That's the Breaks: The Novice
The Westrn deer hunt through Katie's eyes
Author: Katie Hill
Sometimes, making it all come together before a hunt feels like a struggle. Nicole, Katie and I all made it to central Montana for The Westrn’s first hunting camp just in time for opening day of rifle season, but not before Nicole’s mule and donkey broke into the barn, ransacked it, and pooped everywhere as she was about to leave.
While Nicole and I have hunted together for years, Katie had never hunted with either of us. (I had yet to meet Katie in person when I picked her up from the airport.) Everyone arrives to a hunt with different skills, values, priorities, strengths, limitations, and expectations. Some hunting parties sort out their group dynamics organically over years; some never figure them out.
In other outdoor pursuits like climbing and backcountry skiing, communal institutions like climbing clubs or avalanche safety courses are self-aware of group dynamics. Not so much in hunting, even though our hunting partners often shape our experiences as much as the animals we pursue or the places we pursue them.
Instead, storytelling plays an important role in creating group culture and shared values among hunting partners. Usually we learn how our partners experience their hunts by what they share when the action is over and everyone has regrouped, hopefully around a warm fire. We become characters in their stories and they become characters in ours.
We decided to put our own spin on that tradition for the next few pieces we publish here at The Westrn. We’ve each written an essay prompted by our time hunting together this October. The results are three deeply personal views of the same reality, the same landscape, the same animals. Much like glassing a drainage from three different vantages, the fundamental facts of the thing are the same, but what you see can be dramatically different depending on where you stand.
Katie’s essay is a classic hunting redemption tale, an example of the quick transition between lows and highs that shows why hunting is an activity ready-made for great storytelling. Reading the thoughts she had as I watched her prepare to take a shot adds a new dimension to my own experience. Like nesting dolls, this is one story within the story we all participated in.
-Kestrel
The thing I remember the most is how my arms quivered.
They shook from adrenaline, and from the exhaustive lengths I was going through to steady myself and my rifle. I sat on the side of a barren, downhill slope, elbows perched on knees (also shaking), right eyebrow and eyelid struggling to stay open behind the scope. A buck cruised some 230 yards downhill from me. His nose was practically Velcroed to a doe’s ass, both deer blissfully unaware of the strange, vibrating girl above them.
Deciding to take a shot was my first mistake. The precursor to all the others.
The rest of the story isn’t important. What matters is that I didn’t wound him; in fact, my two frantic shots flew so far over their mark that the deer downhill never glanced my way.
What matters is that I made it home in one piece. After missing the buck, I tried to take a downhill shortcut back to my truck rather than backtracking up and out. But unfamiliar game trails led me onto an inclined gravel pit where every step crumbled beneath my feet and only fear of death prevented me from triggering a rock slide.
What matters most is that I’ll never hunt like that again — overloaded with unnecessary gear, overexerted from a long morning of climbing, and completely and utterly unsupported.
Contrast is what makes life rich. The good comes after the bad. April showers, blah blah blah. But the thought that next year might be better didn’t cross my mind that night. I laid in bed next to my fiancé, wondering what he would do if I died or seriously injured myself at the hand of my own stupidity in the mountains. For a few long hours, I considered that maybe hunting wasn’t for me. I’m meant for some things; writing, running (but not fast), free-handing my mom’s pasta recipe, drinking beer and reading books at the same time. Maybe hunting belonged in the category of “things best left alone,” next to throwing a frisbee and doing math in my head.
When the time came to make plans for this year, part of me wanted to take it off. I would have been content to join my friends as a bystander, an extra set of hands and an extra pair of eyeballs. But we had eaten most of my fiancé’s elk already, and in a burst of caffeinated courage, I bought an antlerless deer tag.
Nicole, Kestrel and I walked up on a draw that looked carved out of the prairie with an ice cream scoop. I’d only ever heard about the Breaks country of northeastern Montana; this was my first trip experiencing it in person. We were on the outskirts, which meant plenty of foothills and knobs to climb. But the deer still behaved like spelunkers out there, holing up in the evergreen underworld. We spent a lot of time hunting high to low, gaining elevation when possible then finding calculated downhill shooting lanes. But the premise of taking a downhill shot kept me awake in my tent. Last season’s shaky arms and poor judgment gnawed at my conscience. For obvious reasons.
But we’d bedded deer in the draw. We knew they were there. That information alone felt priceless; what a gift to exist on a colossal landscape at the perfect moment, the perfect angle, in the perfect light, to see them creep up into the thick and not emerge above it. My hunkered steps felt urgent as I approached the rim. Something less conscious than my everyday brain took the wheel in my head.
Get in position before your wind shifts. It’s 10 A.M. The heat is rising, you’re sweating, and the air is getting swirly.
Belly on grass, hip bones hard against small rocks. Gun on pack. Rangefinder within immediate reach, binoculars to wind-chapped face. Glass, glass, glass. Trees, trees, trees. Move slower, look for animal pieces, an ear here, a tail there. Three mule deer butts, nice spot. Glass, glass, glass. That’s a bedded whitetail doe.
Stomach clench. That’s a bedded whitetail doe. And she’s big. And she’s looking right at you. Don’t. Fucking. Move.
Wait for her to look away. Wait. Wait. Wait. Stop shaking. Wait. Wait. Wait. Here’s your chance, switch to riflescope. Regain the view; find that downed tree trunk pointing at 10 o’clock, next to the branches shaped like Q-tips, a good swipe down from the horizon. Scan, scan, scan, slower. There’s the trunk — where is she?
She’s gone. But that means she’s up. You wanted her up, not in her bed. Lower the gun, back to binoculars. Glass. Glass. Glass. (Two minutes pass.) Glass. That’s a leg.
That’s her leg.
And that’s her butt. And her flank. And there’s her head, looking downslope. She’s covered in trees and shadows, but there she is. And she’s moving. And moving. Moving. Moving. And she’s gone. Swallowed by trees.
I need to back out. I have no shot here. Shift down the rim, closer to the mouth of the draw, where it empties into that field. If I move quickly maybe I can cut her off. She’s making progress in that direction. Back out right now, stay low. But what if she’s stopped again? What if she sees me?
It’s been a while. Do Kestrel and Nicole wonder what I’m doing? Should I signal to them? I already signaled to them once, but do they think I’m still in pursuit? Or is my time up? How does this work, anyways? Oh shit, Kestrel’s right behind me. Hey, Kestrel.
“I’m on a doe,” I whisper over my shoulder. “I just need to move down the rim and set up a new shot. She knows I’m up here and she’s moving, but not in a hurry.”
“Copy.”
I hate crawling on my knees with my pack and my gun. I feel like a fucking toddler. This spot is good enough. Now if I can just get my pack positioned right…
*clink*
…too loud.
Raised white tails. Six of them. In the trees. How? Where did they come from? You fucking blew it. You fucking blew it. You fucking…
…no you didn’t. They’re going to bust down from the draw and pop up on that next face. That’s what deer do. They react, then they reassess. You know this. Range the face. Range the fucking face.
That rock is at 203 yards. You just shot a half-inch group at 200. Get your gun. Zoom out your scope. Get in position. Look.
That’s a doe. That’s a small doe, not the same one. She held up. She’s not spooked. She’s broadside. She’s so beautiful. She’s young. She has a literal halo circling her body. She’s glowing. That’s the deer. Breathe in, fill up. Safety off. Forced exhale, halfway empty. Squeeze. Be surprised. Rerack, find her. She’s down. She’s dead. You just killed her.
Cry. Not happy tears. Shake. Breathe. Call your fiancé. Call your mom. Call your dad. Hug your friends. Be amazed. Be abhorred. Be grateful. Be meant for this.
Katie Hill is a freelance outdoor journalist and managing editor of The Westrn. Her writing has appeared in Outdoor Life, High Country News, Modern Farmer, MeatEater, and other publications. For more of her work, check out her website.
Tremendous story all around, but the last two paragraphs were phenomenal! Thanks for sharing, Katie.
You had me at “Montana”. 🥺