If there is one thing I’m certain about is that I’m certain that I don’t know if I’m a trophy hunter or not. I know I like success just about as much as I like killing big animals. The two rarely coincide. If you want to walk out of the woods with a monster you have to be just as willing to walk out with regret in the likes of “shoulda, woulda, couldas”.

I have yet to determine what side of the fence I place myself on.

Of course, it’s not always black and white. Some hunts are meat runs, some I can be more selective and some I make up my mind while at full draw. I’m not the cliche “You can’t eat the horns!” type of guy. That sounds lovely to the masses on social media and often will get you accolades, but it just ain’t the case with this fella.

I’m also not the guy that says, “It’s a 200-inch deer or nothing.” Often that’s a built-in excuse just like the stickbow revolution on why people walk out of the woods year after year empty-handed. Give yourself a cop-out as to why you can’t succeed and your ego will thank you for it.

No, I’m much worse than that. I’m the indecisive type that often walks into the woods with no plan at all. I’m sure this is the part where some Boyscout will chirp in that “Failing to plan is planning to fail”. And they would be right.

Sometimes.

I had just finished up a successful hunt in South Dakota chasing whitetails in the hills. Again one of those indecisive times where I wasn’t sure if I was there for a trophy. The rut hadn’t kicked in and I was getting impatient. Success was going to be determined not by the size of the deer or the need of meat, but rather a reward to a perfect stalk. The reward came to fruition.

With that animal’s death came my freedom to explore the next state, where rumors of rutting bucks being passed around on social media may have enticed me to slip an arrow into the aforementioned buck.

I had been planning nine days on the road and I still had five left. With a cooler packed full of meat, I let the arrow-straight Midwestern roads guide me to my next destination.

I slide through small town after small town where the only restaurant to be seen shares space with its sole gas station. I watch enviously as old farmers sit by the windows, chatting and sipping gas station coffee as the sun breaks the horizon.

It’s nice to see that there is still a culture that takes a minute to converse face to face, to pause before the start of the day. There is a world that is still analog.

Maybe one day.

I pass through the last town as unnoticed as the tumbleweed lodged in its fences. This is my second deployment to the area, the first being far from successful. I do what feels most comfortable and head for the hills, wary of sitting in a treestand. Staying stationary hasn’t produced so far this year, so I go back to what I’m comfortable with; stalking. A miserable way of attempting to learn and become proficient at hunting from a stand.

You can’t dip your little toe in the water to see if the temp is just perfect. You grab your shit, take a running head start and dive headfirst into the deep end. If you drown so be it, not all Indians were meant to be hunters, some had to gather water for the tribe after all.

That’s a weak way of thinking and you know it. Man up and learn something new.

I pull a 007 with the truck, spitting up a dust cloud that reaches for the heavens on the rain thirsty dirt road.

I know of a spot that looked amazing the last time I hunted the area. Hell, I had a tree picked out with perfect shooting lanes. Better yet I had a trail cam that had been sitting in there for more than three weeks. If the hunting sucked and I had picked a horrendous location, at least I could update the local Audubon Society on the tweety bird count that zig-zagged in front of my game camera.

As I pull into the parking area I see a rather luxurious camp set up and what appears to be a fully dressed elk hanging from the meat pole.

I recheck my map and make sure that I didn’t blackout while driving and end up back in the west. As I’m doing this a burly older fella pops out of the condo-sized tent.

He approaches with a big smile and outstretched hand instantly making me like this guy. He has the type of presence that makes him instantly feel like your friend.

“That’s a monster you got hanging there,” I say as we shake hands.

“Oh that? Yea that one is my sons,” he replies as he looks back over his shoulder admiring the beast hanging from the pole. He shakes his head, obviously still taken back by the sheer size of the thing.

He invites me over to take a look at the display he and his two sons have acquired in the last few days hunting. Three monarchs lay on a cooler. Bone reaches towards the sky like the gnarled fingers of some long-dead giant. If I were a buck roaming the woods in search of some action, you could be sure that I’d be looking over my back for any one of these monsters to attack.

We talk for awhile and the ex-marine tells me that this is a tradition for him and his sons. They come together to hunt whitetail every year. Water may repel oil, but with a little convincing it always makes its way back together to unify as one.

This hits deep as I think about my two young ones back home waiting for their father to come back from the woods.

I tell him my plans of where I will be hunting and then promise to stop back to meet his two sons when I call the quits for the day.

I load up with gear and have a flashback of reading Tim O’Brien’s, The Things They Carried in highschool.

The spot I had previously picked out is a pinch point. Twenty yards from a river and in thick cover. A great spot for searching bucks to cruise for does. A couple of fresh nearby scrapes let me know that the area has been frequently visited. My trail cam pics validate it further.

I climb the perfectly spaced cedar branches and giggle to myself. A far off time thirty-something years ago I was doing the same thing at recess in a little school in rural New Jersey. Many things have changed, but the important ones haven’t.

I set up and settle in. Three hours out until sunset, I relax and let my mind wander.

There was so much hope in the man’s eyes. He talked of this hunt as if it saved him. As if this is what kept him going. Not this particular hunt, but just hunting in general. Not even hunting, but hunting with his sons. There was a purpose behind these yearly hunts.

Age eventually breaks down the bullshit. I look to my elders often as a litmus test. In the end what’s important, what isn’t. Like any scientific test, the samples used are an important part of the step to get an accurate end result. Find a miserable old man beaten down by life for this test or you may get an ugly result. Unlike a real science experiment you are looking for a particular end result, you just need to find the right variables in order to get there.

This guy was the variable I was looking for.

I hear crunching behind a cedar not forty yards away. I stand up and grab my bow.

I listen for a second set of crunching, hoping a buck might be pursuing the doe that is making her way towards me.

Me and my assumptions. My hypothesis is way off. I’d make a shitty scientist.

Antler pops out of the cedar and attached to it is my “doe”.

What the hell is it about this place? Do they only grow them one size?

I don’t have time to panic. He’s on the move with more pressing matters than giving me time to lose my shit.

I draw back and give him a bleat. A half-second pause is all I need. My arrow punishes him for his mistake.

Forty minutes from leaving the parking area and I am on my way back loaded down with my gear. Dragging this beast out with all my gear was not an option. It was time to lighten the load.

“What did you forget?” comes the welcoming call from the ex-marine.

“Bad luck I guess. Had a shooter come in not ten minutes after I sat down,” I explain.

“My sons will be back shortly, hold up for a little bit and they’ll give you a hand,” he offers.

We sit around and I pry my variable for more about his life until his sons show up.

The apples don’t fall far from the paternal tree. Just like their father, upon introduction I instantly like these guys. They offer up help with my buck as if I’m doing them the favor. As inconvenient as it may have been, they show no signs of feeling that way and gladly go out into the setting sun to help me break down the buck.

Perhaps the true experiment should not be on the original variable you had sought after, but rather his offspring. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he raises his sons and daughters. You can hear words come out of a man’s mouth after years of refining them and be impressed. Raising children doesn’t work that way however. You have years of showing by example to help mold them. They are the true result of who you are as a person.

We work into the evening, knives out and hunting stories being thrown around like we were old college buddies. A perfect way to end an analog day in a digital world.