The Stand of His Own Making

It is a bittersweet feeling when your son is old enough to venture into the woods on his own—the satisfying knowledge that you’ve done well as a mentor, mingled with the quiet sadness that they no longer need you, at least not in the same way. I first felt this two seasons ago when Austin took a couple of morning sits on one of our small, private pieces. I loved getting those text updates throughout the morning, even if nothing offered a shot.

That independence was put on hold in 2024. My son was fully immersed in paramedic class, leaving him no time for the woods. We hunted once during rifle season, and he helped in retrieving my 10-pointer, which we skinned and quartered for the cooler. Since he graduated in April, this season has been wide open, and the anticipation has been building.

Our season began in earnest on November 7th, right after I helped a friend haul out a giant from nearby public land. Austin positioned himself at a key intersection of terrain, and I settled in at a well-used creek crossing. The evening's sightings were a small doe, a few busy squirrels, and one slow-moving box turtle. But none of that mattered. We were in the woods, together again.

Unfortunately, I had to return to work after an extended hiatus to hunt, albeit unsuccessfully. Austin asked what I had thought about morning sneak into the creek bottom and a set-up on the ground. My advice was simple: Wait until grey light, access via the creek bed to mask his approach, and tuck himself into the thickest brush near the trail intersection. I received my first update and picture at 6:18 on Monday morning. I wished him luck and told him to keep me updated as the morning progressed.

Austin settled in near the tree where he shot his first deer a few seasons ago. The does love to bed in the briars, making it an excellent morning sit, especially in November! I was kept up on the morning's events. I had told him to keep an eye on the field edge, and, like clockwork, he began to see deer. The first was a lone doe easing along the field edge. Then, he thought he caught a glimpse of that nice buck we'd seen days earlier. The rush of activity slowly replaced his worries about disturbing the woods. Next came a quick-moving forkhorn, followed by another doe, and another young buck bounding through. 'Just had a big 8 or 10 @ 45 yards. Never got a good look to count,' was his following text. The creek bottom was lighting up—the rut was on.

After a picture of his set-up, he told me a doe had made it to within 10 yards of him before picking him off and bounding away. Any whitetail hunter knows the difficulty in remaining hidden while hunting from the ground. I had wondered if he would have gotten a shot at the doe had he been in a tree. No sooner had I sent that thought than the phone rang. I answered with my regular “What’s up, dawg?” which was met with a quiet, shaky voice stating, “dude, I may have just dropped one.” We spent the next few anxious minutes discussing the shot details before he began his recovery. It was a fiercely proud moment for me, but the best part was listening to his account and then seeing the sheer sense of accomplishment radiating from his face as he approached his first buck with his bow, from the ground, nonetheless!

I hung up the phone and sat quietly for a minute. The rush of pure pride—the kind only a father can feel—was intense. He didn’t need me to be there in the brush, but he chose to call me first. That communication, that shake in his voice, meant more than any shared sit. Later, when I finally saw the buck and watched Austin touching the antlers he had earned on his own, the bittersweet feeling I’d had two seasons ago finally dissolved. It wasn't sadness that he didn't need me; it was deep satisfaction that he could do it. Standing there under the quiet weight of his first bow buck taken from the ground, he was no longer just my apprentice. He was a hunter!