one little pull of my index finger for my mind to be blown (to see the reaction, click here). Right there, right that minute, I promised myself that I would buy a Halon 6, whatever it took. Period.
     All fall and winter, I picked up extra jobs around my teaching schedule to sock away cash for my bow. Baseball scoreboard, game supervision, Saturday detentions, basketball stats book...you name it, I said yes to it, hoarding every extra dollar like a Depression-era housewife. I promised myself I would not give up on my Shockey until archery deer season closed, as I hadn't recovered a kill from it and didn't want to send it off into the sunset without closing the deal. Unfortunately, I couldn't get the job done. This nags at my soul in ways you cannot imagine, and as I placed my order for the new bow, a hefty load of guilt went with the heady rush of spending so much money on something new. I even toyed with the idea of ordering new limbs for my old bow, allowing me to increase draw weight like I needed and giving me one more chance to close the deal on a hunt. Unfortunately, my time with my bow was on life support, and I was only trying to find ways to delay the inevitable.
     Watching her be stripped down on the day my Halon arrived was more difficult than I imagined. First the stabilizer and wrist strap, followed by the quiver mount and rest. As the sight came off and she laid there bare, I lifted it gingerly, forgetting how light it was compared to the new bow. Piece by piece, my old parts found their way on the new bow, and as it was turned and tuned, I watched Greg expertly tailor each adjustment with a new appreciation of a) exactly how much that man knows about bows and b) exactly how little I really understand about them. If he ever offers a (paid) internship at the shop, I really should sign up.
     I'm still in the early dating phase with the new bow. We are learning each other's strengths and quirks, but with 60# limbs and almost zero vibration, I like where this is headed. I still have the Shockey bow, quietly waiting on a new owner to take her out in the woods and on the range, but something keeps holding me back from listing it as officially "For Sale" on ArcheryTalk. Maybe I'll get one of the other girls at the shop to make the investment in a great bow, and I'll get to see it from time to time and hear how she's faring this fall in the woods. Maybe.

     We have entered the time of the in-between. Blinds and camouflage have been put to rest for the season, washed, inventoried, and mended for another day, another hunt. Boots and binoculars lie in wait on truck floorboards, itching for antlers that have yet to drop. Mailboxes are empty, and we search for letters from our respective state departments that contain our precious spring turkey tags. March winds and grey skies make fishing both unpleasant and unproductive. Even beloved hunting shows have fallen to reruns, allowing us to relive fall adventures from armchairs moulded to the shape of our backsides from hours spent inside rather than afield.  
     But beneath all the languishing, the doldrums of late winter, something small and quiet is ruminating in the dark corners of our periphery, fleeting and just out of our grasp, but something we know will soon be here. Spring, sweet spring and the promise it brings for another season under the sun. All these idle hours leave ample time for building castles in the clouds, and mine is as lofty as they come. And it all starts with spring.
     Sheds: find them, both at home and on some new properties that will also require some reconnaissance, research, and repair. Boat: remodel it. She has passed the initial float test, but we have a long row to hoe before she is standing tall. Turkeys: call, deceive, shoot, and recover at least one, and hunt every weekend like I'm getting paid for it. Food plots: the goal for this year is to plant four four, three primary and one micro. It's time to experiment and pull those deer to my farm instead of watching them pass by. Bass: catch as many as humanly possible, and put in some miles to fish a few new locations outside my comfort zone. Trail cams: buy more, always more. I want to watch some velvet grow.
     Amid all the spring must-dos are some hope-tos as well. I dream of cooking a meal that is 100% hunted, grown, or gathered by me, maybe on an open grill, or even over a campfire with a side of mosquito bites. I want to sit on a bank somewhere, listening to spring peepers well past the hour respectable people retire to bed. I hope to find the rest of my missing arrows while out searching for spring mushrooms, one more so than others--the one that should be nestled in ribs picked clean by predators and attached to the pretty basket rack of my missing buck. 
     I thought the last year was my season of firsts, and everything else would quickly become old hat. However, now I realize the firsts will never end; this year will bring a new bow, new ground, new friendships, new hunts, new hobbies (bowfishing, anyone?), and new adventures. While these winter doldrums have me aching to flip the calendar one more page, I have to admit that perhaps Steinbeck knew what he was talking about; "What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness!" 

     Living in the middle of nowhere has its positives and negatives. On the up side, I have all the wide open spaces I could ever want, curtains in my home are optional, and locks on doors and cars are almost an unnecessary accessory. Unfortunately, all this freedom to roam means it takes me several hours of road time to get nearly anywhere, and my options are extremely limited (and expensive) at the local farm store that doubles as a hunting and fishing supplier. I honestly don't know how I ever managed to purchase anything before the inception of Amazon Prime, which I thought was the best thing since sliced bread...that is, until I discovered Mystery Tackle Box.
     I choose to ignore Facebook ads just as much as the next person, but the little banner that kept proclaiming my 67% discount on my first purchase just kept popping up over and over, and in a weak moment, I clicked on it. That one click led to watching a shameful number of Mystery Tackle Box unboxing videos on YouTube, which then led to watching videos of the lures in action, which then led to watching fishing technique videos, which ended in a particularly confusing video demonstrating the Walleye Whip/ Nae-Nae. Look it up, it's a real thing. But I digress.
     Long story short, I decided I was worth the $5 for the first month, partially in hopes it would curb the urge to binge at my infrequent stops to Bass Pro--how "I just need some new line and hooks" turns into "I need a credit line increase on my card," I have no idea. Must be something they pump into the air in those stores. Soon enough, my first ice fishing box arrived at my doorstop. I actually ran to the house, clutching my little brown parcel; since I am built for comfort and not speed, running is a big deal. Pausing long enough to haul out some photography lighting equipment, I grabbed my pocket knife and broke the packing tape seal. Let the unboxing begin!
     Now, I chose an ice fishing box because I live in Illinois, it is winter, and I'm bored with life and need an excuse to get outside. I have never ice fished before, and aside from a new pole and reel I got for Christmas, I have zero gear for winter jigging. The learning curve is steep with this adventure, so thank goodness for the little "What's Inside" card included in the box so dummies like me can figure out what exactly is in my shipment. Well, the little card and the Internet, of course.
     Right away, the 15/16 ounce Hatch Natural lure from Lunkerhunt caught my eye (and the tender pad of my thumb, thanks to its extremely sharp treble hooks). Blame it on my comfort zone of bass fishing, but this one seemed right up my alley, and I plan to give it one a go in warm water as well as cold. Past that lure, the rest were far more unfamiliar. A vertical jigger from Hildebrandt, a rainbow tungsten jig from Kenders Outdoors, and the Lucky John Baltic lure, covered in hooks on three sides, left me more puzzled, but that didn't stop me from weighing them carefully in my palm, holding them from the eyelet to gauge movement, and even squint my eyes to imagine what a fish might see in cloudy water. My box rounded out with some neon anise bombs, similar to my Wisconsin Mini-Mites for bluegill and crappie, and a pink Lindy Watsit jig in an alluring water bug shape. I think I spent a solid hour poking, prodding, and arranging my little box of joy, and I'm not ashamed one bit. Best $5 I have ever spent, and that includes the time I got an extra nugget in my 6-piece order from McDonalds. That's serious stuff.
     Spring will come, and my Mystery Tackle Box shipments will switch to bass as the temperatures rise. Unfortunately, Mother Nature isn't cooperating, and my ice fishing dreams are being stymied by unseasonable temps and open waters. I can't even carve out enough time to head up to the good old "hard water" of the Wisconsin Northwoods, but for the time being, my new additions are sitting right on the table where they belong, ready and waiting for a temperature drop which can happen at a moment's notice during the late part of an Illinois winter.