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.”
