Story By: Kristina Brown
Building preference points is how most hunters eventually earn the opportunity to access more desirable units—places with fewer hunters, better habitat, and, often, higher trophy potential. That doesn’t guarantee an easier hunt, but it usually means a more enjoyable one. Despite growing up in California, I had never hunted deer in my home state until this season. As a relatively new big game hunter, I wanted my first California tag to be memorable. After years of watching crowded trailheads and glassing knobs bursting with orange vests, I was hoping this hunt would be different. And it was.
In early summer 2025, I learned I had drawn a premium tag. Excited, I began scouting right away. Over several weekends, we explored the network of dirt roads and ridge systems, slowly learning the unit. Its sheer size kept us from covering everything we hoped to, but we saw enough to form a game plan for opening weekend. Optimism was high.
The day before the season, we set up camp, settled in by the fire, and watched a spectacular sunset melt behind the pines. Opening morning came early—crisp, quiet, and carrying the unmistakable scent of fall. We gathered our gear and drove toward our glassing spot. The forest felt unnervingly still. Wet pine needles muted our footsteps, and even the mountains seemed silent. Where was everyone? Were we even in the right place?
We reached a rocky outcropping just as the sky began to glow. As the shadows receded, we spotted a handful of deer scattered across the mountainside, including a young buck. By late morning, we had decided to check another area. On the way, we bumped into two bucks I had seen during summer scouting, but they vanished before I could settle in for a shot. Calm and collected, my partner suggested looping around—about half a mile—to relocate them in their bedding area with the wind in our favor.
We hurried back to the truck and drove around the ridge, then hiked into the timber. Moving slowly, we began still hunting through broken brush, glassing as we went. For nearly two hours, we whispered, crept, and checked every patch of shade.
Then my partner grabbed my shoulder and whispered sharply, “Don’t move.”
A buck was bedded just fifteen yards away, tucked tightly into a bush. From his angle, my partner could see antlers—nothing more. I, being shorter, couldn’t see a thing. We crouched for several long minutes, trying to work out a shooting position. The deer never fully turned our way, only rotating an ear each time we whispered. The wind stayed perfect.
A small boulder sat a few yards in front of me—just tall enough to give me the elevation I needed. I eased toward it. My partner whispered that as soon as I stood, the buck would likely bolt. With my rifle shouldered, I slowly rose over the rock.
The buck exploded from its bed. I tried to find him in the rifle scope, but the patchy timber and his stotting escape made it impossible. He circled wide, then slowed. Finally, between two pines, he stopped and looked back. I hadn’t noticed my partner step up beside me with my shooting stick already set. I settled onto it, steadied my breathing, and squeezed the trigger. The sharp crack of the 7mm shattered the silent morning.
I had a buck down!
We walked to the deer, and I took a quiet moment to honor the animal and soak in the accomplishment. It was one of the bucks I had scouted—a success that felt earned in every sense.
We spent the rest of the day quartering the deer and making the three-mile pack out to camp. Then we spent two more days enjoying the mountains—camp food, long views, and stories around the fire. We never saw another hunter.
After years of waiting and saving points, the hunt had been everything I’d hoped for. The low pressure, the solitude, the challenge, the success—it was all worth the wait.
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