Business, Bucks & Blunders: Lessons From The Woods With Mitchell Kearns (Iowa)
It’s a crisp November morning in Guthrie County, the kind where frost still clings to the grass and the sun rises slow over CRP fields cut by a wandering river. Two hours south, near a bend in the timber, a weathered ladder stand overlooks one of the best spots on the farm. It’s here that Mitchell Kearns has come to reset—away from the grind, the kid’s toys, and the long drives back and forth from the office. Because for this attorney-turned-entrepreneur mentor, the woods aren’t just for hunting. They’re for remembering where it all started.
Trading Courtrooms for Clients
Mitchell didn’t plan to land in entrepreneurship. He came out of law school ready to take on the courtroom—working in juvenile law with Polk County. But after years of witnessing hard family stories and the emotional toll that followed, he knew it was time for something different.
“I wanted to help people,” he said. “But not at $300 an hour and not while feeling micromanaged.” After a stint at a law firm left him craving more independence, a tip from a family member introduced him to the Iowa SBDC. What started as curiosity became a calling.
Helping the Little Guy
Now a technology director at Iowa’s Small Business Development Center, Mitchell helps startups across the state build their foundations. “You already had the ideas,” he told podcast host Mitchell Fox. “You just needed someone to help you act on them.”
That’s exactly what he’s done—not just for LogIQ Hunt, but for dozens of rural founders. Through his Rural Business Innovators Program, Mitchell takes resources typically reserved for metro entrepreneurs and brings them to the folks who don’t have time to spend four hours in a classroom. Farmers. Hunters. Side hustlers.
Finding Time to Hunt
The trade-off? Less money, more freedom.
“I get time off, and that lets me be out there during the season,” Mitchell said. “It’s not the job keeping me out of the woods—it’s the baby.”
With a young son at home, hunting trips look different now. Gone are the days of napping in the truck between morning and evening sits. Today, it’s about seizing the moment. Ten sits a year if he’s lucky. Still, Mitchell finds a way to make each one count—even if it means waking up at 4 a.m. for the two-hour haul to Ringgold County.
A Grandfather’s Legacy
The property itself is part of the story. Bought in 2008 by his grandfather—a retired schoolteacher who saved for years on a modest salary—it’s become the family’s sanctuary. “He was the one who taught me to bow hunt,” Mitchell said. “And even at 83, he’s still climbing stands.”
It’s not just land. It’s lessons passed down like gear: learning wind, learning patience, learning not to shoot the first buck that walks by. Mitchell still remembers getting pulled out of school to help track a deer. That first hunt. The archery leagues in the back of radiator shops. It’s all etched into his story like rings on an old oak.
Hard Lessons in the Woods
He’s had his fair share of embarrassing moments, too. “I’ve burned more than one sock because I forgot toilet paper,” he laughed. But the one that stings? Pulling back on a dream buck with a brand-new bow—only to have the cam catch on a metal bow hanger. The arrow fluttered. The buck walked. And Mitchell sat in stunned silence.
“That was a low point,” he admitted. “The deer even came over and sniffed my arrow like he knew I couldn’t kill him.”
Modern Tools, Ancient Pursuits
Despite the setbacks, Mitchell’s a gear junkie. He swears by his Frogg Toggs backpack. Uses Grim Reapers now but keeps a Thunderhead 125 in the quiver out of respect. And while he’s cautious about new tech, he’s also realistic: cellular trail cameras changed his season. “That deer doesn’t die if I don’t get that photo at 8 a.m.”
He’s even fascinated by drone recovery—though he admits the legal gray area might not last. “It’s gonna be the next thing to go,” he said. “But when it helps a guy recover a buck and not waste the meat… hard to be against that.”
Hunting for the Right Reasons
At the heart of it all, Mitchell hunts for food and family. Not fame. Not inches. He processes his own meat, grills backstraps with horseradish sauce, and has 120 pounds of venison in his freezer by mid-winter.
“Some people gripe about the drive,” he said. “But I always remind them—this is land we don’t have to share with anyone else.”
In a world where hunting’s increasingly becoming a rich man’s sport, where outfitters and high-fence leases crowd out the everyman, Mitchell’s story is a reminder that tradition still lives. In the smell of the woods. In the long drives and cold sits. And in a journal from his grandfather, tucked away in a safe, filled with scribbled lessons from seasons past.
Because someday, he hopes to pass it down too. “I’m not gonna force it on my son,” he said. “But man, I hope he’s into it. I really do.”