Patience in the Age of Antlers
The Field Review: TFR-031
I didn’t expect Friday afternoon to go the way it did. I had a different draft for this week’s issue of The Field Review ready to polish and share, but life sent me down a different path.
It was a pretty hectic Friday afternoon at work. I wanted to get out to the farm early, but I didn’t leave the house until 4:15. Sunset was at 5:04, legal shooting light ended at 5:34. By the time I parked the truck and stepped into the cold, I barely had an hour.
I kept telling myself that the deer didn’t know what time it was.
This was my 13th sit of the season, and the latest into the year I’ve ever hunted.
As I made my way toward the stand, I spotted six does grazing in the North field across the road. I thought, maybe, just maybe, they’d head in my direction. By 4:45, though, the woods around me were still quiet. My mind started to wander, drifting toward the question of what to make for dinner later, and what my weekend hunting schedule would look like. A quick glance over my shoulder broke the spell as a different group of does had appeared to the southwest, slowly working their way along the fence line.
One doe led the group, jumping the cattle fence onto my side. She moved steadily, her path angling closer with each step. 150 yards. 132 yards. 87 yards. I eased the hammer back on my Henry .44 Mag lever action, a rifle I’d picked up earlier this year for a moment just like this. I ranged her again—65 yards, then 50, dead on. I wasn’t willing to tempt fate any longer.
The shot rang out at 4:59.
Field Lessons
As I met this doe for the first time, the December sun was quietly disappearing below the horizon. I reminded myself about how far I’ve come in just four seasons.
When I started hunting at the age of 25, I didn’t know a damn thing. My first season was a comedy of errors on public land, fumbling through the basics with no real mentor. I had the gear and the enthusiasm but none of the know-how. I didn’t see a single deer within range, and honestly, I have no idea what I would have done if I did.
Year two was a turning point. I took my first deer with a bow—an 8-point buck in Kentucky. It was a life-changing moment that didn’t just prove deer hunting was possible but showed me how deeply rewarding it could be. That season was all about learning. I started to understand deer movement, how to manage my emotions, when to take the shot, how long to wait afterward, and how to follow a blood trail. It was also the first time I field dressed a deer—a skill I’d revisit just a few weeks later when I harvested my first doe back home in Ohio.
Last year, my third season, was all about perseverance. I became fixated on a single suburban 9-pointer I called ‘Big Boy,’ a deer I first spotted during the summer. That obsession took over—I spent countless hours in the stand, squeezing in early mornings before work, quick lunch break sits, and long weekends waiting for him to show. When I finally got my chance, I missed the shot. It crushed me. But I didn’t give up. I kept putting in the time, piecing together his movements and patterns, and eventually, during the rut, it all came together. Last season was a grind, but it taught me the value of persistence—sticking with it, even when everything feels like it’s stacked against you.
This season, my fourth, felt different from the start. For the first time, I went into September feeling like I could finally call myself a deer hunter. I had three deer under my belt, all taken with a bow—an accomplishment that still feels surreal given how much I’ve learned (and how much I didn’t know when I started).
I’d also been granted access to a piece of family property that can only be described as a whitetail paradise. Rolling soy bean fields, bedding cover, and fence lines that lead right to a strategically placed tree stand. It’s the kind of place I used to dream about hunting when I was cutting my teeth on public land.
With a property like this and a few seasons of experience behind me, I went into this year with a great deal of optimism. I wasn’t just hopeful, I was confident.
But as many hunters will tell you, too much optimism can be a dangerous thing.
The woods have a way of humbling you. And as the season played out, I quickly realized that confidence doesn’t guarantee success.
Time Keeps On Slippin’ Into the Future
I had a solid season strategy. I’d start early, take advantage of the pre-rut patterns, and hopefully tag a doe before the season even hit its stride. The early sits were promising, too. I saw a decent amount of movement, even seeing a decent buck out in the distance on my very first sit. I had one doe come into range, but she was a touch outside my comfortable shooting distance with a bow. I let her walk, trusting that another opportunity would come.
This is why early season hunting can be deceptive. The activity you see in September doesn’t always carry through to October, and the closer you get to the heart of the rut, the more unpredictable things become. Deer patterns shift and the woods change… along with your confidence.
For me, October was a quiet month outside in contrast to my life inside. Work ramped up, family commitments filled the weekends, and the days when I did make it out to the stand felt more like stolen moments than purposeful hunts. October eventually slipped away, and it felt like I was quickly losing time.
And then November hit—the time when things usually heat up. But this year, life had other plans. An out-of-state family wedding here, a birthday party there, and before I knew it, the rut—the Super Bowl of whitetail hunting—was gone.
The two sits I did manage were still meaningful. I watched a buck breed a doe in real time, a rare and wild moment that many might never witness. But the opportunities to make something happen were non-existent. I never had a deer in range.
All the while, the updates rolled in from people I know personally, and people I only know through social media. Everywhere I looked, there were photos of deer down. It’s a very conflicted and complicated feeling.
On one hand, you’re genuinely happy for another hunter’s success. You know the work it takes, the patience, the preparation, the sheer luck of it all. But there’s also that twinge of jealousy. It’s like watching someone else sink the winning shot in a game you thought you’d have the chance to close out. You’re happy for them, but you can’t help wishing it was you.
By the time December breezed in with the cold winter wind, the optimism I started with had been replaced by a quieter determination.
The Pressure of Modern Hunting
Patience isn’t easy in the age of social media. Hunting media in particular exists in its own universe, one where success is measured in inches of antler, and the resulting shares, likes and comments those antlers bring.
I work in marketing, and I spent years in outdoor industry marketing specifically. I know how the machine works. Every photo, every reel, every thumbnail is designed to grab attention, and usually doesn’t tell the full story.
But that insider knowledge doesn’t make me immune to the pressure. Scrolling through my feed last week, it was hard not to feel like I was falling short.
We’ve all heard about the negative impact of social media on mental health, and I believe hunting has its own version of that. The perfect racks, the exaggerated poses, the stories edited for maximum drama creates a standard that’s impossible to meet. Especially if you’re still figuring out your own journey.
I’ve unfollowed a lot of accounts over the years, not because they weren’t good at what they did, but because their values didn’t align with mine. I’m not interested in hunting for clout or turning every hunt into content.
Writing My Own Story
This past Thursday, after a slow season, I found myself questioning my moves. I hadn’t filled a tag yet. The hours were piling up, and December wasn’t just creeping in, it had arrived.
I wasn’t frustrated exactly, but there was this gut feeling, like maybe I wasn’t doing enough. Maybe it was the shorter days or the colder air, but doubt had started to settle in.
Then my grandpa sent me a text:
“All hunting is good, see some deer is better, but if you get a shot, fantastic!”
Per usual, that was exactly what I needed to hear.
Hunting is special, plain and simple. I needed a reminder that the only person out there in the stand was me. I wasn’t there to meet anyone’s expectations. I wasn’t there for social validation. I was there because I love it.
I was there to witness the gentle snow falling through the trees, the word of the wind, and the stillness that settles over the woods during a December evening.
I’ll remember the weight of the Henry in my hands, the slow pull of the hammer, and my focus shifting through the iron sights. I’ll remember the rush of relief when I knew the shot was good, and the quiet moment afterward when it all sunk in.
That doe on Friday night wasn’t just another deer. She was the culmination of effort, patience, and the kind of luck that only only shows up when you’re there to meet it.
This season, for me, was about recalibrating what hunting truly is—a deeply personal experience shared only with the woods, the wildlife, and yourself.
And the season isn’t over yet. Somewhere out there is a buck I’ve been hoping to meet all year. Maybe I’ll get that chance, maybe I won’t. And honestly, that’s okay, because that’s what makes it Fair Chase.
This season has already given me more than enough. It’s reminded me of the things that matter most: patience, humility, and the quiet beauty of simply being out there. But most importantly, the respect you develop for the process.
The woods may not always give you what you came for, but they’ll always give you what you need.
But only if you’re willing to wait.
From My Desk:
What I’m Thinking About: Hunting and football—two of America’s most storied pastimes share more similarities than we often give them credit for. Both are grounded in preparation, patience, and strategy, yet there’s no guaranteed formula for success. That’s been on my mind a lot this week, as the parallels between Friday’s hunt and The Field Review issue I had originally drafted have started to reveal themselves. Next week, you’ll likely see that piece land in your inbox—an exploration of why you can’t buy, plan, or even cheat your way to a guaranteed outcome.
What I’m Doing: Reorganizing my gear after Friday’s hunt, cleaning the Henry after its successful debut, and prepping to shift gears back to waterfowl hunting as the weather gets more ‘ducky’.
On Deck for Monday: Still connecting a few dots that need connecting.
From The Field Review Archives:
The Field Review is a space for exploring the intersection of work, life, and the great outdoors. It’s about figuring ‘it’ out—whatever your ‘it’ might be.
Every Sunday at 10AM EST, I share ideas, insights, and conversations that help break through the noise, offering a real look at how we can all keep moving forward.
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Venture Onward,
Jack
I didn’t start hunting until retiring from two robust careers, yet in a relatively short span of time it has produced some of my most profound memories. Here’s a favorite — I was bowhunting for hogs one evening, and a Great Horned Owl landed on a branch three feet from my head. Scared the living daylights out of me, but he was patient enough to wait till I gathered my composure. We spent the next hour or so together intently watching the bait pile. Didn’t shoot a hog that evening, but it didn’t matter. Communion with a fellow hunter — how do you top that?
Your grandpa is a wise man. I've hunted since I was 14 and didn't shoot my first buck till I was 30. It was with a bow on a property I scouted from a stand I hung myself. First season in the woods without preseason effort with my dad. Many seasons have passed without seeing an animal, let alone taking a shot.
I've worked in the hunt/fish industry awhile and have seen firsthand what social media does to the psyche and culture of being afield or on the water. It's exceedingly difficult to separate the nature and reality of one's experiences from those of the curated few. I mean, there's always been a level of lust in our sports (otherwise F&S and OL would never've existed), but it's stupid that there is a need to do so in the first place.
Congrats on the successful season, bud.