Depending on how you look at it, I’m either fortunate or unfortunate to have been born in the mid-seventies. I’ve witnessed a lot—technological leaps (all the cool ones), wars, market booms, market busts. We had the Swine Flu scare, and a bunch of others like it.
All of that, though, pales in comparison to what happened during COVID. It was—for lack of a better word—bizarre.
It hit me harder than most because, at the time, I was still a firefighter. Right in the thick of it. At first, I’ll admit I was concerned—not so much for myself, but for my wife, kids, and parents. Based on what the media and my department were saying, if you caught it, you were done for.
Don’t get me wrong—people did get really sick, and sadly, people did die from it. It was just… different.
But it didn’t take long to realize something wasn’t adding up. Patient after patient called 911 terrified—not because they were too sick to function, but because the news had them convinced they were going to die. So we’d suit up like we were walking into Fukushima, haul them to the hospital… and thirty minutes later, they’d be discharged.
The moment that really shifted things for me was when my mom caught it. She’s always had a long list of health problems—exactly the “vulnerable population” they warned us about. And she was fine. That was it. From that point on, I wasn’t afraid anymore.
My wife and youngest got it too. It was rough, but no worse than a bad flu. The crazy part? I never even caught it. Slept in the same bed. No mask. No distancing. Nothing. Two years later, I finally did catch it—and it didn’t even compare to the worst cold I’ve ever had.
As weird and restrictive as things were, I’ve got to admit—I loved how empty the roads were. So my work and hunting buddies decided to take advantage of the cheap flights and lack of crowds. We booked a trip to North Dakota for an early-season whitetail hunt.
None of us had ever hunted there—or even been there—so we were fired up. Travel was surreal. Some of the stuff we saw is hard to explain, but it didn’t matter. We were going hunting.
After a long day of travel, we made it to Bismarck, grabbed our gear and rental, and headed to the lodge. The landscape threw me off—flat, with almost no trees. The only ones we saw were around houses or near water. It reminded me of Wyoming, just a bit flatter.
I liked the openness, but I missed the trees. Still, when we pulled into the lodge, we were impressed. The family who owned it had over 17,000 acres and ran several other businesses. From what I gathered, they were basically the North Dakota version of the Duttons.
The lodge itself was beautiful—rustic but refined. And since our group was the only one there that week, everyone got their own room. Win.
We were supposed to hunt that evening, but there was a mix-up with the licenses. The guides weren’t thrilled, but to be fair, North Dakota has some oddball rules, and the way they handle licensing isn’t exactly user-friendly. I wouldn’t normally throw a jab like that, but my crew went back in the years that followed—and ran into the same headaches. So yeah, not a fluke.
After a long and heated back-and-forth with ND Game and Fish, we got everything squared away. Legal and ready.
Dinner that night was top-notch, followed by a few rounds of Big Buck Wild HD and a well-earned bourbon. The sitting area was something out of a catalog—wood and stone everywhere, anchored by a massive fireplace that stretched all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Mounted above it was an absolute beast of a bull bison.
Surrounding the hearth were deep, buttery-soft couches and leather chairs, with panoramic windows framing the view. I could’ve parked myself right there for days, burning through books and bourbon without a care in the world.
Apparently, people in that neck of the woods don’t do morning hunts. Something about the pattern of the deer and not wanting to bump them. But they had me at no morning hunts. It’s not that I’m not a morning person—I totally am. I’m usually up well before the sun and my house. It’s just that I’m not a fan of trekking through dark woods trying to find my stand. I could go to the same one every day for a year and still miss it.
Besides, in all my years of hunting, I’ve only had a handful of shots at anything at the break of dawn. Most—if not all—of my encounters have been in the late afternoon or early evening. Plus, I feel like I can make a lot less noise when I can actually see what the hell I’m doing.
So, the morning was free. We got our gear ready and dialed in our bows.
There were issues.
My sight was off—and so was one of my buddy’s. We fixed what we could, then headed into town to check out Scheels.
Big mistake.
That place is amazing.
We hung out there for a bit, spent way too much money just because, and grabbed some lunch. By the time we wrapped up, it was time to head back and get ready for our first hunt.
Back at the lodge, we were divided up with the guides. There were five of us, so we got scattered across the property.
My first hunt of the trip was on.
I was placed in a clump of trees separated by large, open grassy fields. It looked like a good spot—as far as I could tell. I was concealed well and had great views. As the sun began to drop, the action picked up. Doe after doe started pouring into the fields. I was sure the bucks would follow.
Yeah… I was wrong.
Total doe fest.
The sun tucked itself in for the night, and so did I.
We got picked up and headed back to the lodge for dinner and to plan the next day.
While we waited for food, we wandered around checking out all the cool taxidermy. You name it, they had it—from a giant bison head to a full-body deer mount leaping a barbed-wire fence, and everything in between.
But none of it compared to the badger.
That mount was the talk of the trip. My buddies started asking if they could shoot one, and they were hell-bent on doing it. They’re cool and all, but I wasn’t too keen on shooting one just because. I sometimes relate to their grumpiness.
After dinner, we talked about plans for the next day. The lodge owner asked if we wanted to shoot trap while we waited for the evening hunt. We all agreed—it sounded like a good way to pass the time.
We were way undersold on how awesome it was going to be.
We walked to one of the newer outbuildings. From the outside, it just looked like a nice metal barn. But when we stepped inside—breathtaking. Beautiful epoxy floors, corrugated metal ceilings, and more deer mounts than you could count.
We were led through the building to the gun room. In front of us were not one, not two, but three massive gun safes. The guide opened them up and started handing out shotguns.
I couldn’t believe how many guns they had.
Then again, if you’re running a pheasant operation, I guess you need a few on hand.
I was handed a gorgeous over-under and a couple boxes of shells.
We headed to the trap range—and it was better than some places dedicated to trap shooting. Individual boxes for each shooter. The range was set in a semi-circle looking out into an open grassy field.
But the crown jewel? The mobile sporting clay thrower.
That thing was a beast. Computer-operated. Multiple clays at a time. Different angles. Different distances. A mechanical masterpiece. I’d never seen anything like it.
We had an absolute blast. Every one of us was a decent shot—some better than others—but it didn’t matter. The amount of trash talk flying out of our mouths was Olympic-level. Took our hosts a little while to get used to being around four firefighters. We can be a bit much.
We finished up our fun at the range and headed back to the lodge to eat, rest, and get ready for our third night of hunting. The deer were there—just not when we were. Time was running out, and we were getting antsy.
We all got assigned new spots. Every setup looked amazing, with deer sign everywhere. It was only a matter of time—someone was going to catch one slipping up.
I had a few does come out and a spike off in the distance, but that was it. Another night, five empty tags.
Back at the lodge, we had dinner and a few drinks, gave each other pep talks, followed by some serious smack talk over heated matches on the video game.
The next day, we headed into town again to kill some time—not that we had much left. It was day four of six, and we were desperate. One of my buddies started poking the lodge owner to see if he could shoot a doe.
That was a hard no.
After messing around in town, we headed back to prep for another try. I went out back, took a few shots to make sure my bow was still dialed in, and ran through my gear checklist. Once I was in the stand, I wouldn’t be coming back out until dark.
I was good to go.
My guide said the spot they were taking me to had a strong history. It was a sliver of woods tucked between a stream and a massive cornfield. Even if he hadn’t said anything, I would’ve guessed it had potential. I had a really good feeling about that night. One of those gut things. Everything just felt right.
I climbed into my stand and got everything set the way I like it. It was really windy, and my bow danced on the hanger. There wasn’t much going on, so we were all texting and tormenting each other.
As the sun started its descent, the wind began to die down, which helped me hear better. The way it whips through the trees and corn can put you in a trance. I nearly dozed off a few times.
I had just slid my phone into my pocket when I heard crunching.
Deer?
Couldn’t see.
It was getting closer.
My stand was tucked into the sliver of woods, facing out toward the cornfield. A trail ran parallel to the corn. As the crunching approached, I looked out at the trail and—nope—not a deer.
A big, grumpy-looking badger waddled into view.
I couldn’t believe it. I thought about our dinner conversation and how badly my buddies wanted to shoot one. But I just couldn’t do it. Besides, I didn’t want to make a ruckus and ruin a chance at a deer.
So he waddled off, and I texted the crew.
The responses I got—you’d think I insulted their mothers.
I sent pics and a video, so technically, I did shoot it.
The sun dipped lower, and I was getting anxious. Then I heard leaves crunching again—this time behind me. I slowly turned and saw a couple does working their way through the woods. Not what I wanted, but it was something.
A few minutes passed, and I got a text that nearly made me laugh out loud. It was a picture of a deer (a doe) inside a pickle. It looked like a deer in a pickle costume, with the caption: “Dill-Doe.”
I know. Extremely childish. But we can’t help ourselves sometimes.
The sun was nearly gone, but I still had enough light to shoot. I had almost given up hope when I heard it again—crunching. Closer this time.
I figured it was another doe but grabbed my bow just in case.
I’d already ranged everything. The shooting window was tight.
The sound got even closer—right under my stand. I looked down and saw movement through the thick brush. Just antlers.
It was a buck.
A good one.
He walked out, halfway between my stand and the trail, then turned broadside—nineteen yards. It was dark, but I could still see my pin and the target.
I drew, steadied, and released.
Thwack.
He kicked and hauled ass. I heard a crash—but I couldn’t be sure. My adrenaline kicked in and I started shaking. I’m not one of those guys who shakes before or during. I get it after. Bad.
I texted the group: “I SHOT A BUCK.”
The floodgates opened.
“How big?”
“How many points?”
“Is he down?”
My reply? “I don’t know.”
That didn’t go over well. I get a lot of crap for never counting points. Honestly, I don’t care. If I like the deer and I’ve got a shot, I take it. Simple.
They had my guide pick them up first, then came to get me. Since I wasn’t 100% sure he was down, we decided to eat first and track him after.
Eating was brutal. I was pretty sure I’d made a great shot, but that sliver of doubt is a killer.
We finished dinner and headed back out. I was climbing out of my skin.
We returned to the stand, and I walked to where I thought I’d shot him. At first, I didn’t see anything. But a few steps to the right—and there it was. Blood. A huge area of it. The shot must’ve been perfect.
Trailing him was easy. There was so much blood it sprayed up trees. We spread out, following the trail toward where we thought he might’ve gone.
Sixty or seventy yards from the stand, I heard my buddy call out, “Um, wow. Here’s your deer.”
I ran over—and couldn’t believe my eyes.
It was a big eight-point. Way bigger than I expected. He ended up scoring just under 142”. He was heavy-bodied too—clearly a corn-fed bruiser.
Well, I’d saved the corn. I was officially tagged out.
Everyone was pumped. That’s what I love about my crew. Sure, we all want to get deer—but we’re genuinely happy for each other. We help each other out. We celebrate the wins and pick each other up when it doesn’t go our way.
We dragged him back to the truck and headed to the lodge to get him skinned and processed.
I called my girls back home. They were thrilled. I sent pictures, and they immediately named him: Dakota.
With my tag filled, I got to kick back and enjoy the remaining days of the trip. Unfortunately, the rest of the gang struck out. It was one of those trips. Usually, I’m the one going home empty-handed—but not this time.
I was riding high that season.
Didn’t last long.
Two months later, Missouri brought me right back down to earth—humbled me on the very first day.
As they say, sometimes you’re the bug… and sometimes you’re the windshield.
That season, I got to be both.
