My son grins tiredly in the dusky light after a day of hunting ups and downs ended with his first deer in the mountains near Douglas.

Courtesy photo

Zac Taylor

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When I was 12, my dad took me with him and his friend on an incredible fishing trip to Alaska. 

I remember watching the northern lights over a lake near Talkeetna, of wading deep into the big rivers of the Alaskan interior, catching pink and silver salmon and even hooking an (already dead) legendary king. 

What I don’t remember is a morning bird hunt, because I skipped out and slept in instead. 

Growing up, hunting was a far second behind fly fishing for me and my father, and usually consisted of one annual pheasant hunt around Christmas. 

When I left Colorado and moved to Georgia after college, I hunted just once in seven years — a classic deep south quail hunt on a Georgia plantation. 

When I returned to the west and relatives with my family, I ran smack dab into a dad and brother who were, all of a sudden, mad about waterfowl hunting, and getting into big game hunting. 

I embraced it as I switched into my 30s, and then looked at my son, as he grew up, wondering whether he’d embrace hunting far earlier than I had. 

The issue: fly rods don’t kick. 

I still love fly fishing, and both my boys have embraced it already, with my oldest having now been on a Montana fishing trip. 

While my youngest is too small for high-powered rifles and shotguns (although he’s become a crack shot with a rimfire and a prairie dog in his sights) my oldest, while still small for his age, was ready at 12, I thought, to try a crack at a deer. 

My dad bought him a little .243, he struggled but eventually accepted the kick, and we figured he was ready to take out to our favorite hunting grounds in the mountains near Douglas, where we have some family cabins. 

That was 2023, and, with CWD getting ever more destructive across the state, Game and Fish decided that year to no longer allow those with a youth license to tag a doe unless it was already allowed on a standard license. Of course, we only saw does, my son’s heart sank a little, and I worried if maybe I had pushed him too young. 

Fast forward to last fall, and my dad, my son and I were back in the woods, my son wondering after many hours of only doe sightings if maybe hunting wasn’t for him. I told myself I needed to be OK with that — after all, I wasn’t really into it at that age, why should he be? 

Then, on land behind one of our cabins, way back in the trees, we spotted turkeys. 

We all take turkey tags as a matter of course in the fall, and while I had punched mine he hadn’t gotten one, so I told my son to let fly with his .243. He hemmed and hawed, worried again about the kick, then he shot. He shot again, again and again, sounding like a firing line as he unloaded the magazine and another in his Savage Axis. 

He missed the turkeys (he had been trying for head shots) but he had a glint in his eye — he was pumped. 

By chance a neighbor heard the shooting, came over to see if we had bagged anything, then his brother-in-law offered my son a .17 caliber rifle to try if he saw any more turkeys. My son tested it out, liked it and we went back out into the national forest. 

Since we also always have small game and bird licenses, we were on the lookout not just for deer and turkeys, but also blue grouse. Lo and behold, a flock of the birds were embedded on the ground and in trees just a bit off the track. 

William rolled out with the borrowed .17, went to a knee, shot and missed. Then he shot again, then again, and a grouse fluttered on the ground, dead. 

I have the picture in my head and on my phone of him picking up the grouse, a smile as big and genuine as any I’ve ever seen him have. My dad bagged one too, and the picture of them with their grouse (very tasty by the way) is one of my favorites on my phone. 

My son was happy, and I think right then he found a surge of confidence — he was a real hunter now. 

Of course, the grouse was nice, but we were still after deer. 

After spending the rest of the afternoon in the national forest, we planned to be back in the woods behind our cabin at dusk for the last half hour of shooting light. 

We settled behind trees and a small woodshed, peering into the misty evening and looking at our phones as the last minutes of shooting light ticked by. With 15 minutes left, we spotted movement 40-50 yards further into the trees. A deer trotted out, but with the mist we couldn’t tell if it had antlers or not. 

My son rested his rifle on his hand propped up against the wall of the shed, I dropped to a knee and put the deer through my crosshairs as well — having yet to shoot one of my own that year, I had a tag as well and was ready to take down a buck if my son missed or got cold feet. 

I needn’t have worried. My dad strained through the binoculars and determined the deer was a doe — slight deflation. Then another trotted in behind, and I could swear through the dim light that there was something sticking up past those big mule deer ears. 

My dad went to the binoculars again, to be sure what we were seeing was indeed a small buck. 

He whispered loudly: buck! 

My son didn’t take a breath, he didn’t adjust or question the call. He just pulled the trigger and dropped the young buck with a shot through the heart. 

Now, I’ve done a lot of hunting since I rediscovered it after moving back west. I’ve shot everything from deer to rabbits, pheasants, ducks, geese, doves and even squirrel. The thrill of a successful hunt is an incredible experience. 

But the thrill of watching your son turn all the hard work, the stress, the doubts and worries and the determination into a successful shot? I’m getting goosebumps writing about it. 

He whooped, my dad whooped, I stood, taking in what had just been accomplished, and then joined in the celebration. 

The struggle is important, working to overcome is a crucial lesson in life. But success is what sparks that realization that all of the struggle is worth it. And success may just turn someone into a hunter for life. Soon after that hunt, my son traded up to a .308, and this formerly kick-shy preteen is now a teenager talking about elk hunting. 

As for me, I’m just happy to be a part of his journey into a hunter. Now I’m eagerly awaiting my youngest’s turn.