THE HUNTRESS

Celebrating My First Solo Hunting Season

A sliver of a crescent moon shines through bare branches of a forest of trees as I pop the trunk of my Subaru Outback, just parked at the gate. "This area open to hunting," warns the yellow sign on the fenced access road into Raccoon Creek State Park near Frankfort Springs, PA.

I nod to the moon as I begin the process I've learned well over the past two weeks. I pull on final heavy layers like red plaid vintage wool pants, a neck gaiter, extra wool socks, big rubber toed Thermolite duck boots, and a blaze orange Elmer Fudd hat and coat. I double check my backpack, printed in leafy camo with slightly insulting pink piping, tossing in car keys and nesting my Thermos of tea in the side pocket. I sling it up over my shoulders and slide my hunting chair through the bottom of the straps, cinching it tight against my lower back. My binoculars are looped around my neck, tucked into my right breast pocket, and finally I flip the latches open on the long black rifle case. I uncap the scope, lift the gun from its case, eye the green S for safety and slide one round into the chamber.

My steps fall silent on dry packed leaves as I walk slowly into the dark woods. I have a headlamp but I don't use it, knowing this path well on my last day of hunting season. A thin strip of color - orange and yellow-green illuminates the edge of the horizon, but sunrise is still a little ways off. I take breaks often, to throw off the sound of my arrival, but also to avoid overheating. I check the time - 30 minutes til sunrise, the beginning of the hunting day. I cut off the trail and into the brambles, crunchy leaves and fallen branches, still trying to be as quiet as possible and scanning for movement. I make it to my spot, the ground already cleared, down to fresh dark soil against a tree and set up. Then, I turn my chair around, kick back, scan the ground and watch sunrise.

Here in Pennsylvania, you either grew up with a family tradition of hunting, or you didn't. I didn't. As far as I know, there are no hunters in my family. My introduction and experience in hunting came as an adult in my early 20's and 30's based on men I was in relationships with. This year, after traveling the country and seeing both smaller farms and cattle lands packed with hundreds of animals. I decided that I wanted to continue hunting on my own. My first solo hunting season with four seasons under my belt. It was a big step, feeling confident on my own in the woods (and at the shooting range) in a male dominated sport. It took extra time and consideration for being self supported, and there was a lot to learn. The payoff for me is spending quiet time alone in the woods, playing an active role in where my food comes from, lessening my reliance on the meat industry, and helping local wildlife conservation efforts.

It was less than a week after returning from my cross country road trip when I took a chance and reached out to an old friend and hunting buddy to see if he was interested in hunting this year. I was happy to get an email back, learning that he had retired from hunting, his last year had been in 2011 when we hunted red tag (agricultural deer control) together on a farm in northwestern PA. The year I got my doe.

A few days later, we met at a gun shop to transfer my old Rossi S.A. .243 Win single shot rifle into my name. It ended up that we didn't need to officially transfer my "little boy's gun" through the shop, and it was like Christmas morning when my friend opened his trunk and pulled out two storage bins of hand-me-down hunting gear. Everything I needed to head to the range to practice, blaze orange vests and hats, field dressing kits, ammo, and a rifle cleaning kit. I was beyond excited and grateful, and it was such a nice blast from the past to catch up with an old friend.

Three days later, I was at the shooting range to practice and sight in the rifle I hadn't used in nine years. Waiting in line at the 50 yard range, ignoring glances from other shooters as the only solo woman in sight. I set up with old hand me down sand bags made from denim jeans, patiently waiting for a pause in the action before swallowing my insecurities and shouting, "clear!," to ignite a chorus of other male-voiced "clear's," signaling a break and reset to enter the range and hang or check targets.

In the week that followed, I researched and prepared, reading and rereading the Hunter's Digest on the PA Game Commission website with specific rules and regulations for different Wildlife Management Units (WMU's) throughout the state. I scouted the area at Dead Man's Hollow, where hunting is permitted through Allegheny Land Trust, dropping pins for a few possible sites in Google Maps. I watched videos on field dressing and packed my backpack with everything I might possibly need.

I was talking to a friend about my hunting plans, getting great location advice, when he told me, "you can't use your .243 in Allegheny County." There went my plan for Dead Man's Hollow. Still a real newbie to gun classifications, I hadn't known that my rifle was what's called a centerfire, prohibited in more urban hunting areas. That's how I found my way to Raccoon Creek, where Portland and I spent a day scouting and braving ticks, brambles and thorns in the quest for the perfect spot. I found it, on my way out of the park. An area so heavily bedded with hoof prints and scat, more evidence than an episode of CSI. This was the place. Hiker today, hunter tomorrow in a multi-use Pennsylvania State Park, 45 minutes from home.

I knew this year's hunt would be very different from my past, more immersive hunting experiences. I have been lucky -- spoiled to have learned from the best. Ethical hunters, people that have a passion for hunting as a family tradition that has been passed down for generations. Hunting out of hunting camps, these almost sacred places that have been built and revisited over the years by hunters old and new. Family and friends gather around warm cozy fires, sharing a hot meal after a long cold day in the forest. They share stories of new and past hunts with laughter, beer and bourbon, and mix of hard work and a relaxed, slowed pace. Camps that may seem dated, musty, or offer just a short three minute shower, are a haven of escape for a semi-off-the-grid getaway just a walk or short drive to prime Pennsylvania hunting. The hunters here know the best spots in the local woods or private lands they tend and know like the back of their hand; trails and landmarks with nicknames and history. At hunting camp, it's like stepping back to a simpler time, where you can feel the memories, love, and good spirit embedded in the very walls of these cabins in the woods.

This year I'd miss the comradery of the hunt felt in the early morning over pre-dawn breakfast and coffee in layers of camo, or through updates from the forest over walkie talkies or text messages throughout the day. I have to give it to my Mom, though -- a woman who refuses to give venison a try. She texted me almost every day of my hunting season, and listened to all the stories and reports from each day I spent in the woods.

I wake up at 5am. Pull on socks, base layers, military fatigue pants and a green wool sweater as I eat breakfast and brew coffee or tea for my Thermos. No face washing, deodorant or hair products to minimize my scent in the forest -- although I will admit to a thin layer of foundation, an aid in my continued struggle to make blaze orange somehow appear beautiful, "hunter-chic" in pictures. It is an impossible task! Portland is confused by the pre-dawn loop around the block, eager to return to bed once I'm out the door, toting my bag and gun case.

The 45 minute commute seems long in the early morning, and on some days I see another hunter or two pulled over along the road, preparing to enter the woods. On most days, I'm the first one to arrive and set up -- the others might arrive like blaze orange ghosts passing through the trees around 8:30am. They always seem to be on the move. Maybe that's how it's done here? I sit, quiet and still hoping the others push something my way. By the sound of it, no one was coming out lucky in this part of the park.

A day of hunting has one, very obvious timestamp: the first shot of the day. Usually in the first half hour of daylight. By all the evidence in the spots I chose, this seemed like it should be a perfect spot to hunt. The friend that recommended it had said it was a favorite. In the woods of a state park, somewhere between a vocal rooster and a frustrated cow, I sat. Determined, dedicated, and calmly placing mind over matter on frozen toes and fingers (hand and toe warmers helped when my mental powers failed!). I loved the escape of long hours spent in the forest each day, my busy mind clear in meditative stillness as I scanned the landscape. For me, hunting is as much about experiencing a day in the forest as it is about the ultimate goal of harvesting venison to feed family and friends. The squirrels, birds and woodpeckers, trees (the pines!), landscape, and patterns of sunlight (or clouds) throughout the day; each worthy of observation and reflection. When I heard voices, or sounds of traffic, planes and construction, I longed for the peaceful silence of wilder forests in more remote locations. But there are many ways and many places to hunt.

In the six days and 48 hours I put into this year's hunting season, I saw three deer. This was not the amount of activity I am used to, and some days I saw more deer in my neighborhood than in eight hours in the forest! The best was the Sunday afternoon during hunting season when I saw four deer lined up in the yard across the street. They all stared at me on my front porch, as they stood in textbook shooting position. It was humorous, slightly frustrating, but not disheartening.

I saw the buck first thing on my second day of hunting, after a snow. A rookie mistake, I hadn't taken my binoculars out yet, and I tried to count antler points through my rifle scope against the snow at dawn. From what I could make out, he only had one antler (one side) with only two points of the "three up" needed to be considered legal. I knew instantly that was my shot for the season. This visual of the classic Oregon Trail-style hunting where the animals saunter evenly across the screen. That was my shot, I knew it, but I wouldn't risk it. The two other deer I saw were on the run. I'd pushed them out from my "week 2" spot on a mid-morning move. These are lessons in preparedness you learn along the way, mistakes you won't make twice. They are also decisions you have to know your answers and limits to - "will I take a shot at a running deer....a small juvenile deer, etc.".

I remember my first time hunting (or rather, sitting in the woods accompanying the hunters). I had the perception that it would be like a war zone, bullets flying through the forest. I was afraid I was going to get shot! A day or two later, I was walking along to help push deer towards the others, with the goal of seeing black bear cubs in the area! When I shot my doe in 2011, my third year of hunting, I got out of the dirty work of field dressing, but helped to process the deer from (not quite) start to finish.

This year, I learned more about programs like Hunters Sharing the Harvest, a venison donation program I'd heard about years ago. They work with local food banks to supply locally donated venison to those in need, and it is a new personal goal to be able to donate a harvest some day.

This year, as the days and chances dwindled, I could have moved deeper into the woods, or relocated to a different corner of the park (or another place entirely), but I chose to stick with it. I had gone to the courthouse for a last minute doe tag (antlerless deer permit) for the second week of hunting in WMU 2A. Here, I had the greatest chance. Fully self-supported, I was always aware of my abilities and limitations, having to make practical and tactical decisions to give myself the best chance in my situation. I ended each day scouting the woods for new vantage points; looking for evidence in the form of rubs (scratches from antlers on trees), scat, and bedded leaves.

There are no guarantees in hunting, and no crying over not seeing deer, or shots not taken. If you're lucky enough to be in the woods, you're lucky enough. That is a fact. I am proud to be a woman in orange, thankful for my hunting roots and mentors, and looking forward to more research, new opportunities and being even better prepared for next year's hunting season.

My first doe, Northwest PA, 2011

Are you a woman who hunts? Do you have a special hunting memory? Do you know the best hunting spot in PA?! Share your experiences or a special memory in the comments below or on social media and let's start a conversation.

Want to read more? I recommend a funny story related to my first hunting experience. Check out my Dream Boots article next!

Until next time, Live Wildly!