My First Whitetail: A Triumph of Humility

For those who didn't come up in a hunting family, learning the ins and outs of whitetail hunting wasn't a generational lesson; it was a years-long, cold, and often humiliating trial-and-error education. Years ago, a junior high friend mentioned his family’s yearly pilgrimage to the state’s Upper Peninsula, better known as the U.P., for a weekend of whitetail deer hunting. That evening, I approached my father, who was not a hunter, and asked him to take me hunting. Shortly thereafter, I obtained my hunter education certificate in Michigan, and didn’t step into the woods until my freshman year of high school.

 

By this point, we had relocated to Missouri, and mid-November was all about rifle season. At the time, Missouri allowed one antlered deer per season, and, according to most of my friends, just seeing one was considered a bonus. My father swore that all rifle hunters were careless and spent the fall shooting one another. It was an uphill battle to get him to agree to take me, or even let me go with anyone else, for that matter. To my surprise, Dad bought me a Marlin Glenfield Model 30 in 30-30 caliber at an auction one Saturday afternoon. I held my new deer rifle, a heavy lever-action rifle that felt less like a hunting tool and more like an antique I'd pulled from a cowboy’s saddle scabbard. I had no idea how to use it, only that I was supposed to. The walnut stock, slightly worn from years of use, featured a whitetail carved into the grip, and the foregrip stain showed evidence of years spent in the woods. I’ll never forget the “click-clack” of the action as I worked it for the first time. 

We were invited to a friend's family farm to hunt whitetail that fall. The cover was sparse, and the roads were teaming with orange-clad whitetail hunters. The November air was a damp, biting cold that snuck through the worn seams of my cheap coveralls, causing a continuous shiver as we waited for sunrise. We had no idea what we were doing and sat in a tree line adjacent to a cut corn field. As the sun made its way above the trees, it began to illuminate the half-dozen or so hunters scattered randomly around us. The nearby woodlots resembled a patch of glowing pumpkins with a hardwood background. Our morning wasn't quiet; it was a vast, frozen silence interrupted on occasion by the flinching crack of an unseen rifle—the sound a nervous reminder that we were surrounded. Following that season, I wouldn’t step foot into the whitetail woods for several years, choosing a path that kept me away from the outdoors. The Marlin 30-30 stayed tucked away, becoming an unused relic of a failed attempt at deer season.

It took a cousin, who had fully immersed himself in the quiet world of archery hunting, to pull me back. His excitement and passion for the woods were so genuine and contagious that they cut through my skepticism. As a funny coincidence, he invited me along one frosty October morning that closely resembled my first foray into the whitetail world. Outfitted again in the cheapest cotton camouflage I could find, I followed him into the darkness, frozen head to toe. Although I still couldn't feel my feet or fingers, there was no crowd, no flinching crack of a rifle, and, most importantly, I had fun. A new, immediate obsession was born.

My new hobby had me clamoring for every piece of information I could find about white-tailed deer. I purchased a few overpriced publications to learn about deer habitat, feeding, and bedding patterns, with the main event being the whitetail rut. I scoured the magazine aisle at the local grocery store, looking for anything related to whitetail bowhunting.  Outdoor television was in its infancy, though VHS offered a variety of hunting videos. I watched what I could. I was introduced to several notable names in the outdoor industry, including Winke, Jordan, Haas, Fitzgerald, Foulkrod, and Blanton. Intently, I watched as these gentlemen traveled the country, landing in places like Iowa, Texas, and the Milk River in Montana. They would sit on field edges, and deer would pour into the neatly planted crops. While the does gorged themselves on beans and alfalfa, bucks scraped and rubbed nearby before joining them and chasing the does all over. Eventually, they would pass within yards of the camo-clad hunters, only to have the air let out of them by a lightning-fast broadhead. Soon came the celebration, grip-and-grins, and then off to the next state. I couldn’t wait to climb a tree and see the same things! 

Armed with my $30 hang-on tree stand, a pocket full of steps, and a borrowed bow, I struck off into some nearby public land. I found a tree on the edge of a bean field and hung a stand over the tracks left in the soft, damp dirt between rows. There were hundreds of them, and I knew the field would be full of deer soon. A giant 10-pointer would chase a doe by, and I’d be kneeling next to him in no time. Boy, was I wrong. That hunt marked the beginning of a 30-year educational odyssey into the world of whitetail deer.

Comparing Apples to Apples

Learning to hunt whitetail deer is daunting, and a self-taught whitetail education is full of holes and misconceptions. With public land as my only option, I learned quickly that I was not dealing with the same deck as the hunters who had written the articles I had diligently studied or watched on my VCR. I was not hunting expansive river bottoms and large tracts of land with limited access and strict herd management in place. Additionally, it wasn’t uncommon to come across a fellow hunter who showed zero regard for regulations and a fundamental lack of hunting etiquette.  Before I proceed, it is essential to clarify that the message here is not about comparing public and private land. I’m simply stating that the two are not the same and require adjustments to a hunter’s mindset, tactics, and expectations, all of which I had been wrong about. 

It is easy to become frustrated when your expectations meet a less-than-cooperative reality. I had set myself up for failure before even setting foot into the woods because my entire foundation of whitetail knowledge was built on the borrowed experiences of private-land experts, and I simply didn't know any better. The essential lesson I took away—and the one I intend to share—is that you must set realistic and directly applicable expectations for the ground you hunt. I became discouraged and almost quit, not because I couldn't hunt, but because the Missouri Department of Conservation (MDC) property I hunted didn't have large, mature bucks waiting behind every oak tree; it had pressure. With my limited knowledge of the whitetail realm, I was destined to fail if I didn’t reevaluate my situation. 

Set Realistic Goals

Starting a hunting journey from scratch is the ultimate test of will—a blessing wrapped in a curse. On the lighter side, the woods were a constant, intriguing mystery. But the curse was the void: no inherited wisdom or instinct, and nothing to anchor a practical hunting philosophy. Being an adult-onset hunter with zero whitetail savvy, it can be challenging to sift through the nonsense to find what is truly applicable and relevant to success. My first, vital course of action was redefining "success." The minute I gave up the fantasy of chasing Boone and Crockett ghosts across the pressured, local MDC properties, I found a strange kind of peace. Contentment settled in: a successful morning was simply seeing a flick of a tail or a brief silhouette. For seasons, I hunted public land exclusively, where my only company was the obnoxious snorting of does condemning my presence before their white flags vanished in the distance—leaving me with nothing but empty tags and a growing humility.

My frustration led me to muster the nerve to ask a neighbor for access to his 40 acres adjacent to my home. He generously gave permission, and I began to see deer. Once again, I tried to employ the strategy and tactics observed from the hunting industry. I purchased calls, scent elimination, rubber boots, and the must-have for the whitetail rut, doe pee. Access to private land was my ticket to hunting success, and I was pulling all the stops. Much to my dismay, the tricks and trinkets didn’t work. I got winded, spotted, and simply couldn’t connect on a whitetail. My luck changed when I decided to walk into the woods, with the southerly wind in my face, find a tree to lean against, and sit.

With my back against an old Osage orange in a fence row, I had zero expectation. I laid the heavy Marlin 30-30 across my lap, letting the warm breeze and autumn sun nearly lull me to sleep. Then, a lone deer came trotting through the timber. My hands instantly began to shake as I fumbled to raise the rifle. Just as I settled the crosshairs of my Golden Antler scope onto its shoulder, the deer stopped, locking eyes with me. My heart pounded in my chest. Barely able to hold steady, I squeezed the trigger and sent a round its way. I jumped to my feet, working the lever in a panic, "click-clack!” “BOOM!” I shot again. I fired a total of three times, two of which, I realized later, were absolutely unnecessary.

The moment after the smoke cleared from those three panicked shots from my Glenfield Model 30, I finally had my answer. That deer—a small button buck, taken out of sheer, clumsy luck—was my first whitetail. It was an unremarkable harvest, and far from television-worthy, but it was mine. More importantly, that single, unplanned success offered a striking contrast to the frustration and disappointment of the preceding years. I had given up the idea of "expert" tactics and, by simply sitting quietly with zero expectation, I had won.

Find your Peace in Woodsmanship

I have spent the last 25 years on a continuous, self-directed adventure. I traded the $30 stand for quiet saddle-hunting gear and a lightweight, mobile hang-on. Gadgets were replaced with woodsmanship, and I learned that wind direction was as important as any piece of equipment or scent product. I moved past the fascination of hunting antlers and focused on mastering the small properties and public lands around me. The true reward of the hunt became the time spent in the outdoors, the ability to decipher a deer trail, read a subtle rub line, and predict a shift in bedding areas.

There was no generational knowledge to lean on, so I had to build my own from the ground up. The trial-and-error was frustrating and often humiliating, but it brought about a deeply personal connection to the whitetail woods. It taught me that under pressure, the greatest trophy a hunter can earn is not mounted on the wall, but a realistic, hard-won understanding of the whitetail's world.

My first deer