The Hunt That Hooked Me
The Drift
It was 2018. I had just come off active duty from the Army, stepping into what should’ve been a smooth transition. A good job, steady income, and structure; everything on paper said I was fine. But something in my gut told me otherwise.
Time without purpose has a way of dulling you. I wasn’t falling apart; I was drifting. And drifting can be just as dangerous. The further I floated from myself, the more I questioned who I was becoming.
That’s when my brother Christian made a simple suggestion: “Let’s go hunting.”
He didn’t say it casually. He believed; really believed, it would speak to something in me. Our other brother, Cody, shared that same quiet conviction. Their passion was contagious. For them, hunting wasn’t a hobby; it was a ritual. A rhythm. A link to something older, more honest.
I said, “yes.”
Into the High Country
We set our sights on Colorado’s second rifle season; a stretch that offers the most days to hunt, spanning two full weekends. But it’s a tricky window for mule deer. The bucks are in transition, not quite rutting yet, which makes their patterns harder to predict.
I was as green as they come; armed with an open-sight Henry lever-action .30-30 and nearly no experience beyond enthusiasm. But I had two brothers whose roots in this ran deep. That was enough.
That first morning, we reached the highest peak in our area just as the sun began to crest. From the ridgeline, we glassed the valleys, eyes scanning every shadow, every crease.
Eventually, we spotted a buck worth pursuing. The approach was tense. We knew we were close, but he gave us the slip and vanished.
Frustrated, we turned back; only to bump into the same buck halfway down the mountain. This time, he stood broadside, 250 yards out. A perfect opportunity. If I had the skills.
I didn’t.
Shot after shot went wide. The buck stood there, seemingly unbothered, as if offering me a lesson instead of escape. And then he disappeared; unharmed.
I walked off that mountain with nothing in my pack, but something new in my chest. A fire I hadn’t felt in years.
The Turning Point
Midweek, Christian called me. “If you don’t come back, you’ll regret it for the next year.” He was right. I couldn’t stand the idea of waiting twelve months to chase that feeling again.
Cody couldn’t make it the second weekend, but Christian and I went back. This time, I left the .30-30 behind and carried a Tikka .270 with a Leupold 3x9 optic; a tool more fitting for the job.
We climbed again before dawn. Glassing, waiting, moving slow through the high country.By mid-afternoon, I was curled up under a rock, worn out from the hike and the cold.
Christian woke me as he spotted them; two bucks, silhouetted on a ridge across from us. We watched them dip down into a grove of aspens.
He knew that patch of timber like the back of his hand. We moved fast. Cutting across the slope, we reached a rocky outcrop just above the grove. I dropped into position, heart thudding. I slowed my breath.
Then, silence. Everything else disappeared; the wind, the mountain, even Christian. There was only the buck, and the crosshairs.
I squeezed the trigger.
The Moment It All Changed
The shot was true. But it wasn’t just about the deer.
It was everything; the missed shots the week before, the quiet walks, the glassing, the shared stories, the climb, the cold, the stillness, the brotherhood.
I came home with meat for the freezer, sure; but more importantly, with clarity. Hunting wasn’t just something my brothers did anymore, it became something we all do.
The Aftermath
Since that first hunt, I’ve returned to the mountains every year. The draw isn’t just the animal; it’s the process. The ritual. The presence it demands. It strips away distractions and leaves only what matters.
It teaches you. It humbles you. But most profoundly, it connects you to “life.”
Through hunting, I’ve found more than a pursuit. I’ve found a dormant piece of my heart.