Another year has all but passed us by, and with it the close of another whitetail season. 

There is of course late-season archery and flintlock still open, but by now, most hunters have retired to the pressing schedules of the holidays. My brother-in-law is one of the persistent few who still sets out to fill his last tags, but with the amount of things on my own plate, I don’t think I’ll be joining him.

Given a name like mine, I’m always asked by friends if I’ve tagged out. Personally, I don’t like to share too much about my success except to say if I’ve been blessed or not. The bottom line remains that anything I’m fortunate enough to harvest is less a matter of my own skill as it is a result of God’s provision. 

Throughout this season, I’ve spent a lot of time praying. Praying for time to go hunting, praying for a chance to see something, and praying for the readiness and steadiness to capitalize on what I’m able to find. 

I was blessed with a lot more time to get out than last year, and even when my rifle scope was bumped askew, my dad had an extra for me to borrow. 

All told, my wife was able to cash in her doe tag early in the rifle season and I followed her on the final day with mine. Neither of us got a buck, although I must say I at least saw one, whereas she did not. 

On top of that, my dad had more meat than he needed, and graciously offered us the remainder in exchange for cutting and packing his portion. 

Since we’re a family that relies on a good portion of deer meat each year, this was a great way to round out the year.

With the way the world has gone, hunting and its goals have really shifted for me over the past few years. In high school, I had a lot of time to hunt and would spend a good portion of archery season mapping the patterns and passing on regular bucks in hopes of catching a glimpse of the slammer that only seldom frequented my stand during the daylight. 

Back then I had fewer mouths to feed and more ambitions to quench. Now, my mind has a hard time waiting on inedible antlers when there are perfectly edible deer standing out in the family cornfield mowing down the edges of what corn should be drying for our livestock to eventually eat. 

As luck would have it, this year was a particularly poor year for hunting, at least during rifle season. The first few days yielded one of the worst things you can have in a hunting season—a full moon. With the night sky illuminated and the weather more than fair, the deer were out in force all night long and comfortable and fat by morning, when they would find a nice nook or cranny in the brush and stone to hunker down during the day. 

Additionally, this lit up every hunter sneaking into the woods on opening day like a prisoner escaping Alcatraz. The jig was up from day one, and I for one heard a lot fewer shots that first morning over the hills around me than I normally do. 

A few weeks after that and sure enough, almost everyone I know either failed to tag out or at least failed to tag a buck as they would have liked. 

The way out here, feeding your family comes first, but sometimes you have to do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt. That might mean spending less time chasing bucks and more time trying to get a poke at anything legal.