Last weekend I was lucky enough to attend the second annual Women’s Crossbow Hunt in New York, where women mentoring women brought eight new hunters into the woods in pursuit of whitetails. When we weren’t learning on the range or sitting in blinds, we spent a lot of time talking about our pasts and how we became hunters — who has influenced us; who opened (or didn’t open) the door to this world of the outdoors.
Several mentors shared that their dads, grandfathers or other men in their families had hunted when they were younger, but “girls didn’t hunt,” and they were never offered the chance. A lot of these inspirational women are self-taught, adult-onset hunters. As I listened, I realized something humbling: in many ways, I’ve taken my greatest mentor for granted — my father.
I still don’t know why, and I’ve honestly never asked him, but my dad never once hesitated to include me in his hunting and fishing adventures. While his older brothers never brought their daughters to deer camp, he treated me no differently than any son would have been treated. From as early as I can remember, it was clear that hunting — especially deer hunting — was one of his greatest passions and he was eager to share it with me. No matter the time of year, we were always looking for deer. There were always binoculars in the truck. And he seemed like an absolute pro at spotting a whitetail from what felt, to a kid, like miles away. He’s still a pro, beating me at spotting deer every time we take a ride.
I can still remember trekking through the woods with him, scouting or hanging stands. He would stop to show me tracks, rubs, scrapes, and scat as we walked. During the season, when he brought a deer home hanging off the back of the truck, I couldn’t wait to see it, help hang it, and hear the story. Bedtime stories, which were rare because he worked nights, weren’t from books — they were tales from Dad’s hunts. I lived for those stories. I still do to this day, no matter how many times I’ve heard them.
Dad was always endlessly patient. Looking back, when my brother was old enough to come along, I honestly don’t know how he kept his cool with two kids crashing through the woods. If we got cold and wanted to leave — sometimes right at prime time which I am sure he hated — he never once forced us to sit longer than we wanted. He shared his mittens, gave us his extra layer, and made sure we were having fun, even when my brother was picking up rocks instead of watching the trail; or when we were dragging our feet loudly through the leaves after being told to “pick up your feet.”
One of my first memories actually hunting with him was bowhunting Way Up North — our favorite spot in Vermont. Acorns were quite literally raining down, and I was completely distracted by everything else happening in the woods. When he whispered that a deer was coming, I had no idea which direction to look. We watched a spike horn slip through and browse and then disappear, never offering Dad a shot with his recurve.
Another time, my dad, brother and I were taking a break on a log talking softly and having a hot chocolate when dad said the magic words: “Freeze like a statue.” A doe and two skippers appeared to our left. The wind was perfect, and they crossed from left to right without ever seeing us. I remember grinning as I watched them pass at less than 20 feet while holding a steaming thermos cup of hot chocolate — all of us in blaze orange.
When I was finally old enough to carry a gun myself he would walk me into my spot in the dark, then head to his spot, leaving the truck unlocked. “If you get cold,” he’d say, “you can go out to the truck and warm up. But I’m sitting ’til dark. Good luck” and then his flashlight would disappear into the dark. Funny enough, I always felt safe even when he was leaving me in the middle of the woods alone in the dark.
Over twenty years later, my dad is still my favorite person to hunt with. He’s my first call when I get one. He’s the first to volunteer to help track & drag. He’s my biggest cheerleader. He’s one of my best friends.
Dad, thank you. Thank you for treating me the same way some fathers treat their sons, but so few treat their daughters. Thank you for giving me every opportunity in this male-dominated world to experience these sports which have become some of my greatest passions in life. Thank you for teaching me that patience and persistence are a hunter’s greatest advantages; that without ethics as a hunter, you have absolutely no business being in the woods. Thank you for teaching me to respect the animals I pursue and for always reminding me, “Sometimes you get ’em, sometimes you don’t.”
Above all, thank you for being the perfect example of a humble, true sportsman. You are in my mind the most legendary hunter. The best dad and mentor a girl could ever ask for.
This weekend I will be Way up North, chasing deer with dad. In his words “it’s time to get the big one.”
Wild Woman 