First Deer, Trophy Memories
The state’s first modern deer season was 1931. That was the first year a specific deer license was required to hunt.
If we start there, that means we’ve been hunting deer in North Dakota for 85 years. That’s a long time.
Deer hunting, from the Red River Valley to the badlands, is a big deal here. For so many, no matter their ages, the November season is long anticipated and its arrival applauded.
We all have deer hunting stories. Tales of first deer, big deer, missed opportunities, hunting in snow up to here … We trot them out at deer camp, around campfires, in grandma’s kitchen, which still looks, feels and smells the same as when we were kids.
We’re going to tell some of those stories here, in this magazine, which has chronicled deer, deer hunting, and many things wildlife for decades.
We asked Game and Fish Department staff to tell us a deer hunting story, and our guidance pretty much ended there. We wanted our storytellers to contemplate, query their memory banks for something conspicuous, or not, about their deer hunting pasts.
Like a lot of hunters in North Dakota, their stories don’t end here. Even before this deer hunting season ends, they are already working their way to November next year.
Bonehill Creek
I remember my first deer hunt like it was yesterday.
I was invited to hunt on an aunt and uncle’s farm near the small town of Dickey, which oddly enough is in LaMoure County, not Dickey County. Some sleepless nights followed that invitation, as the deer season slowly drew closer.
Their farm was located on Bonehill Creek, just a couple miles upstream of the creek’s confluence with the James River, which was about a 30-minute drive from our farm in Barnes County. Because my parents grew up in the Dickey area, returning to Bonehill Creek seemed like a homecoming of sorts.
I don’t remember much about the application process for a deer license, but the year was 1976. My brother, Marvin, and I applied, and I suspect that we both put in for doe licenses because odds were not good for drawing a buck tag in that area at that time. Shooting a buck was not a huge concern, though, as we just really wanted to go deer hunting.
Because I did not yet own a centerfire rifle, I borrowed an open-sight Remington .222 from another uncle. Marvin used Dad’s Wards Westernfield .243. Dad also let us use one of the two-wheel drive farm pickups. Four-wheel drive pickups were not nearly as common in those days and we were somewhat careful in where we drove. We scrounged together enough blaze orange clothing to wear, and we were ready to fill our doe tags.
My cousin, Dennis, who was a couple years older, served as our primary host and hunting guide. Dennis lost a battle with cancer several years ago, but he was a very gracious host and one of the most avid deer hunters I’ve ever known. We also benefited greatly from the fact that he knew all the locals and had many connections.
I simply could not tell my early deer hunting story without mentioning Dennis and I will forever be grateful to him and his family for showing us the ropes in those early years.
The land that my aunt and uncle owned was, and undoubtedly still is, a very nice place to spend time hunting deer. It is dotted with native prairie and hardwood draws, and it seemed like we saw deer over almost every hill. I can’t speak to the status of the state’s overall deer population in the fall of 1976, but the general population in the Dickey area was good enough to allow us to eventually fill our deer tags.
It was a commonly held belief at that time, before the Conservation Reserve Program hit the landscape, that most deer were concentrated along the major river and creek drainages throughout the state. I did not observe anything that fall that would have refuted that belief.
It has been 30-plus years since I’ve hunted deer in the wooded draws near Dickey, but I will forever cherish the memories of my first deer hunt along Bonehill Creek.
SCOTT PETERSON is the Game and Fish Department’s deputy director.
First Buck
I’ve been hunting with Dad for more than 20 years. From day one, deer hunting was all about family time. It didn’t matter if you shot one, or if you shot a big one, it was about spending time together.
The stories that followed a successful hunt were always more important than the size or sex of the animal. And Dad always said, “You can’t eat the horns!”
For this reason, I never actually shot a buck until I was in my 20s. It just wasn’t important to me, antlers or not, it didn’t matter. I just wanted to be out hunting with Dad.
After eight years of hunting does, I finally decided to try for something with antlers. And I’ll never forget my first buck.
Our favorite hunting spot was near a hunting shack on my uncle’s land. The shack allowed us to hang out with our feet up, talk about “super important father/daughter stuff,” and, of course, eat snacks. As any good hunter knows, the three things you must have for a successful hunt are oatmeal cream pies, Diet Coke and a camera. Guns and ammunition can be important, too.
Anyway, back to my first buck.
So, we’re in the shack, my feet are up and Dad and I are in deep conversation. Finally, one of us notices a buck walking toward us. I think, “Here’s my chance.” The buck was pretty close, about 75 yards, so instead of using my rifle with a scope, I go for Dad’s open-sight, lever-action .30-30.
I aim at his chest and squeeze the trigger … bullseye. The buck falls on its back and it’s over. After hugs and high-fives, it dawns on me that the buck isn’t necessarily a trophy.
Dad can see the disappointment on my face and reminds me, “You can’t eat the horns. It’s a nice buck. Be proud. Nice shot!”
And he was right, I did shoot a nice buck, even though he didn’t have the antlers that I dreamed about.
In today’s world it’s hard not to trophy hunt. Everyone wants a big deer to put on the wall. But in my world, it’s a bit different. It’s all about family time and the story that goes with shooting the animal. In the next 30 years I’ll probably forget that my first buck was a big-bodied 3-by-3. But I’ll never forget that I shot my first buck hunting with Dad.
AMANDA ANSTROM is a Game and Fish Department licensing assistant.
My Decision
When I was asked to write a story about deer hunting, my mind instantly started to wander, thinking about all the experiences I’ve had in the field. Sometimes I get questioned on how I can remember every hunting story from years ago, but forget to pick up milk at the grocery store.
A trophy to me is different from what some people would consider a trophy. I’ve always been a meat hunter first, and the size of the animal I harvest is a distant second. I utilize everything from the deer possible, including eating what most wouldn’t, as well as trying to use the hide for leather. I’ve even used the shoulder blade of some deer for artwork. I do this to pay respect to the animal.
I have harvested many deer in my life, but my first one 25 years ago set the tone for a lifetime of hunting.
I was 14 years old. My dad, brothers and I had hunted hard for one and a half days. When I say, “hard,” I am not referring to the amount of time we spent sitting in a blind, I am talking about the miles of cattails, tree rows and CRP we walked.
That Saturday night when we were eating supper, a family friend stopped by to visit and told us that he spotted a small, wounded buck by our house that was heading toward the lake. He said it looked like it had been shot in its lower front leg.
Dad explained to me that it would be the right thing to do to try to harvest this deer in the morning to ease its suffering and use an animal that probably wouldn’t make it through the winter. However, he said that it was my tag and my decision.
I knew the deer wasn’t going to be easy to find because, according to where our friend said the buck headed, it would be another day of walking cattails and shrubs along the lake. My hip muscles were already sore from the previous day and a half, but with my dad’s insight and my excitement to harvest a deer for the first time, I decided to go after it.
The next day we walked from the house toward the stand of cattails along the lake. We had no idea if this deer would be in there, but I figured we might get pretty close to it before it got up because of its injured leg. So, with my excitement and the possibility of the deer standing up in front of me, I almost forgot we were walking through eyeball-tall cattails.
We got to the end of the cattails where the bank of the lake gets steep and turns to hawthorn apple and chokecherry shrubs. Dad told my younger brother and I to go to the top just outside the shrubs while he and my older brother continued the push.
The shoreline of shrubs runs almost one mile along the lake, and as we slogged along, I started to wonder if we were going to find the deer. Not to mention, our forced march through thick cover was starting to wear on me and I was no longer ready for the quick shot I’d been anticipating.
All of a sudden I heard Dad yell, “Here he comes!” The buck stepped out of the bushes about 50 yards from me. One quick shot and the search was over.
As I tagged my first deer I was thinking about the protein it was going to put on our table, as well as the new leather work gloves I would get if I took care of the hide.
Then it dawned on me that this was all my decision. And when I say “all,” I mean from deciding to apply for the license to the sudden end of pulling the trigger. At that point I realized that as long as it was my decision, any animal I harvested would be a trophy.
CASEY ANDERSON is the Game and Fish Department’s assistant wildlife division chief.
Venison Hot Dish
I remember as a little kid seemingly floating on top of the crusted snow beside Dad, the deer hunter, who kept breaking through up to his knees.
It was always fun tagging along, but then came the time when the deer from the hunt were hung up in the shop. This image was a bit spooky to a little kid, and unappetizing for a young palate, which is why Mom would tell me it was “just hamburger” in the hot dish.
Fast forward a few decades, past harvesting my first deer and other animals that followed, to a time when it’s tougher to draw a license. Now I miss having a freezer bursting with packs of ground venison.
Deer hunting, tradition and family are synonymous in North Dakota and elsewhere. We all have deer season stories, some similar and some unrivaled, at least in our own minds. Like the time my husband and I were hunting mule deer in the badlands during a short-lived heat wave that felt so unusual for North Dakota in November. And two days later, as you might guess, we were packing out his buck in a winter storm, 2 miles from the pickup, uphill the entire way, or so it felt.
Or the time my niece and I got our whitetail does on the same day at the farm, hers a jumbo and mine considerably more, um, petite.
Four years ago, the big one got away. A nice muley buck encircled by a mob of does that wouldn’t allow me a clean shot. If only he had stood broadside instead of facing away for those fleeting 7 seconds when the does weren’t surrounding him. If only the next day wasn’t super foggy. If only we had just one more day to hunt.
The number of female deer hunters is still far fewer than males, but perhaps someday things will even out a bit. Maybe it’s just my family, but it seems like a lot of the females hunt, at least deer anyway. Hopefully that’s true for many others.
Dad passed away before he got to see his three daughters and grand-daughters shoot deer. Mom is sure proud of us, though, especially now that we all eat our venison.
I did not draw a deer tag this year. The hot dishes will have to be made with hamburger. For those of us who hunt in the badlands, the temptation to head to western North Dakota is almost unbearable this time of year. I guess we can still make the trip and go spotting for mule deer just for fun. After all, it’s really about tagging along with someone who we still have one more day with.
SANDRA JOHNSON is a Game and Fish Department conservation biologist.