This is the second chapter in a longer story about how finding the outdoors quietly changed everything.
We left Jackman convinced we had unlocked something.
That weekend felt like proof. Proof that the wilderness was still out there. Proof that it could quiet everything else. Proof that all we had to do was show up.
We told ourselves the hunt would be the easy part.
We had seen the animals. We had felt the stillness. We had experienced the kind of clarity that only comes from being far enough away from everything else. It felt earned, even though it was not.
A few weeks later, we went back north with rifles instead of fishing rods. With confidence instead of curiosity. With a plan built on assumptions we did not yet know how to question.
That is when we learned the difference between discovering the outdoors and belonging in it.
We had all the confidence in the world, and we planned based on the world we lived in, not the reality we were walking into.
We did not study terrain, forecasts, or maps. That part was supposed to be easy. What we did focus on was who was bringing the booze. Whiskey, wine, beer, all to celebrate after each successful day. Mike planned an absolutely delicious menu to cook every night. We packed an Xbox to help unwind after long days of hard work.
We figured the hunting part would be the easy part, especially after all the sign we had seen on that camping trip. All we really needed to do was show up, get out there, and the rest would follow.
This was our first go around, which meant just about every piece of gear we brought was going to be put to use for the first time. No layering systems. No thought about the best pack for this kind of scenario. No real communication plan beyond walkie talkies that we would eventually deem useless once we realized that anything more than maybe a half mile apart meant no signal at all.
But at least we would be eating and drinking well. And as long as we had the Xbox, we would not be bored at night.
In the days leading up to leaving, we put together a spreadsheet outlining who was bringing what and how much we would all be splitting. That was when we first saw it. Almost eight hundred dollars spent on food and booze for a five night hunting trip with three guys.
In hindsight, that should have been a red flag. At the time, it did not even register. We were in over our heads and did not realize we were focused on the wrong things.
Travel day came and the three of us loaded up my truck and headed north. Dre and I were anxiously awaiting the cell dead zone, and Mike was about to experience it for the first time. It was starting to feel real.
Luckily, we at least knew enough to download OnX. Between that, Google Maps, and the gazetteer, we figured we would be fine.
We made it to the house, unloaded, claimed bedrooms, picked out our gear for the morning, and did a quick “hey, let’s try this spot.” That was the extent of our scouting, digital or on foot.
With three guys and one truck, splitting up was difficult. We were a three pack in the woods that first trip. No real concern about noise or scent or anything else that would drive an experienced hunter absolutely crazy.
How fast should we move? Too slow? Another two hundred pound squirrel. Moose sign everywhere. It felt like it was only a matter of time before a big woods Maine buck stepped out for one of us to shoot.
Looking back, I am not even sure we had the conversation about who would take the first shot. We were probably lucky nothing stepped out for us, because there is a good chance all three of us would have tried to take it.
After day one, from pre dawn until sunset without seeing a single deer, reality just barely started creeping in. Whether or not we knew what we were doing is one thing. What cannot be argued is that we were satisfied just being there.
We were doing it.
We had made a decision to try something totally new. We took the steps to make it possible. We were there. No matter what happened, nobody could take that from us.
The first few days were, in hindsight, a complete waste of time. None of us knew what we were doing, not even close, and reality slowly started setting in.
I had bought a pop up blind and we figured this was the right time and way to use it. We were completely clueless.
The forecast called for a serious storm, bringing a foot or more of snow. We decided setting the blind up the night before and throwing a few chairs in it would be perfect.
So we did.
Across a small creek, about fifty yards off the dead end of an abandoned logging road. Surely this is where the deer would be in the morning. Never mind the giant, new, smelly object that had just appeared in their backyard.
The next morning came and the snow was real. Thank God for the ground clearance and the Nitto Ridge Grapplers on my truck. It is a miracle we even made it in.
We got out of the truck around sunrise only to find that pop up blinds do not hold up well to a foot of heavy, wet snow. It had nearly collapsed. Now we had to waste time clearing it off and getting settled.
Our next professional move was to take cotton swabs, soak them in doe estrous urine, and place them every twenty yards down our only shooting lane.
To spare every detail of the day, the answer is obvious. We never saw a thing.
We finished that trip without a single close call. But we were hooked. We wanted to learn. We wanted to succeed. And we finally had one very important thing.
Perspective.
