Story By: Jordyn Brazil
I was fortunate to grow up in a home where resilience was learned through hunting. We ate more venison and grouse than beef or chicken, and the rhythm of our year followed the animals we pursued. In a world chasing convenience, hunting taught me patience and grit. Out in the desert mountains there are no shortcuts or guarantees—only long hours behind the glass, miles that wear in your boots, and instincts sharpened by generations who learned everything the hard way. “Always the hard way” has become more than a saying between my husband and I; it is a virtue we live by, and one we hope to pass on to our four kids.
Thirteen years ago, I filled my last tag on a mule deer hunt with my dad. Since then, life has carried me through marriage, children, and all the joy and grit that come with. For a while, my own hunts took a back seat, but when the chaos of little ones began to ease, I started applying for tags again. This spring, with nine mule deer and antelope points saved up, I sent in my applications and waited. When May came and I saw “awarded” in green beside both, I sat in quiet disbelief and eagerness for what that meant my year would look like.
I spent the summer on the range with my husband, kids, and my dad’s 7mm, getting ready for the hunts ahead. When antelope season opened, my dad, my eight-year-old son, and I headed out. We hunted hard with no reward that first day, but late on day two we eased over a ridge and found a good group of goats feeding below. My son got to experience the full crawl-through-the-sage routine before we were winded, and I took a standing shot through the brush. When the buck dropped, my dad and son both hollered, and I stood there with tears in my eyes. What a gift to be able to share that moment with the man who taught me to hunt and a boy who’s just beginning to learn.
That antelope hunt was a solid warm-up and a reminder of how it feels to earn something the hard way. But just a few short weeks later, it was time to chase mule deer in the cold. This time, I’d be heading out with my little brother, and my dad and stepmom would be meeting us at camp. The country was massive and beautiful, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the ability to roam those desert mountains. We glassed until our eyes ached, put in the miles, and passed on a few young bucks that didn’t feel right to take. It was cold for us but still too warm for the deer to move, and the rut hadn’t kicked in yet. Although we packed up camp without a filled tag, my heart was full from being back out in the mountains with family.
The following weekend, my brother and his wife, Marisa, and I headed back out, and we decided to hunt a different area. We made it to our spot with enough daylight left to glass. There are some ranges you look over and think, “This is where the deer are.” This definitely wasn’t that. Despite the conditions, we found a few deer worth a second look. Unfortunately, what we found the next morning didn’t include the mature buck we were after, and, after hours of glassing, we decided to move on. Forkies, small three-points, even a young four-by-four—all promising, but none of them the “one”.
By afternoon, we were ready for a change. On the way to another range, we stopped to glass the backside and maybe scare up a few chukar. The terrain was perfect—jagged mountains, purple brush, pockets of orange trees, green bitterbrush, and a small stream running through the bottom—but no birds and no deer. We had a decision to make. Stay and hunt there or head to the next range? With one day left, we flipped a coin—best two out of three. Every toss landed on heads. It seemed too clear a sign to ignore, so, despite how good the country looked, we loaded back up.
An hour later, we were glassing the front side when my brother said, “I found him. We need to go now.” I took a look, and sure enough—it was the buck we’d been scouting for. Before I could see his antlers, I knew by his gait he was big. My heart began to race. We threw on packs and started up the mountain, the wind and light both working in our favor. But when we got there, the group had vanished. We searched until the sun fell, only spotting a group of does bedded above us. The buck wasn’t among them. Still, we were encouraged. The next morning would bring another chance.
At first light, we began glassing the same basin. Then the entire range. Nothing. As time passed, I started to think ahead to my next planned hunt with Dad: a snowy one for my birthday weekend. I turned to Shea, ready to call it. “Well, brother, it’s okay. I’ll come back out with Dad in the cold,” I said, humor in my tone. He lifted his binos one last time and grinned.
“Wow, I’m the best,” he said, eyes locked on something. “Yeah, I found him.” Sure enough, there was the same buck pushing those same three does—three valleys over and working our way. My heart pounded as we watched him rut hard, the does trying to bed while he pushed them again and again. Finally, they bedded in a bowl that gave us absolutely no advantage.
Marisa stayed on the spotter while Shea and I hiked toward a position that offered our best chance. The wind was at our backs, blowing straight toward the deer, so we adjusted and settled for a longer shot that wouldn’t spook them. My heart hammered from the climb, but I felt a calm anticipation—a steadiness I hadn’t felt the night before. We army crawled through cheatgrass to a small knob for cover. Marisa radioed that the deer hadn’t moved. I settled behind the rifle, watching the brush where he was bedded, waiting for any movement.
At 560 yards, the wind started to shift again. Another knob lay ahead that would put us at 200 yards. We held a quick debate and decided to go for it. The wind ripped at our faces as we crawled, and suddenly—boom! Doe ears. Spotted. We froze.
“Don’t move,” Shea whispered. We had only made it a hundred yards or so. Marisa started signaling on the radio. The doe stood, staring straight at me. My pulse slowed; I knew this was where the shot would have to happen. “Get ready,” my brother said as the second doe stood and began walking towards the other two. I steadied the rifle on the bush line, waiting for the buck to stand up. In a moment, he was there in my scope. I waited for the one perfect step into a clearing. “Now, Jordyn—you have to shoot now.” I exhaled and squeezed. Crack. I knew it landed. I looked up at my brother, both of us with tears in our eyes, and we high-fived—siblings who’d gone from backyard play hunts to this mountain moment in what felt like a blink.
Marisa whooped over the radio as we began the hike to the downed buck. He’d taken a step and tumbled down a steep grade, tangled in brush that caught his horns. We skinned and quartered him under a double rainbow and made it back to the truck before the rain began to really pour. The hunt was ninety-eight percent hard work, but that last two percent felt like pure grace.
There’s nothing quite like sitting down to a meal prepared from an animal you took yourself, still fresh from the field and seasoned with hard work, and as my family gathered around the table two nights later, the story of that hunt came alive again through my kids’ wide eyes and laughter. The hunt might end when the tag is filled, but the lessons keep working their way through you long after the last bite is gone.