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.

     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.

     George and Louise Jefferson would be proud of the changes I've been making lately. East side, west side...all my sides are better covered now that I've gone vertical.
     Let me be clear: this is not the first time I have hunted from a tree stand. Actually, my first shot with my Winchester, my first deer, and my first buck all happened from a stand we simply refer to as "The Single," which still hangs a short walk from my parent's back door. All of our stands have pet names: The Single, The Double, Old Faithful, The Honey Hole, The Six Acres, and The Secret (which only my dad and I know the precise location). Only two sites, Hogback and Hedge Grove, have ever been hunted strictly from the ground. These stands have been in place for a decade and a half, hung by my dad and his best friends as a new hunting partnership developed between the three men that now spans Illinois, Ohio, and Florida. 
     I used to climb recklessly, gun tucked under my arm, no safety harness attached, often forgetting to clarify with anyone where I was headed or how long I would be there. I remember one chilly morning in The Single, as my head nodded to my chest despite my best efforts, when I realized that one fall would leave me as a shish kabob on the fence at my right. A pretty serious accident from a family friend a year and a half ago left the ultimatum of "no harness, no climbing" from my dad, and as I picked up a bow instead, hunting from the ground was just easier and more practical; I had enough to worry about with learning a new skill without fighting gravity as well.  In season #2, I have the bow thing fairly well under control, and it's high time I got high again (figuratively, of course).
     Bow season has been unseasonably, ridiculously hot so far, and there have been several afternoons where, rather than go on an irresponsible hunt, I had to find something else productive to do. I hit the jackpot when a friend of mine also shirked responsibilities in favor of an afternoon outside. The chore of the day was to move two stands, The Double, due to a dead tree issue compromising its safety, and an unnamed stand that was just never productive enough for us to ever care about using or naming. Six hours of cutting, cleaning, hoisting, strapping, sweating, swearing, and spending money, and I had two great new locations. The Double, retaining its old name in a new home, now sits facing eastward at the intersection of food, beds, and water. The useless single, packed full of ants in its old home, is now The Southie, nestled into a tree line between two fields in one of the highest-traffic areas on the farm. The late-season hedge balls ringing the bottom of the stand will make a nice draw for deer desperate to mix up their diet in December and January.
     To add the cherry on top, I ran across a former student who was looking to unload a climbing stand. It worked great, but he just didn't use it anymore, and I jumped at the opportunity to try something new. My friend and I tinkered around with straps and ropes, both unfamiliar with how to operate it, but we had watched enough hunting shows that surely we could figure it out. I sent him up in it first, and when it proved to be both sturdy and idiot-proof, I took my turn at climbing. I was surprised that yes, I could actually do it without falling out of the tree, and was quickly reminded that I should probably start working out again. The sense of accomplishment of getting vertical on my own was well worth the burn. Last week, my friend shot a nice six-pointer out of it, so we know The Climber produces results. Now it's up to me to use my new tools to do the same, and I'm planing to do exactly that as the rut hits Illinois.

     I celebrated my one year anniversary this week, very quietly and with no ceremony. One year ago, I wrote a $50 check to buy a used youth bow to dip my toe into archery. Little did I know that with the first pull, I would be hooked. That first fall, I shot daily, wearing a cut on the edge of my lip from the kisser button and slowly learning the rhythm of shooting that I still follow. Draw, pulling shoulder blades together, resting the kisser button at the corner of my mouth. Wedge knuckle in the soft spot between my jawbone and my right ear. Close one eye, focusing on the target through my lime green peep. Find level, opening my left hand on the grip and extending fingers down towards the ground. Look past the pin, waiting for the natural waver in my arm to settle over my target. Exhale, release, and retrieve my arrow from the ground (in the beginning) or the foam (as of late). Repeat.
     I never could have guessed where I would be today, 365 days later, but a chance encounter over the summer made me reflect on what I would tell someone taking similar steps down the hunting path. Her name was Domi, and she came to shoot at Seven Hills Archery on the recommendation of the local bow shop guru. New to the course, and shooting alone, the range guides asked if I would take her around and show her the ropes (quite literally--Station 3 is the bear on a rope pulley that I've finally figured out). Her enthusiasm was infectious and we had a great morning shooting the breeze as well as the foam. Suddenly, I was the "expert," heavy emphasis on the quotation marks and spoken in a sarcastic tone, and my nuggets of wisdom to her that day included the following sage pieces of advice.
     Tidbit #1: If you want to shoot well from 20, practice at 50.
This is the single best piece of advice I have received, and I believe it with all my heart. I'm not an expert long distance shooter, but practicing at 50, 60, and 70 yards has been a game changer and made me far more confident and accurate for the shots I will actually take on game in the field. Maybe someday in the far, far future, this type of practice will pay off on an elk or mule deer hunt. Someday.
     Tidbit #2: Aim small, miss small.
I stink at golf, absolutely stink. I can putt for days, but driving befuddles me and I have shanked enough golf balls to confirm that it is a sport I shall never master. However, give me a fistful of tees and I'm happy as a clam, wedging them into targets and shooting to my heart's content. Aiming at a 1/2" target from 30 yards is maddening, but will make you a better shooter. Period.
      Tidbit #3: Always check your level.
Shooting left? Check your level. Uneven ground? Check your level. In a stand? Check your level. See a monster buck? For the love of all that is holy, check your level. When you get the shakes and your heart is pounding in your ears, check and recheck your level.
     Tidbit #4: Watch the arrow, not the target.
I still struggle with this one, and am miserable at retrieving any arrow that hasn't found its intended  home, but I'm working on it. Watch the flight of the arrow and track where it lands, and listen closely for the telltale pop of metal hitting flesh compared to the sad, sad crackle of carbon on branches. And invest heavily in Lumenocks...and perhaps a metal detector. Seriously, it's on my Christmas list.
     Tidbit #5: Adjust for your angle.
Shots uphill add yardage, shots downhill subtract. This is such a hard concept for my brain to master, and I still rely on dumb luck and guessing for how much to fudge. Shooting down from a stand requires special attention to form, bending at the waist instead of dropping your arm. I hope to practice this more in the coming weeks, and I pray that if the opportunity presents itself, I manage to get it right the first time around.
     
​     None of these tidbits were original, thought of by yours truly. I wholeheartedly credit the group of hunters that took me under their collective wings as a Very Special Project to try to teach an old dog some new tricks. To MR, GM, SS, CF, TB, RH, JF, and all the pro staff on Bowhunt Or Die (who have no idea that I watch them religiously and study their every move like a creeper), I can't thank you enough for your role in making me better. To Domi, I wish an outstanding fall with arrows that find their home more times than not. And lastly, to myself, I wish for that one day where the stars align and I get it all right, all at once, and I can text my friends those three letters that get our heart rates going: BBD.

     Sometimes, all it takes is the reassuring thunk of an arrow in foam to make your day, regardless of if the shot was a 12-point ringer or a 5-point "participation ribbon" body shot. I have to be honest, people: I don't fail well, and I CERTAINLY don't fail well publicly. I prefer to make my mistakes in the quiet of my backyard rather than in front of others, and last Sunday I had to risk the certain doom of having strangers watch me stink it up at Seven Hills.
     I knew this could be an issue when I got a Facebook message from an archery friend. One simple line, "shooting at 7 Hills this Sunday at 8 if you are interested," brought both excitement (YES! CONTACT WITH OTHER HUMANS!) and dread (NO! I'M AN INCONSISTENT HOT MESS ON THE COURSE!).  But I'm not one to turn down a friendly offer, and I hadn't seen my archery buddy in a while, so I hit the road at 7:30 am to see how I would do.
     Things were looking pretty good as I pulled in. One club organizer had paid my entry fee in return for doing some soil testing, and I was toting a batch of homemade cheesecake for the guys running the course. Yes, it was already 82 degrees with a humidity level only seen in a sauna, but that's what everyone expects of a west central Illinois summer. However, I took a quick one-two punch to my confidence as I turned around: I was the last one of my group to arrive to shoot, and my group was far larger than I expected. Strangers were going to see me ride the struggle bus. Gulp.
     Two of the guys were regulars in the bow shop, but three others were new faces. After a quick round of introductions, we set off for the first target. I would love to say that my Bowtech and I performed flawlessly, but I believe the phrase "fair to middling" summed it up better. Aside from the occasional urge to puke a little and the fear that I had sweat through my shirt before we reached target #3, I managed to hit all the targets, even the moving bear that I had previously skipped because, honestly, I hadn't figured out how to run the damn thing by myself.
     I'm happy to report that I survived all thirty targets with no misses, and came away with some good tips:

1. I need more practice shooting uphill.
2. I need to actually study where the point rings are on the targets rather than guess.
3. I need to bring not just the rangefinder, but binoculars on the course (and all the cool kids call them "binos.")
4. I need to invest in a hip quiver. Immediately.
5. Even manly men look good with flowers behind their ears...unless they are poison parsnips.

I hope I get to shoot with the same group next month, and until then, I'll work on calming those nerves and picking a new recipe to share with my buddies, because I may not have a perfect shot every time, but I can make a mean pie, and that's almost as good.

     For most people, the arrival of summer means cookouts, vacations, and gardening. For me, it means a break from the never-ending struggle of not being able to have my bow at my home. As a teacher, schools tend to frown on having weapons in vehicles, and my school is 30 minutes away from my home, but only 10 minutes away from the bow shop. To solve the problem, a friend of mine was gracious enough to let me keep my bow and targets at his place throughout the school year to save me miles on my car. Summer vacation started two days ago, and with the settling of my bow in its 3-month resting place, I set out Jake in the yard tonight for my first at-home practice.
   To be honest, I've neglected my shooting a little bit over the past two weeks. And by a little bit, I mean completely. I went to the bow shop one evening with all intentions of practicing, but it turned into social hour instead. Whoops. All the excitement of fishing, learning to fillet (finally!), and attempted crawdad trapping has pushed practice to the back burner, but that stops today. Oh, and having a WORKING rangefinder should make things go a little easier in a new practice spot--thanks, Amazon! If I'm going to sign up for any ASA competitions this summer, I have to get serious about shooting.
     I set Jake up in the backyard, with a small berm of soil at his back to catch any errant arrows that don't find home. Thank goodness for that backstop, because looming directly behind my target are two grain bins, just poised to blow up any arrow I send too far out of the way.  I live in the middle of prairie country, so the wind was a new factor to contend with, but I'll chalk up the frustration to good real-life field practice.  Drawing back felt so good, and hearing the thunk of field tips sinking into foam at 20, 30, and 40 yards complimented the sounds of birds in the trees at my back. It's not quite as pretty of a practice site as at my friend's house, but it will do in a pinch and is right out my back door.
     One side perk of shooting at home is that I got to give my first lesson. My husband, who is not a hunter, wanted to give shooting a try, so I gamely walked him through the steps and tried to adjust him as best as I could considering I was teaching someone to shoot on a bow that was at least 4" too short in the draw length department (not to mention the out-of-proportion peep sight and release). We had success, and he has a new appreciation for how difficult using a bow really is. After a 45-minute practice, I relished the short walk to the house over the 15 mile car ride and started eyeballing the second-story bedroom window as a potential way to practice adjusting shots for altitude. I think I need more targets!

   For my first turkey season, I prepared in true type-A gold personality form. I bought a Knight & Hale mouth diaphragm call and practiced constantly while driving, to the annoyance of my passengers and the entertainment of other drivers. I streamed Cabela's Spring Thunder nonstop, watching how seasoned hunters bagged big birds. I spent hours in the bow shop, learning to identify toms from jakes from just the shape of their fans. My turkey target had field tip holes from 20, 30, 40, 50, and even 60 yards. My blind was set, my camo was ready, my tags were in hand, my decoy was arranged just so. I was going to kill all the turkeys.
     Due to my work schedule and Illinois' restriction on turkey hunting after 1 pm, I was limited to weekend hunting only. That first Saturday, I was up well before dawn with my rangefinder in hand and my hunting buddy at my side. We made it to the blind in a respectable time, and after ten minutes, I tested out my first call. "Yerk yerk yerk yerk." One gobbler answered. Then another, and another. Jackpot! I spotted one big tom as he entered the hayfield where I was hunting, on the far end, about 200 yards away. For an hour and a half, I worked this bird, making sounds I hoped resembled a turkey more than the spit-shooting screeches I was prone to produce from time to time. He must have found my calls acceptable, because he continued to blow up and work his way in closer, dragging his hen with him the entire way. Eventually, she split off and bedded down, but he kept coming in. Eighty yards. Sixty. He was in range, but still moving, so I pulled up my big girl britches and made myself wait. Forty. I clipped on my release and shushed my sister, who was just as excited as me. Twenty. I drew back and fired. 
     That bird flipped in the air just like on all the videos I had watched, feathers blown out the side as proof that yes, I really did make contact. He limped away, but I wasn't worried--didn't that one guy on that one episode have to track his bird an ungodly distance before finding it in a ravine? What I didn't anticipate were the three jakes that came charging in, pushing my wounded bird off into the neighboring field. Crap. I mentally marked the spot where they went, picked up my arrow and feathers, and began looking for my trophy.
     Two hours later, I came up empty handed. In my heart, I realized the shot was low, wounding rather than killing, probably due to the new mechanical broadheads that I had to have but didn't have the time to practice with in advance (I know, I know, rookie mistake). However, it was officially the first time I had hit a live animal with my bow and managed to not lose an arrow in the process, so there's always a silver lining. My luck dwindled each successive weekend, calling in birds but never getting as good of a shot as that first one. However, the experience of working so hard for my shot was thrilling, and you can bet I'll be pulling a tag for the fall season. Until we meet again, gobblers. 

     Three weeks.  The text message said I had been gone for three weeks.  When your bow shop pro sends a message that he hasn't seen you around lately, you either a) realize you've spent too much time at the range and reexamine your priorities or b) burn a beautiful afternoon outside to go visit the man that takes REALLY good care of you.  I (wisely) chose option b.
     I never thought I would be the kind of gal spending her evenings on a wooden bar stool, swapping turkey hunting stories and sorrows while debating the merits of trail cameras with men who have forgotten more about hunting than I could ever hope to absorb.  In October 2015, the encouragement of a new friend and a $50 Barnett Vortex youth bow opened my eyes to what I was missing in the world of archery, and I was instantly, hopelessly, hooked.  Casual shooting lessons in the yard led to whitetail archery season, followed by throwing myself into a winter indoor archery league and, most recently, hitting the 3D archery circuit. My technique is better, my equipment is upgraded, and my draw weight just got jacked up another two pounds. Eight more to go before those whitetails come around this fall, and I'm practicing like mad to make my goal. 
     Best part about all this is I feel like I've truly found a hobby I love that is leading me to a better life. Work has always been my life raft, but it had become my life. I'm ready for something shiny and new that brings a fresh start to the next chapter in my life. And I choose to begin that chapter by walking through the bow shop doors.