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.

     Anyone who is passionate about a thing, regardless of what that thing actually is, has a countdown. Baseball fans, deeply engrossed in playoff fervor, are already thinking about April. Christmas fanatics have customized calendars on cell phones, ticking off every Friday from now to December 25th. Movie buffs anxiously await the next blockbuster release and search for spoilers online, and tech geeks camp out in long lines for days for the release of the next iPhone. We all have that one thing that brings us to to our knees in anticipation, filling our days and nights with daydreams of when we can get our hands on "our precious."  This urge is in our DNA; resisting the call is a fool's game.
     My day is October 1.
     I have been waiting for my thing since 5:02 pm on January 17th, the precise time when the sun slipped below the horizon and closed the door on whitetail archery season in Illinois. The day was brutal cold, eeking out only 13 measly degrees, and yet I dragged my gear out to the woods, hoping and praying for one final shot, one last chance to fill an archery tag during my first season. Sadly, I walked away empty handed, replaying every mistake from the previous three and a half months. Had I checked my level on that first doe, I would be able to feel my fingers right now. Had I used my rangefinder on that second doe, my feet wouldn't feel like lead blocks, tingling with every step back to the house. Had I waited just a bit longer on that last buck, tempted him in closer with a bleat or call, I wouldn't have ice crystals at the corners of my nose. I left that season with scales balanced between great experiences and heavy regrets, two sides of my hunting coin that I slipped into my pocket to revisit throughout the upcoming weeks, flipping it between my fingers to pass the time.
     In my off season, I trained like I had a paycheck riding on it. Weekly league nights. New equipment. 3D targets. Weight training. Competitive shooting. Research. Distance shooting. Bigger. Faster. Stronger. I watched does and fawns from the tractor as I mowed field edges, enamored with their quiet movements and mentally estimating how far they were away. Seven an a half months passed in the blink of an eye, and as the weather warmed and I added fishing as a distraction, I almost lost sight of the calendar as my thing quietly approached. 
     What snapped me back to reality was a smell, all too familiar, and gone for all too long. As I drove through town one sweltering September evening, windows down despite temperatures still in the 80s at 9 pm, the smell of fall was suddenly, briefly, in the air. We all know that smell--something sharp, with a hint of woodsmoke, and the promise of cold winds under stars snapping bright and clear. The smell of endings and beginnings as summer's heat gives way to winter's chill. The smell of hunting season.
     That smell pushed me to action. No longer was my countdown an arbitrary thing marking a day too far away to be real; I was past the month mark, rounding the corner on two weeks, reading the signal to head for home on a day count that could almost be done on two hands. The past few days have been spent on final details--the broadheads that needed sharpened, the field pack that required reorganizing, the quiver that didn't fit quite right on my bow. The scent-free chemicals came out of storage, and every piece of camo fabric in the house was appropriately removed of traces of my human stench. I spent an embarrassing amount of money in a moment of weakness on an array of equipment to improve my chances this year (or at the very least, improve my comfort). It was time.
     As the calendar flipped from September to October, I drove to my family farm, ready to start a new season. The weather really was too warm for good hunting, and 2016 is predicted to have a later-than-usual rut. None of this mattered. I headed to the woods with a friend, mentally flipping my 2015 season coin in my mind. I'm sure this year will bring its own bevy of successes and failures, some I can expect (my lack of food plots and trail cameras are weighing heavily on my mind at the moment) and others that will come as a surprise. But I take it as a good omen that we had a doe appear behind us at five yards, practically in our laps, and settle by us for 45 minutes until she and her fawn bounded across open ground, heading for the only corn field in the area. On day one, I picked the right field, the right time, and the right direction. Although my Opening Day didn't lead to a kill, I'm still fairly certain the coin has landed heads up.

     I heard him blow over the sound of the sander, over the music cranked up loud, over my creative interpretation of “Buy Me A Boat” that only the mice in the garage will ever hear live.  I could name that sound anywhere, a cross between a cough and a wheeze that proclaims to the world that a whitetail is near.
       Hunters strain their ears for that sound from October through January, the reward for frigid fingers and stiff legs from hours spent motionless in the stand. Other sounds can be misleading; rustling leaves could be just another annoying squirrel, snapping twigs could be a groundhog blundering by, myopically moving from den to water. But that blow can mean only one thing, and it’s enough to get my heart thumping, even when I’m in shorts in my garage and not nestled in deep cover.
       I immediately put down the sander and slipped out the open door, careful to not make too much disturbance so I could spy where my four-legged friend might be. My house is situated on three acres in the middle of cornfields with little to no cover, so deer sightings from my yard are rare. He was bounding up my grassed waterway with those effortless leaps that cover so much ground with so little movement, legs like natural springs propelling him forward along the field edge. As he slowed, I could roughly make out little velvet-coated nubs, the promise of fall bone yet to come. He stopped, looking around, seventy yards away by my novice ranging eye. I swear, I held my breath watching him, even though the only thing I had to lose was the beautiful image in front of me. I stayed undetected as he casually moved south, nipping at a corn stalk here, a grass head there. He was gone in an instant, although my hunter’s heart and brain felt like I had watched him for hours.
​     I hope he comes back to visit more this summer so I can see his rack grow and change. Come fall, we may have a different relationship, but for now, I am content enjoying his company as often as he wants to visit, The welcome mat is always out and I wish him the best as he navigates through the dog days of summer in Illinois.

   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.