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Southwestern Ohio rolls out like a patchwork quilt—gravel roads bending around cornfields, diagonal fencerows breaking up stretches of timber, and every so often, a pocket of woods too small to map but big enough to hold a buck. It’s a place where land is tight, farms are leased up fast, and good hunting spots come from generations of trust. That’s where you’ll find Robert Worley—grinding stumps for a living and chasing gobblers, geese, and whitetails with the kind of wisdom that only comes from forty-four years on the same farm.

Factory Floors to Tree Rows

Robert’s journey started behind a repair bench at General Motors. By day, he led a crew through the factory grind. But in 1995, he bought a stump grinder on the side. When the plant shut its doors, he didn’t flinch. He just fired up the machine full-time and never looked back. “I’ve had employees,” he said. “But I’m back to flying solo again—it’s peaceful.” That flexibility? It’s bought him more time in the woods and on the road, where he’s learned to read small properties like a weathered topo map.

Fighting for Private Ground

Ohio might be home to giant bucks, but the real trophy is access. “Everything’s cut up,” Robert said. “Good private ground over 50 acres is rare around here.” With just a few trusted farms to hunt, he’s learned to move smart and hunt smarter. On one of those spots—just 78 acres—Robert’s killed more good deer than some guys do on ten times that land. “I’ve had stands in the same place for years,” he said. “Sometimes you nudge ‘em, but the deer move the same.”

Tactics on Tight Timber

Hunting in Robert’s neck of the woods means navigating narrow fence rows, eyeing crop rotations, and understanding how access dictates everything. “I might walk a half-mile around just to get into the right stand,” he said. “It’s all about wind and not blowing ‘em out.” He’s found that deer respond more to crop changes than calls—corn makes a farm hot, beans less so. And while feeders are legal in Ohio, he doesn’t rely on them. “I’m hunting a cornfield. They’ve got food. It’s not the bait that makes the difference.”

44 Years on One Farm

Some spots are more than just hunting land—they’re home. Robert was ten years old when his dad took him to meet Mr. Brubaker, the farmer who gave them permission to hunt. Decades later, Robert still walks those fields, now with the Brubaker kids’ blessing. “It’s not just about the deer anymore,” he said. “It’s the memories.” Trail cams? He avoids them there. “I don’t even want to know what’s out there. I like the surprise.”

Bit by a Tick, Changed by a Season

In 2020, a Lone Star tick turned Robert’s life upside down. The bite gave him alpha-gal syndrome, a condition that makes him allergic to red meat—venison, beef, elk, you name it. For a lifelong hunter, that was devastating. But instead of quitting, Robert adapted. “I can still eat birds and fish,” he said. “So I started chasing geese and ducks.” He’s even ordering ostrich steaks online now. “It’s not the same,” he laughed, “but it’s close.”

New Traditions, Same Drive

Now he’s scouting waterfowl fields instead of deer funnels and learning to call geese like he once called gobblers. “It’s like starting over,” he said. “But it’s fun.” His goose hunting has brought new challenges—like dodging game wardens and angry neighbors when birds drop near backyards—but also new stories, new buddies, and the same old rush. “You hear ‘em lift off the lake, circle, dump air—man, it’s addicting.”

Lessons, Laughter, and Legacy

From beagle dogs and quail coveys to elk leases out West, Robert’s chased just about everything that walks or flies. But it’s the stories that linger—like the time he got surrounded by coyotes dragging out a tiny doe or when he shot a buck moments after passing on a limping young one. “My buddy pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the milk off her mouth,” he laughed. “I still hear about that one every year.”

The Hunt Goes On

At 54, Robert knows he’s got fewer seasons ahead than behind. But he’s still planning archery elk trips, still busting ridges in Kentucky with his 73-year-old dad, and still finding joy in every hunt—harvest or not. “That turkey had more to lose than I did,” he said. “It was still a great hunt.” The racks may fade, but the moments don’t. And if you ask Robert what keeps him going, he’ll tell you straight: “I’m fortunate. I’m still at it.”

The air hangs thick over the timber in southern Iowa—oak leaves still cling to branches, a faint shimmer of October warmth cuts through the morning fog, and the timber floor crunches beneath your boots. It’s the kind of setting that whispers to a bowhunter: stay patient, stay quiet. For Seth, it wasn’t just another hunt—it was the culmination of six years waiting, scouting, hoping. And it all came together with the buzz of a cell cam, a last-minute stand change, and the kind of instinct that only time in the woods can teach.

From Deer Drives to Discipline

Seth’s story starts like many Midwest hunters—riding along on Missouri deer drives, rifle in hand, soaking in the tradition. But even early on, he sensed there was something deeper pulling him in. It wasn’t until his late teens, after watching old Realtree VHS tapes on snow days, that he got his first bow. No mentors. No guidance. Just trial and error. “I’d sit in a lawn chair tucked in the weeds thinking I’d kill something big,” he laughed. Over time, that curiosity turned into craft. By the time he reached college, Seth was scouting food plots, studying trail cam data, and learning how to hang a stand where it counted.

The Power of the Process

Ask Seth what drives him now, and he won’t say the score of the buck. It’s the whole dance: planting plots, glassing velvet, hanging stands deep where others won’t go. “I’ve come to enjoy the process more than the hunt itself,” he admitted. And that patience paid off. Around 2008 or 2009, he arrowed his first really good deer. That moment—a buck appearing out of tall weeds during peak rut—solidified it. “That’s the power of the rut,” he said. “I want more of that.”

A Tag Six Years in the Making

In 2023, after six long years of waiting, Seth finally drew his coveted Iowa bow tag. The plan was a two-week huntcation between Missouri and Iowa, with flexibility to shift based on deer movement. But then the cell cam lit up. “730 in the morning, we got a picture,” he said. Lance, his longtime buddy and hunting partner, had a gut feeling. Seth followed it. “I packed up, showered, grabbed my bow and e-bike, and headed to a different stand.” No camera. No safety harness. Just adrenaline and a hunch. At 5:30 PM, a 170-inch dream stepped out at six yards. The shot felt good, but nerves crept in overnight. Come morning, they found the buck piled up within 60 yards.

That First Iowa Giant

That wasn’t Seth’s first Iowa success story. Back in 2015, fresh off a move to Iowa for work, he took a chance on a new farm. One evening, a nearby farmer started combining. Seth pivoted. “I thought, maybe that combine bumps something out.” He rattled antlers, grunted, and a giant with a drop tine circled back. One well-placed shot later, and Seth was calling the friend who helped him get access, almost afraid to admit how big the buck was. “Probably never going to happen again like that,” he said. “It was pure luck.”

Evolving With the Times

A lot’s changed since those early ladder stand days. Access is harder, land is more expensive, and hunting has turned into a pay-to-play game. “Back then, you could ask to bowhunt and people would just laugh. Now it’s like, no way,” Seth said. He’s watched hunting media shift too—from primetime shows to gritty YouTube episodes and average-Joe success stories. “I like the raw ones. A guy gets off work, throws on camo in his Chevy Cavalier, and gets it done.”

Luck, Skill, and Stinging Setbacks

Talk to Seth long enough, and you’ll find he’s as honest about misses as he is about hits. “You remember the misses more,” he admitted. Like the 170-class deer in 2016. Or the 180s-class buck three years later. Or the time he was mid-hunt, watching a Chiefs game, and realized too late that the deer of a lifetime was 80 yards out and closing. “I just wasn’t ready,” he said. Still, he doesn’t dwell on it. “If you’ve never missed, you’re either not hunting enough—or lying.”

The Hornet Incident

Every hunter has that one “you’re not gonna believe this” story. For Seth, it was the day he volunteered to trim a walking lane at Lance’s. “I hit a ground hornet nest and just got hammered,” he said. “Dropped the saw, sprinted for the creek. Had hornets in my boots. It was awful.” Of course, Lance—just a few yards away—walked away untouched. “Apparently hornets know who to blame,” Seth joked.

Why We Keep Going

In the end, it’s not the inches of antler or even the kill that fuels Seth. It’s the quiet of the woods, the sunrise breaking through hardwoods, the doe with fawns goofing under his stand, the bobcat chasing prey he saw last fall—his first in over 20 years of hunting. “That’s your peaceful place,” he said. “It’s not just about killing something. It’s the challenge, the story, the escape.”

The rolling hills of South Central Iowa carry a different kind of quiet come January. The frost hangs on empty soybean stalks, food plots go still, and timber draws echo only with the rustle of shed antlers hitting frozen ground. It’s that liminal season between the final sits and the first green-up, and for Lance Porter, that pause is where the reflection begins. A farmer, husband, girl dad, and commercial agronomist, Lance balances life, work, and whitetails with a matter-of-fact grit that comes from two decades of chasing deer in some of the most coveted ground in America.

From Shotgun Drives to Bowhunting Days

Lance’s earliest memories of hunting are steeped in tradition—big shotgun parties, five or six trucks deep, pushing timber across thousands of acres with family and neighbors. But while those chaotic weekends created lifelong bonds, it was bowhunting that quietly hooked him. “I liked the closeness,” he says. “There’s something more natural about it.” Over time, he traded deer drives for tree stands and a 30-lb Golden Eagle bow, learning the rhythm of a quieter pursuit.

The Down Year

This past season, though, things felt off. EHD hit Lance’s area hard—so hard he only had one mature buck show up across all his farms. “I didn’t have anything over four years old,” he says. “Used to see 25 deer a night. This year, if you saw five, that was a good sit.” For the first time in his life, Lance went six sits in a row without seeing a single deer during prime time. He didn’t shoot a doe. Didn’t even get excited to hunt. “After Seth shot that deer, I just punted the rest of the year.”

The Booby Miles Buck

The highlight came early—October 18th, to be exact—when Lance’s friend Seth tagged his Iowa buck after a six-year wait to draw a tag. Lance gave up his only target deer to let Seth have a crack. “I told him to sit by a pond 200 yards off the timber,” Lance says. “By 5:30, he called me—‘Well, that was quick.’” Sometimes the pieces fall together, even in a bad year.

The State of the Herd

Looking back across 20 years, Lance is honest—2024 was the worst he’s seen. But maybe, he says, that’s not entirely bad. “We probably had too many deer to start with. Couldn’t harvest enough. So nature did it for us.” He’s hopeful fewer deer now means healthier ones later. Still, it’s hard watching years of trail cam history and food plot investment vanish with disease and bad luck.

Trail Cams and the Lost Thrill

Lance doesn’t sugarcoat how tech has changed the game. “If I didn’t have trail cameras, I probably would’ve hunted more,” he admits. “You know what’s there. If it’s not what you want, you don’t go.” While he appreciates the data, he misses the mystery. More than once, he’s considered ditching the cameras completely—just hunting, like they used to, when a track in the snow was all you had to go on.

Managing Without the Drama

Between filming hunts in college and losing permission to deep-pocketed out-of-staters, Lance has seen how hunting’s culture has shifted. “It used to be camaraderie,” he says. “Now it’s competition. Who can shoot the biggest deer, who can lease the best farm.” He refuses to pay to play, relying instead on his own farm—a purchase he calls the best decision he’s made. Not for the inches. For the peace. “I can walk out my back door, forget the world, and just chill.”

Fathers, Daughters, and Bubble Blowing Blinds

Now a dad to two young girls, Lance is learning to enjoy the woods in a different way. “They’re blowing bubbles, eating all the snacks I bring. But we’re in the blind together.” His youngest already spots deer better than he does. “She’ll be in the back seat—‘Dad, there’s one!’ I look up and there’s a doe 200 yards off.” Hunting with them is chaos, sure. But it’s joy, too. A reminder of why he started.

Luck, Skill, and the Matrix Deer

If you ask Lance what matters most when killing big deer, he won’t hesitate: “95% luck, 5% skill—100% of the time.” He tells the story of the Matrix deer—years of history, a perfect October setup, and a lightsaber-bright arrow sailing right over its back. The buck dropped like a rock mid-flight. “I’ve never seen a deer do that before,” his brother said. Neither had Lance. The deer died a year later of EHD, scoring over 170 even with a bum foot.

The Joy’s Still There

The industry may have changed. Gear may be flashier. And competition may feel suffocating at times. But for Lance, the core of hunting—the quiet, the challenge, the solitude—still holds. “I’d still love shotgun hunting,” he says, “if everyone was just out there to shoot does or old bucks.” For now, he’s sticking to bow season, tinkering with food plots, and dragging his girls out fishing every chance he gets. “They already want to skip school to go ice fishing,” he laughs. “I gotta be a little proud of that.”

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.”

There’s no shortage of hunting podcasts out there. But if you ask Mitchell Fox, most of them miss one thing: the stories of everyday hunters. Not the TV personalities or the names filling expo halls. Just the real people—working full time, raising families, carving out time for the woods when they can. With that, A Hunter’s Legacy was born. Episode one kicks things off not with a guest, but with Mitchell himself—sharing his vision, his roots, and a few unforgettable stories.

Where It All Started

Mitchell grew up in flat, wind-whipped North Central Iowa. It’s not the giant buck capital most outsiders think of when they hear “Iowa,” but it’s home. Hunting there means facing open river bottoms, small timber lots, and deer that are gone before you ever reach your stand. But that’s what taught him persistence—and where his obsession with the chase was born.

A Career Built in the Field

After graduating from Iowa State, Mitchell started in the seed industry before jumping into ag tech. Roles with Climate FieldView and now Traction Ag helped him understand data, user feedback, and how real people actually use software. That experience laid the foundation for LogIQ Hunt, a hunting app he launched in 2024. It’s built the same way he learned in ag tech: start with something useful, then evolve it with real user feedback.

Bowhunting Beginnings

Mitchell’s early hunting days weren’t about food plots or scent control—they were about shotgun party hunts, climbing makeshift tree stands, and listening to CB radios from the house when he was too young to join in. But the turning point came as a teenager, with a borrowed bow and a DIY treestand setup courtesy of his dad. No formal training, no mentors—just trial and error, and a deep, growing love for bowhunting.

Failures, Firsts, and Freezing Tree Stands

Everyone has an origin story. For Mitchell, it was a snowy November day in high school, sneaking off in a tractor to bowhunt alone. A long line of deer walked single file past him—ending with the biggest buck he’d ever seen. He missed. But that moment, the closeness, the silence, the adrenaline—that’s when he knew he was hooked.

Why the Podcast?

This podcast isn’t about expert tips or trophy walls. It’s about memories, tradition, and the hunts that made us who we are. Mitchell wants to bring on folks like himself—people who get five or six hunts a year, who miss more than they hit, but who love it anyway. Because in the end, it’s not about being the best. It’s about being part of something bigger.

The Funniest Stories Stick

From launching arrows into the side of a grain bin, to losing every broadhead-tipped arrow across a cut bean field, Mitchell’s got his fair share of screwups. But they’re also the memories he laughs hardest at. And those are the moments he hopes to draw out of his guests, too—the ones that make you shake your head and grin years later.

What Comes Next

A Hunter’s Legacy isn’t just a podcast—it’s a conversation. A space for stories, reflection, and connection. As Mitchell lines up guests—friends, neighbors, hunters you’ve never heard of—he’s building something more than a media channel. He’s building a place where every average Joe in camo has a voice.

So if you’ve got a story to share, or if you just want to hear from folks who hunt like you do, stick around. This is only the beginning.