Story By: Jaden Thompson
November 24 began the same way so many hunts with my dad had since I was a little kid. Long before daylight, we slipped quietly into the woods and climbed into the stand on my uncle’s property while the world was still dark and silent. Above us, the stars were bright, and the woods held that stillness that only exists before sunrise on a late November morning.
Hunting has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. I was raised in it. My dad, my grandpa, my uncle, and my cousins all played a part in shaping that piece of me, bringing me along in their footsteps and beside them in the woods from a young age. Some of my earliest memories are tied to those mornings and evenings in the timber, bundled up against the cold, watching and learning.
As a child, I was mesmerized by it all. I remember sitting quietly in the stand, completely captivated by the woods coming alive around me. I watched young bucks chase does through the timber, fawns darting and zooming through the leaves while their mothers fed calmly on acorns and nuts below. I watched squirrels wake up with the morning and listened as the woods settled into their rhythm. I watched my uncle harvest big deer that seemed larger than life to me then, and every bit of it deepened my love for the outdoors. It was never just about the hunt. It was about the experience, the patience, the family, and the privilege of being close enough to nature to witness it unfold.
That is what my dad gave me. That is what all of them gave me.
By that point in my life, sitting beside my dad in a stand had become more than a tradition. It was part of who I was. Season after season, year after year, we returned to the woods together in pursuit of a mature buck, sharing the quiet, the anticipation, and the hope that every hunter knows.
That morning, though, carried a weight unlike any other.
The day before had been Thanksgiving, and only hours earlier, we had received news that changed everything. My dad had just been diagnosed with stage IV cancer. The words were still fresh, still heavy, and still hard to fully process. Yet there we were, doing what we had always done: sitting side by side in the dark, waiting for daylight.
As the first light began to spread through the trees, the woods slowly woke up. The leaves underfoot had mostly turned brown by then, though a few patches of faded orange and gold still clung to the branches. It was a mild, sunny morning, crisp enough to remind you it was late November but comfortable enough to simply enjoy being there. Squirrels began stirring in the limbs above us, and the woods filled with those small, familiar sounds that had fascinated me since I was a child.
For the first couple of hours, the morning stayed quiet. We sat patiently, scanning the timber and the ravine behind our stand.
Then, around 8 a.m., the calm broke.
Behind us, we heard the sharp crunch of leaves as something moved quickly through the woods. Two does came running through the timber, passing behind our stand and heading toward the ravine. My dad and I slowly turned to watch them, careful not to make a sound. It was obvious they were not just wandering. Something was behind them.
Then we heard it.
A deep grunt, not far back in the timber.
Within seconds, a buck trotted into the ravine behind us, following the same path the does had taken. The moment I saw him, I knew he was something special.
He was not just big.
He was unique.
On his left antler, he carried three brow tines, something I had never seen before on a whitetail. Even though he was technically a ten-pointer, he carried incredible width and heavy mass at the bases of his antlers. He was mature, thick, and different in a way that immediately caught your eye.
My dad and I both recognized it at the same time.
This was the kind of buck you wait years for.
We hunt on my uncle’s property and have always believed in respecting the wildlife and letting bucks mature. We pass on a lot of deer each season, waiting for the right one. This buck was absolutely one worth waiting for.
My dad and I looked at each other for just a split second. No words were needed. Shooter.
In one smooth motion, I turned, drew my bow, settled the pin, and let the arrow fly. The buck lunged forward and bounded out of the ravine, crashing through the leaves as he ran.
Then the woods went quiet again.
We listened carefully and heard the final sound every bowhunter hopes for. The buck did not make it fifty yards before lying down near one of his fresh scrapes. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
We simply sat there, letting the moment settle over us.
Eventually we climbed down and followed the short trail through the timber. When we walked up to him, the buck looked even bigger on the ground. His antlers were wide, his bases were heavy, and that extra brow tine on the left side made him unlike any buck I had ever taken. But standing there beside him, I realized something.
The buck mattered.
But the moment mattered more.
All those years of being raised in the woods by the men in my family had led to mornings like this. My grandpa, my uncle, my dad, my cousins—all of them helped build the foundation for a life shaped by hunting, patience, respect for wildlife, and appreciation for the outdoors. And on that morning, with our hearts still heavy from the day before, I was reminded that the greatest part of hunting was never only the animal.
It was the people beside you.
November 24 will always be remembered as the day I shot the biggest and most unique buck of my life.
But more than that, it was one more sunrise in the woods with my dad, continuing a tradition that began when I was a little girl, and it meant even more on a day when we needed it most.
And that is the part of the story I will carry with me forever.