General

The Ohio River cuts through rolling farmland and ridges thick with hardwoods, where whitetails roam and spring gobblers echo across the hollers. Just down the road, a man named Randy Woolum carved out a lifetime of adventure without ever needing to leave home. From directing local hunting TV shows to chasing raccoons under a full moon, Randy’s story is stitched into the backroads and creek bottoms of southeastern Ohio.

Randy’s life proves you don’t need a passport to find wild places—you just need a deep love for the land and a crew who’s willing to chase after it with you.

Early Days in Appalachia

Randy grew up in what he calls “the middle of nowhere,” where hunting and fishing weren’t hobbies—they were a way of life. His dad, an old-school outdoorsman, raised Randy in the woods. They ran dogs together, fished creeks, and hunted more than they stayed home. By the time Randy was a teenager, chasing coons through the dark was second nature. “I started real young—coon hunting with my dad and uncles,” he said. “That’s just what we did. We didn’t know anything different.”

TV Days and Whitewater Trails

In his mid-30s, Randy stepped behind the scenes of a local outdoor television show called Whitewater Trails. It wasn’t just about camera work—it was about orchestrating the whole show: finding the properties, setting up the hunts, scouting fishable creeks. “I was the guy behind the guy,” he said. Over the course of 18 series, Randy helped produce episodes on everything from deer hunting to turtle grabbing. “We never left Ohio,” he said proudly. “We showed folks you could have all the adventure you want right here at home.”

Foxes, Coyotes, and Coons

Some of Randy’s favorite nights weren’t filmed for TV. They were the ones spent running dogs through the hills. Fox hunting, coyote hunting, coon hunting—didn’t matter what was howling. “We used to stay out all night, listening to the dogs work,” he said. “There’s nothing like that sound coming through the holler.” One night in particular stuck with him: after dropping the dogs on a clear evening, they chased a fox all night long, never catching it. “That fox beat us,” Randy laughed. “But those are the best nights.”

Fishing Below the Dams

When he wasn’t in the woods, Randy was chasing walleye below the local dams. “That’s my favorite,” he said. “A walleye fight is different. And they taste better than about anything you can pull outta freshwater.” He’d often head out early before work or sneak in a quick trip during turkey season lulls. “I got a buddy who’s real good at it—he knows every eddy and every rock they hide behind,” Randy said. “I just tag along and catch what I can.”

Hunting Close to Home

Even with years of hunting on film, Randy’s never felt the pull to go out-of-state. “We’ve got everything we need here,” he said. Big-bodied bucks, pressured birds, smart coyotes—it’s all in his backyard. And with private land relationships built over decades, Randy knows where to go and when to be there. “It ain’t about the biggest deer,” he said. “It’s about the time in the stand, the people you’re with, and doing it right.”

Mentorship and Legacy

Randy is quick to credit the old-timers who brought him up. “I didn’t learn this stuff off YouTube,” he said. “It was passed down.” Today, he’s the one doing the teaching. From neighborhood kids to his own family, Randy takes pride in passing it along. “That’s the part that matters,” he said. “If we don’t teach the next ones, it all dies with us.”

What Really Matters

Randy doesn’t chase headlines or inches of antler. He hunts because it’s who he is. And after decades in the woods, he’s boiled it down to something simple. “It ain’t always about killing something,” he said. “It’s about making memories. I’ve had a lot of them. And I ain’t done yet.”

The sun beats down on the scrub-dotted hills outside El Paso, Texas, where the desert winds carry dust across the empty terrain. For Brandon Sewell, stationed at Fort Bliss and finishing a grueling year at the Army’s prestigious Sergeant Major Academy, the silence out here is a world away from the bowstands and hardwoods he used to call home. Hunting’s had to take a backseat this past year—but that doesn’t mean it’s left his mind. In fact, the time away may have sharpened something deeper.

Two Decades in Uniform

Brandon’s story starts with discipline. He’s been active-duty Army for nearly 20 years, a path that’s taken him from rural Arkansas to battlefields overseas, and now to senior leadership school in Texas. “The grind is different here,” he says of his time at the Academy. “It’s mental. It’s balance. And hunting, man, that’s what I miss. That was always my release.”

But make no mistake—hunting has followed him, even if only in memory. Photos of deer back home, hunting buddies texting updates, and the anticipation of getting back in the woods after graduation have kept the fire alive. “It’s not just about chasing animals,” he says. “It’s about peace, purpose—resetting your soul.”

Raised on the Hunt

Brandon grew up on the Arkansas-Louisiana line, in the piney woods and wet bottomlands of the South. His earliest hunting memories go back to his grandfather, a man who taught him how to listen to the land before he ever picked up a weapon. “It was old-school stuff,” he says. “You didn’t need the best camo or a climber stand. Just a .30-30, a thermos of coffee, and patience.”

Those roots never left him. Even through deployments and relocations, he always found time to chase whitetails or turkeys whenever possible. “I think for military guys especially, hunting gives you something steady to return to. That next season—there’s always another season. There’s hope in that.”

Learning the Hard Way

Being stationed around the country—and world—forced Brandon to get creative. “I’ve hunted in Georgia, Kansas, North Carolina, Kentucky, Alabama. Every place has its own culture,” he says. One year he drew a Kentucky tag during a rut hunt and watched an absolute giant hang just out of range. “You learn to adapt. To scout hard, move light, and appreciate every opportunity.”

He credits military life with sharpening his approach to hunting. “Planning, timing, attention to detail—it’s the same mindset in a lot of ways,” he explains. “But with hunting, you’re not doing it to survive. You’re doing it to live.”

From Stickbows to Solutions

Brandon’s a self-professed gear junkie—but in the thoughtful kind of way. He’s spent years trying different bows, broadheads, and arrows. “I’m a guy who’ll tune your bow in your garage for four hours and love every minute of it,” he laughs. “But I’m also not above hunting with a $150 setup if it gets the job done.”

His philosophy? Keep it lethal, but simple. “If you can tune it, shoot it consistently, and it doesn’t fail—it’s good gear,” he says. That mindset carried over from the Army, where every piece of equipment is tested under pressure. “You don’t need fancy. You need reliable.”

Desert Silence

This past year in El Paso has been a personal drought—no bow in hand, no leaves changing, no dawn breaking over a whitetail ridge. “I haven’t hunted in a year,” Brandon admits. “And it’s been hard. The desert’s beautiful in its own way, but it’s not home.”

He’s leaned into archery when time allows—shooting in his backyard, tuning other soldiers’ bows, mentoring younger guys who want to try hunting for the first time. “Even without the hunt, the community’s still there. It’s how I stay connected.”

Graduation and Homecoming

With graduation from the Academy just weeks away, Brandon is already planning his return to the woods. “I’ve got tags in Arkansas and Alabama. I’ve got stands that need brushed in. It’s go time,” he says. After a year off, he’s more eager than ever. “I don’t care if it’s a doe or a big buck. I just want to be out there, watching the woods wake up.”

He’s also excited to pass that love on to his son. “I’ve taken him out a few times. He’s eight now. At that age, it’s not about shooting. It’s about snacks, laughs, making memories,” he says. “But one day, I hope he’ll look back and say, ‘Those hunts with Dad—that’s where it started.’”

The Long Game

For Brandon, hunting isn’t a hobby—it’s heritage. It’s the thing that’s remained steady through deployments, promotions, fatherhood, and now, a return home. “I think hunting teaches you to be okay with silence. To find value in patience. And to never stop learning,” he reflects.

Whether it’s a stand in Alabama, a campfire in Arkansas, or a desert backyard with a backyard target, Brandon’s keeping that arrow nocked—ready for the next season, the next lesson, and the next memory to pass down.

The citrus groves of central Florida roll out beneath the Dade City sky, tangled with palmetto thickets and framed by cypress swamps. Wild hogs run the rows like outlaws. Gators lurk in marshes just beyond the orange trees. And if you catch the right patch of moonlight, you might spot a flashlight bobbing through the dark—chasing dogs chasing something meaner. This is where Derek Watson grew up. And it’s here, between the hum of hurricane season and the holler of a baying cur dog, that his hunting story begins.

Product of His Environment

Derek was raised in a place where hunting wasn’t just tradition—it was the pulse of the community. Dade City might not show up on your deer destination map, but for Derek, it was the perfect classroom. Citrus groves doubled as hog highways. Cow pastures framed his early hunts. “I don’t think my life would’ve gone the same way if I’d been born in Boston or New York,” he said. It’s not that folks up there don’t hunt—but Florida molded him in a way that’s hard to replicate.

Roofing and Rut Maps

Today, Derek juggles roofing inspections with fatherhood, hustling through hurricane claims and commercial projects across the Florida peninsula. His work keeps him sky-high, whether on ladders or drones. But his passion lies closer to the ground. “You’d be surprised how often I find myself thinking about deer season while crawling through an attic,” he joked. Florida’s deer seasons sprawl from August to February, with rut peaks shifting dramatically across just a few counties. Derek’s mapped it all, hunted it all, and sees the chaos as part of the charm.

Late Nights, Big Hogs

His early years were dominated by hog dogs and swamp runs. “There was a time I was hog hunting six days a week,” Derek said. With a cur-dog mix named Leon and a crew of buddies—including the infamous Boots, a dog so relentless she wouldn’t come back until she had a boar caught—Derek made memories few hunters ever will. “You don’t forget the sound of a big hog breathing in the dark,” he said. “Sometimes there is no sound at all—and that’s when you know it’s serious.”

The Buck That Broke Him

Derek’s biggest deer didn’t come easy. A 151-inch Florida bruiser he called “Senior” gave him a shot—and Derek rushed it. “I hit him low, and when we jumped him 45 minutes later, I knew it wasn’t good.” What followed was a 26-hour rollercoaster of blood trails, chest-deep swamps, heartbreak, and finally redemption—when his best friend Bright made the finishing shot. “I probably wouldn’t be here telling this story if we hadn’t found that deer,” Derek admitted. “I went to a dark place. But that deer taught me more than any hunt ever has.”

Confidence Lost, Then Found

After that shot, Derek’s confidence crumbled. He missed turkeys. Questioned his rifle. Even sold his shotgun. “I put a new scope on my rifle and tried to get the train back on the tracks.” Slowly, it worked. His Matthews Z7 bow—still the same one he’s used for over a decade—helped rebuild his belief. And while he loves the chase of the rut, he’s learned that early season bowhunting offers its own magic. “Those bachelor bucks, they’re patternable. There’s a quiet confidence in bowhunting that rifles can’t give.”

Camps, Friendships, and First Chances

For all the solo moments on stand, Derek’s story is rooted in relationships. His best friend’s family introduced him to hunting. They let him hunt their ranch, gave him a seat at deer camp, and a community of mentors. “It’s because of them I found my passion,” he said. And even now, 20 years later, he’s still calling Bright after hunts to compare notes, swap strategies, and ask for advice. “Hunting’s personal, but it’s never meant to be lonely.”

Hard Lessons in Tree Stands

Derek’s got a few scars and a couple stories he calls “public safety messages.” Like the time he accidentally fired a .243 in his stand while flipping the safety on and off. Or the morning his climber slipped beneath him in the dark, and he dangled helplessly, trying to recover the platform without alerting the buddy hunting nearby. “He never saw it,” Derek laughed, “but I was sweating bullets—and not from the heat.”

One Hell of a Run

Whether it’s hog dogs or hurricane prep, roof inspections or rut predictions, Derek brings intensity to everything he touches. But what stands out isn’t just the hunts—it’s the humility. “I used to think deer liked it thick,” he said. “Now I think they just like to keep you guessing.” From bar-hogging in the orange groves to bowhunting Florida timber, Derek’s legacy isn’t about inches or trophies. It’s about stories that echo and friendships that last.

As he put it, “It’s not about how you kill a deer. It’s about the journey to get to that.”

Central Missouri—you won’t find much around here except winding gravel roads, wooded hills, and the occasional boat heading down to Truman Lake. It’s exactly the kind of place where Georgia Klink grew up: in a town that sits “right in between Kansas City and Springfield… kind of in the middle of nowhere.” But it’s in that “middle of nowhere” where Georgia’s story begins.

From Family Farm to Remote Finance

Georgia’s roots run deep—her family, including her dad and uncle, were full-time farmers. When she was six, they sold the family farm and moved to the city suburbs of Kansas City “so I could get a job paying a little better.” Yet, every weekend was spent back down on the farm, tending cattle, setting baitstands, and eventually, hunting.

After college, she spent seven years working in finance and remote accounting. But focusing on others’ books left her restless. Amid the rise of remote work, she founded her own company, “Last Strategic Remote Services”, helping small business owners manage books and taxes… all while traveling.

Finding Home in the Woods

Despite her urban office life, Georgia has always been, first and foremost, a hunter—like her dad before her. Her earliest memories: five-year-old turkey tags, family deer camps, and learning to pull a bow back under her father’s protective gaze. “There’s nothing that beats being in the woods when the woods wake,” she says. It’s peaceful, grounding—a tether to what matters most.

Hitting the Road—and the Prize

Georgia has now hunted across the U.S. and Canada—a self-proclaimed “wing-it traveler.” In the past few years alone, she’s bow-hunted turkeys in Nebraska, Mississippi, Alabama, and North Carolina, goose-hunted in Canada, and chased big whitetails in Missouri and Colorado. Though turkey hunting with bow in hand can be brutal (especially in the South where the birds are quiet and wary), she’s persisted—drawing back on steep ledges, waiting through grouse-filled mornings, and even engineer ambushes on Midwestern lease land.

She still laughs about the time a big tom gobbled within three yards, strutting into her decoys just feet away—a tense, thrilling dance of instincts and pause before escaping. That raw emotion? Exhaustion, excitement, elation—it’s all part of the draw of the woods.

Facing Backlash, Earning Respect

As a woman in the outdoor world, Georgia knows the critics exist—people who say “you just had it easier because you’re a girl.” But she refuses to back down, calling that mindset “so much harder—it is so much work.” Now she travels with both male and female hunting friends across the state, forging a tight-knit community. And while she’s not hunting as a “female hunter” for likes and follows, she admits she may have taken on that mantle: “I’m starting to become an influencer… just sharing what I love to do.”

Hunting by the Numbers—and the Heart

Georgia is more strategic than her easygoing nature suggests. Every season, she sets dozens of trail cameras across public and private land to pattern deer movements. She picks a couple core cameras and hones in on wind patterns and pinch points to plan setups. “There’s something satisfying about being able to see a deer here, and know it’s going here,” she says—then sit in silence as it passes.

It paid off this year: after years of filling the freezer, she finally arrowed a 165–168” Missouri whitetail. Though later, the deer was taken by neighbor hunters, she was able to recover him—giving her closure and preparing her to chase bigger giants again.

Bow Dreams of Big Game

What’s next on Georgia’s wish list? Shooting an elk with her bow—the ultimate challenge. But she’s taking her time, hunting public land in Kansas and Nebraska, testing her luck traveling by Bronco, top-tent and camera in tow, and relying on her reservoir of friendships to find spots and scouting intel.

She’s also exploring ice fishing, bow-fishing, duck/duck-goose hunting, coyote thermal hunts, upland quail, and dream hunts like helicopter hog hunts or Florida iguana blow-darts. Her motto? Try it all—“you never know until you try it.”

Wisdom from the Woods

Georgia learned to bowhunt the hard way—waiting three years before arrowing her first deer. Her mom went through the same journey, hunting right alongside her until she found her own success. Today, Georgia shoots a Bowtech and uses an HHA single pin for ranging. She even got her dad to switch to Tactacam trail cameras, saying their tech feels like “a cheat code.” 

For Georgia, hunting isn’t just about solitude; it’s about connection. Her family shares a group chat for their 40-acre farm where everyone knows who’s in which stand. Some of her favorite memories aren’t just about the hunts, but the in-between moments—like laughing with her dad while running gates and getting loogied on in the process. 

And when it comes to social media, Georgia tries to focus on the good: sharing passion and building community. But she also knows it can bring negativity. That’s why she reminds herself daily, “remember why you’re here. You don’t have to be the best.”

Tucked deep into the coastal flatwoods and marshes of extreme South Jersey, where pine thickets brush up against soy fields and tidal marshes fade into salt air, Robert Loper quietly walks a different kind of line. These days, it’s one less patrolled by steel doors and sirens—and more by hoof prints and scrape lines. But behind the saddle, beyond the bow, is a man whose past weighs heavy, and whose future hinges on the stillness of the woods.

Loper doesn’t just hunt deer—he fights for peace with every sit.

Hard Years Working Maximum Security

Before bowhunting became his lifeline, Robert spent two decades working one of New Jersey’s roughest maximum security prisons. He retired early—emotionally broken and spiritually bruised. “If I didn’t have bowhunting,” he admitted, “I wouldn’t be here.” The weight of trauma, both from violent inmates and toxic coworkers, left a mark no therapy could scrub away. But the woods offered something else: healing.

“I was never a tough guy,” he said. “But I was fair. Firm. And I always tried to talk to people like they were human.”

Jersey’s Underdog Deer Scene

For all his grit and wisdom, Robert doesn’t claim to be chasing 180-inch bucks. In South Jersey and Southern Delaware, mature bucks are rare, habitat is fragmented, and pressure is brutal. “If you kill a 110- to 120-inch buck here, you’re like an Andre D’Acquisto,” he joked. “People just don’t get how small and pressured these deer are.”

Bait piles litter the woods. Gun clubs push deer in giant drives. And the state allows hunters to take up to seven bucks a season. “It’s just too much,” Robert said bluntly. “This place could be amazing if they’d just let deer grow.”

Born From the Bay

Robert comes from saltwater stock—his family ran commercial clam boats out of Cape May, working alongside the Truex racing family. But when the boats were sold and the family’s focus shifted inland, Robert found a new obsession. At first it was rabbit hunting, then deer. And by the mid-90s, he was working at a sporting clays range and diving headlong into bow season.

He admits he didn’t know much at the start. “I used to hunt over corn piles in a ladder stand,” he laughed. “Then I got sick of not killing what I wanted. So I started studying deer. Hard.”

The Mobile Mindset

For Robert, it’s all about the learning curve. No presets. No shortcuts. No blind hope. “I don’t bait anymore. I’m mobile. I scout. I read sign,” he said. “If the sign doesn’t say ‘hunt here,’ I turn around and go home.”

He’s been saddle hunting since before it was trendy—hauling early Trophyline rigs and now running a Cruiser XC. With B-Sticks and a fixed platform, Robert adjusts his setup by season and terrain, often climbing no higher than one or two sticks. “If I’m sweating on the way up, I’m doing it wrong,” he said.

Reading the Room, Deer-Style

Where some see trails and rubs, Robert sees strategy and survival. “These deer know where we park, where we walk. They’re watching us more than we think,” he said. He studies bedding habits, thermals, entry routes—hell, he’ll sit in a buck bed for 15 minutes just to see what it sees.

He doesn’t buy into the luck myth either. “People say 99% of deer hunting is luck? Nah. If you know your wind, know the pressure, and you hunt smart—you’re gonna get chances.”

Scent Control and Skepticism

Scent-proof suits and miracle products? He’s not buying it. “You can’t beat their nose,” Robert said. “Hunt the wind. Use milkweed. Be smart about your thermals. Period.” His philosophy is brutally simple: think like the deer and walk like a snail. “I’ve taken 90 minutes to move 50 yards,” he said. “That’s how you close the gap.”

Peak Rut and Personality

He’s also got strong opinions on deer behavior—especially during the rut. “Big bucks? They’re narcissists,” he said. “They want to see and smell everything. But they’re not running three miles for a doe. Most stay tight. They’ve got their route. They’ve got history.”

He believes mature does are actually the smarter animal. “She’s watching for the whole family. I hate hunting does. They’ll blow you out of a spot way quicker than a buck.”

A Heart Bigger Than His Platform

For all the tactics, for all the pain he’s carried, Robert’s real legacy might be his willingness to give back. “I want to mentor,” he said. “Get some old-school hunters like us to help the new guys. Not with gear. With knowledge.” He dreams of a national rut forecast system built by hunters from every region. Just boots-on-the-ground, no-BS data from real people who live it.

“Deer hunting saved my life,” he said. “And if I can help one person fall in love with it the way I did—it’s worth it.”

The late November wind wound through the Kentucky hills, brushing across ridges thick with blowdowns from past tornadoes. Somewhere beyond the ridge, nestled between thermals and fading light, a lone buck cruised—palms for antlers, body like a bulldozer. Don Goode had been in that saddle all afternoon, feeling everything line up. That hunt didn’t just end with a deer. It ended with a defining moment—a veteran, entrepreneur, and bowhunter stacking grit on top of instinct, out on the kind of public ground that makes most turn back.

From Texas to Tundra

Don’s journey into hunting didn’t begin in a tree stand—it started in Panama, where his Colombian mother met his Texan father. Raised mostly in Florida by a single immigrant mother, Don didn’t grow up around whitetails and camo. Hunting was a curiosity—something hinted at in stories from his grandfather and whispers from deep inside.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he said, “but it was in me.”

It wasn’t until 2013, while stationed at Fort Lee, Virginia, that an email about an archery season flipped the switch. A year later, back from Afghanistan, he found himself talking to a stranger at the lake—a stranger who turned out to be a bowhunter named Todd. Within weeks, Don had his first bow: a Bowtech Destroyer 350. Within a year, he’d arrowed his first deer.

A Soldier’s Path

Don spent a decade in the Army, rising through the ranks, commanding over a hundred soldiers, and running logistics in combat zones like Iraq. Along the way, he lived in Texas, Alaska, and Virginia—each station another backdrop for a hunter slowly finding his way.

In Alaska, he met his wife, a fellow soldier and Army nurse. They deployed together to Iraq in 2020. “We’ve got a photo of us in full kit in front of the Camp Taji sign,” he said. “One day, that’s going on the wall for our grandkids.”

But even after the deployments and leadership roles, it was a Kentucky tornado—five days after his daughter was born—that shook him the most. That experience, he said, was the only one that ever rattled his headspace. “I felt helpless. Couldn’t protect my family. That one… that one messed with me.”

Hunting With Purpose

After getting out of the Army in 2023, Don didn’t slow down. He dove into family, school, and entrepreneurship—but the woods still called. When he got to Kentucky, he made a promise to himself: no leases, no feeders, no excuses. Just public land, hard lessons, and freezer meat.

The first year, he hunted 45 days, logged 500 miles, and learned everything the hard way. “I was seeing deer every sit. But it was always five yards too far or just thick enough. I knew they were there, but I couldn’t seal the deal.”

That changed the following fall. Armed with saddle gear, sharpened thermals knowledge, and relentless drive, he killed a big-bodied, palmated buck on election day. Seven hours of dragging later, he collapsed in his truck with a smile on his face.

DIY in the Arctic

Don’s proudest hunt didn’t come in the Midwest. It came north of the Arctic Circle in Alaska, where he and a buddy set out on a DIY caribou hunt. No guide. No rifle. Just two bows, a Walmart raft, and guts.

They patched that leaky raft with gorilla tape. Floated across glacial rivers. Got busted. Got winded. Blew shots. Tracked injured bulls. But nine hours later, Don stood 10 yards from a bedded caribou with one arrow left. His shot was off-center—but it was enough.

They packed over 100 pounds of meat each and hiked six tundra miles back. “That hunt advanced me. I realized there wasn’t anything I wasn’t capable of. We hunted like our ancestors did. That’s what it’s all about.”

Labradors and Frizzy’s

After leaving the military, Don built not one but three businesses: an RV rental company, a freeze-dried fruit line called Frizzy’s (named after his daughter Izzy), and a guide service called Labrador Outfitters.

His goal? To live a life where work and passion intertwine. “I’m not making a ton of money yet. But I get to be home with my girls, I get to build this with them. I figured out the cheat code.”

Trad Bow Dreams

Four months ago, Don traded in his compound for a traditional longbow made by a Texas bowyer. He’s got one goal for this season: kill a public land buck, on the ground, with that longbow.

He’s already logged time in thickets and blowdowns, gotten within 40 yards of bucks in the rain, and says the switch just feels right. “It’s slower. It’s harder. But it’s honest. And I like honest.”

What Comes Next

Don’s future includes Idaho elk with his Army buddy, a YouTube launch, and expanding Frizzy’s and Backcountry Bistro nationwide. But more than anything, he wants to pass it on. To kids. To veterans. To anyone trying to find their way in the woods.

“I didn’t have this growing up. So now I want to teach. Mentor. Share what I’ve learned. One of these days I’ll have a farm of my own, but I’ll never forget the hard-earned hunts. That’s where you grow.”

There’s something about a crisp Iowa morning that makes even the most seasoned outdoorsman take pause—the heavy quiet of CRP fields, frost clinging to last season’s stalks, and a dog’s breath swirling in the cold air. For Cray Weirich, that’s exactly the kind of morning he lives for. Whether it’s walking Fred’s 80-acre property in search of cagey roosters or fishing local rivers during a cool spring thaw, Cray’s hunting and fishing stories are built on equal parts grit, good company, and just the right amount of gear-induced frustration.

Started With A Bow

Cray’s hunting roots didn’t begin with feathers or fur—they started with a college spring break and a borrowed bow. “My cousin was in 4-H and I tagged along to his archery club. One of the older kids let me shoot a Diamond Core, and next thing I knew, I ordered a whole bow package online for like 500 bucks.” That impulse buy turned into a five-year journey before he finally harvested his first deer with a bow in 2018. “Once I felt that adrenaline rush, I was hooked. Nothing beats having a deer walk in that close without knowing you’re there.”

Earning The Kill

For Cray, success hasn’t always come quickly—or cleanly. He hunted with that first bow for years before sealing the deal. “I didn’t grow up turkey hunting or bow hunting. It was pheasant and shotgun season with family and friends. You learn as you go.” And learning meant everything from tinkering with new sights to adjusting to vertical pins. “Now that I’ve shot with a three-pin vertical, I can’t go back. It’s so clean. Nothing clutters up the sight picture.”

The Great Mud Incident

Ask Cray about his worst hunt and he won’t even hesitate. “We were duck hunting in a dry year, and I tried to retrieve a bird that landed in the mud. It was like quicksand—up to my crotch. Took me over an hour to dig myself out using my shotgun like a shovel.” He laughed about it later, but at the time, the frustration was real. “My waders still don’t zip right from the mud. That day just beat the hell out of me.”

Dog Days and Rooster Rushes

Cray’s German Shorthair, Reggie, has become part of the story. From energetic zoomies to slow, steady flushes, Reggie’s taught Cray that bird dogs sometimes know better than we do. “There was this one day, cold and snowy. Roxy caught one, then Reggie caught two roosters. They were just pinning them down. We didn’t even have to pull the trigger.” But the weather wore on both dogs. “By the end, Reggie was looking at me like, ‘Carry me, please.’ He was toast.”

Shotgun Talk and Choke Debates

Cray isn’t shy about gear. He’s put time into dialing in his Matthews Lift, experimenting with sights, and patterning shotguns (though he admits, “I’ve never patterned mine either.”). When it comes to pheasant loads, he leans on Prairie Storm and Fiocchi. “They just work. And I like a modified choke—enough spread for reaction shots, but still tight enough to knock them down.”

Whitetails and EHD Woes

Even though pheasant hunting gets a lot of airtime, deer still hold a special place. His area, Hardin County, isn’t a trophy destination on the map, but big bucks still roam. “I had one giant on camera—thought someone was messing with me at first. But he was real. Saw him once the year before at last light.” That said, the herd’s taken a hit. “EHD got rough last fall. I found five dead deer myself, and pheasant hunters said they found 20.”

The Weird and The Wild

Between electric fences shocking him mid-straddle to getting surrounded by cows on a deer hunt, Cray’s had his share of “what the hell” moments. “I had a hen pheasant knock me on my back once. Scared the crap out of me. I was like 13, walking through tall grass, and boom—she was in my chest.” And like many bowhunters, he’s had that eerie moment in the woods where your imagination fills in the dark. “I once carried a decoy out at dawn and spooked a skyline buck and doe—I’m lucky they didn’t come after me.”

Cray may not be hunting every weekend, but his stories remind us why we get out there: dogs chasing roosters, that first bow kill, birds flushing at your feet, and a few lessons hard-earned in the mud. “Sometimes Reggie gets it right. You just gotta trust the dog, even if he’s being a goofball.”

The pine flats of northwest Florida melt into the red clay ridges of southern Alabama, where oaks hold their leaves longer than they should and swamps buzz with life long after winter settles in up north. It’s here, straddling state lines and seasons, that Josh Grace has carved out a lifestyle—a blend of law enforcement leadership and public land obsession. From the bustling patrol division he oversees in Crestview to the remote oak islands he hikes into alone, Josh’s days are split between duty and deer, sirens and silence.

From Building Homes to Breaking Cases

Josh didn’t grow up in a law enforcement family. In fact, he was building houses and laying concrete before he ever held a badge. But something about the call to serve pulled at him. Nights spent in the police academy after long days of construction eventually landed him a job with the Crestview Police Department in 2009. Over the last 16 years, he’s done everything from narcotics to SWAT to overseeing major investigations—and now leads the entire patrol division. “The fun stuff might be behind me,” he laughs, “but now I get to make sure the next generation is equipped to do it right.”

Why He Chose Hunting Over the Badge

Josh considered a career as a game warden, like many outdoorsmen. But the thought of turning his escape into a job didn’t sit right. “Hunting’s my reset. It’s how I de-stress from the weight of work,” he says. Instead of policing the woods, he chose to protect and serve in his community—and keep the woods sacred.

The 9/11 Bowhunting Twist

When the events of 9/11 shut down hunting with firearms on the military reservation near his hometown, Josh’s father came home with a youth PSE Nova from Kmart. “He said, ‘If you can figure out how to shoot it, I’ll take you hunting,’” Josh recalls. With aluminum arrows and no peep sight, he dove into bowhunting the only way he knew how—by missing a lot. It took him five years to tag his first deer with a bow. “The pop of that arrow finally hitting home… I’ll never forget it.”

Seven Months of Hunting

Between Florida’s late rut and Alabama’s rolling seasons, Josh manages to stretch his hunting calendar across seven months. Add in out-of-state trips for turkey and whitetail, and it’s almost a year-round pursuit. “We killed two Rios in Oklahoma this year. Just me and my buddy. Public land. It doesn’t get better than that,” he says. With three Iowa points already stacked and plans for Kansas, Ohio, and maybe a Grand Slam on the horizon, he’s only ramping up.

Hunting the Hunters

Josh’s key to public land? Don’t just hunt deer—hunt the people. “I hardly ever run into anyone because I go where they don’t,” he explains. Thick swamps, long walks, and late mornings are his allies. He’s found oak islands others overlook and uses the sign left by hunters—like reflector tacks and cut limbs—to decide where not to go. “If there’s people, I pivot. And that’s made all the difference.”

Busted on Camera

Josh started self-filming his hunts with a Sony ZV camera and an Osmo action cam. He’s already got a few clean shots on video—but he’s not above sharing the bloopers. Like the time he had a doe perfectly framed, pulled the trigger, and whiffed completely. “The deer didn’t even know I shot at her,” he says, laughing. “All you hear on the footage is me yelling a few words I probably shouldn’t repeat.”

Dad’s Old Mount and the Yellowjacket Incident

Hanging beside a fan from his first solo turkey is a buck mount with a story. “That one’s my dad’s. He killed it the year I was born.” Next to it? A photo of baby Josh in his arms, surrounded by his dad’s hunting buddies. And just like that picture, the stories run deep—like the time his dad zipped up a yellowjacket in his pants, or when Josh himself tumbled out of an oak tree trying to DIY a treestand as a kid.

Why He Still Loves It

Despite the rise of hunting influencers and endless grip-n-grins on Instagram, Josh keeps it grounded. “I don’t care about the likes,” he says. “I hunt because I love the sunrises, the stories, and being with the people I care about.” Even with deer heads covering his walls and a wife who tolerates his growing collection of fans and antlers, the heart of it never changes.

“I’ve been hunting since I could barely walk. And I still get fired up to climb into a tree. That’s how I know it’s real.”

A cold wind drifts through the river bottoms outside Reinbeck, Iowa, carrying with it the rustle of turkey feathers and the sharp cackle of pheasants. Out here, between cornfields and cattails, is where Taylor Harris finds his peace. These are the same grounds he roams with his father, where deer once ran thick before EHD took its toll, and where his young son Knox—born just last July—might one day take his first steps into the timber. Taylor’s story isn’t one of record books or viral videos. It’s one of family, missed shots, bad luck, and the stubborn joy of showing up anyway.

Small Town Start

Taylor was born and raised in the small town of Reinbeck, Iowa, where community and hard work shape most people’s paths. For 13 years, he worked in contracting before taking a position with the Iowa Department of Transportation in late 2023. Just one month later, he got married. The following summer, his son Knox was born. “It’s been a busy last 18 months,” he laughed. “But it’s been pretty cool.” That balance between work, family, and hunting time? That’s the juggling act most hunters can relate to.

A Hunter Is Born

Taylor’s hunting journey started young—around 10 years old—tagging along with his dad and sitting at the base of the tree, too fidgety to stay still. “I couldn’t see anything from down there,” he joked. “So I blame him for that, not me.” It wasn’t long before he was watching hunting shows and flipping through photos of deer his grandfather had harvested. Those early visuals lit a fire. From there, the bow became his primary weapon, a tradition inherited from his father, who gave up rifle hunting when Taylor was born.

Party Hunts and Push Shots

After high school, Taylor joined a shotgun party hunting group, usually filling the role of “pusher.” While the strategy yielded results—including a memorable 10-point he dropped mid-phone call with his dad—it also wore on him. “Eventually, I was just the guy who walked all day. I was like, I’m kind of done with that.” Still, that chaotic push hunt taught him something: sometimes, the deer come when you least expect it—even if you’re on the phone, mid-sentence, with your gun dangling at your side.

River Bottom Bucks

In 2020, Taylor tagged his biggest buck yet—a wide, split-brow 12-point scoring somewhere in the high 140s. “That deer was the first one I shot on the river ground me and my dad bought,” he said. The story was classic: forgot his release, rushed back to the truck, spotted antlers in the early light, and pulled off a perfect shot standing next to a tree. “If I hadn’t forgotten my release, I never would’ve seen that deer,” he admitted. Sometimes, forgetfulness works in your favor.

Gear Wrecks and Bow Battles

But not everything has gone Taylor’s way. There was the time a bow blew a cam screw just before the season opener, and worse yet, the day his dad accidentally ran over his fully setup bow with a truck. “It completely crushed everything. And it was November 9th,” he said, laughing now but clearly still feeling the sting. Despite the setbacks, Taylor stuck with Bowtech. “They’re smooth, reliable, and don’t break the bank,” he explained. And like most serious archers, he’s been on a gear nerd journey—fiddling with releases, sights, and setups until everything feels just right.

Turkeys, Timber, and Timbercocks

While deer remain his obsession, turkey hunting has snuck up on Taylor—literally. He tells a story of setting up decoys when a tom nearly landed on him in the dark, smacked his Jake decoy, and bolted. “That bird almost took me out,” he said. He’s also had pheasants walk right past his blind, leading to a running joke with his wife. “I called them timbercocks once, and now she won’t call them anything else.”

EHD’s Wake

But not all seasons are kind. EHD hit Taylor’s area hard in 2023. “I bet 85% of our herd is gone,” he said grimly. “We used to see a dozen deer a night. This year, I might’ve seen 12 total.” Recovery will take time, but Taylor’s keeping hope. He’s letting small bucks walk and trying to protect the remaining does. “Mother Nature always balances things out,” he added.

From Misses to Milestones

Despite all the highs, one of Taylor’s most memorable stories comes from a hunt where he missed—a lot. At 18, he had a doe at 15 yards and managed to miss six times. “She just stood there the whole time,” he said, still in disbelief. “I even Robin Hooded an arrow stuck in a tree behind her.” Years later, his first bow kill would be a mature doe the landowner had nicknamed and claimed no one could get close to. “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” Taylor said. “I’m 99% luck, 1% skill.”

Legacy in the Making

These days, Taylor hunts with a deeper purpose. Whether it’s watching fog roll over the river bottoms or dreaming about taking Knox into the woods one day, it’s about more than tags and antlers. “People always told me I needed to go to church,” he reflected. “But sitting out there in the woods—watching the sun come up, hearing the birds, just being there—that’s always been my church.”

And someday, it’ll be Knox’s too.

The humid air hung thick over the hills of western Kentucky, where the wind curves between timber ridges and forgotten creek beds. Out here, where copperheads slither and cell signal fades, Nick Miller has carved out a life of steel, sweat, and solitude. A union ironworker turned safety man, Nick’s spent decades moving from job to job, state to state, chasing beams and bucks. But long before construction sites and compliance reports, his story started in the oak woods of southern Illinois—with a cheap seat, screw-in steps, and a bow in hand.

Southern Illinois Beginnings

Nick was just ten when he started gun hunting in 1990, under the watchful eye of his dad. “I didn’t kill a deer until ’94,” he admits, laughing. “Missed a bunch before that.” But when that first deer finally hit the ground—a 125-inch, 220-pound nine-pointer—it changed everything. By the following year, Nick had switched to a bow and never looked back. He remembers lugging a loggy bayou seat into the woods with a handful of screw-in steps and a release that fell apart on his first hunt. He improvised, went back to shooting with fingers, and still double-lunged a doe at 14 yards. From that moment on, he was hooked.

Ironworker to Safety Guy

For years, Nick worked under cranes, rigging steel and hanging iron. Now he follows crews as the safety guy—the one everyone loves to hate. “I’ve done everything they’re doing. I know the tricks, ’cause I did the tricks,” he jokes. His transition from hardhat to clipboard wasn’t easy, but it gives him time to hunt, even if the computer work drives him crazy. “The safety part’s not hard. The laptop’s what kicks my butt.”

Old School Bowhunting

Nick’s bowhunting roots run deep. Back in the day, he shot an XI Legend Magnum with aluminum arrows and fixed blades. “There wasn’t no mechanicals,” he says. “You had muzzies, Thunderheads, and a few cheap Walmart brands.” Over the years, he’s dabbled with expandables but always circles back to fixed broadheads for their reliability. “A two-inch mechanical might look cool, but I want that arrow punching through the offside shoulder. I want an exit hole.”

Generational Legacy

Now 45, Nick’s passing the torch. His 23-year-old son—who killed his first deer with a bow at just eight—is already an accomplished hunter and new father. Nick beams with pride: “He’s not better than me yet. But he will be.” They share a bond forged in frosty mornings and blood trails, and though they don’t hunt together as much anymore, the connection hasn’t faded. “When he kills one, I hope he still calls me,” Nick says quietly.

Public Land and the Price of Access

Nick’s hunted long enough to see the rise of leases and the fall of handshake permission. “I used to be able to hunt anywhere,” he says. “Now, it’s all locked up or leased out.” That shift pushed him south to the Shawnee National Forest—277,000 acres of public land. He welcomes others who ask nicely, even sharing pins. “It’s public land. Just let me know what you see. That’s all I ask.”

Changes in the Woods

Over time, Nick’s noticed fewer deer and more pressure. “Back in the day, check stations were full of handshakes—didn’t matter if you shot a spike or a giant.” Now, hunters guard their spots and hide their deer. He blames unlimited doe tags and EHD for decimating southern Illinois’ herd. “I could find 30 sheds ten years ago. Now I’m lucky to find one.”

Shot Stories and Hard Lessons

Like any lifelong hunter, Nick’s got a catalog of moments burned into memory: the 174-inch public land buck whose taxidermist said had been beaten up by a bigger deer, the time his arrow struck a hidden tree and fooled him into thinking he’d made a perfect shot, or the deer he fought hand-to-hoof as it barrel-rolled him down a hill. “I’ve messed up about every way you can mess up on a good deer,” he says with a grin. “But they teach you.”

Reflections From the Stand

These days, Nick hunts more selectively. “I used to be in it just to kill. Now, I let ‘em walk. Sometimes I don’t even stand up.” Hunting’s become less about filling tags and more about clarity. “You sit there long enough, you can solve all the world’s problems in an afternoon,” he says. It’s not just about the deer—it’s the ritual, the solitude, and watching something wild unfold just beyond the treeline.

As Nick puts it, “It’s a never-ending cycle. My son followed me. His son’ll follow him. That’s just how it goes.”