Reclamation of a Hunter

Last spring, I traveled to western Oklahoma for a conference during turkey season. I packed my shotgun and turkey calls, not knowing what this trip had in store. It had been years since I’d hunted, years since I’d let myself enjoy a wild morning. After becoming a mother, I wasn’t sure I’d ever want to hunt again. The emotions were too heavy. I felt nervous to go, but I needed to try.

The first evening, I scouted public land. If you’ve ever hunted unfamiliar public land, you know the feeling; it’s not just the uncertainty of where the animals are, it’s the unease of who else might be out there. As a woman, that unease can hit different. I sat by a small pond, enjoying the sounds of nature, when an old rusty van pulled in. There were three men in the van, none wearing camo. My stomach dropped, and I locked myself in my car and waited. Who knows what their intentions were, but once they left, I was done for the night, feeling scared and regretting my decision to turkey hunt.

The next morning, I asked a colleague if I could join him. Partly for the safety, partly because I needed a refresher. We heard a few distant gobbles on private land but no action. That afternoon, I was offered an opportunity to hunt on a private lands lease. Feeling more confident, I took it and headed out on my own again.

While hiking around, figuring out the lay of the land, I crested a ridge, startling some turkeys and cows. My heart was racing as I tucked myself into the first shrub I saw, fumbled on my box call and waited. To my surprise, they answered! I watched them cross a small opening and followed their red heads bobbing through the sage, but they never gave me a shot. The cows just stared at me like I was their evening entertainment. Maybe they gave me away. You can’t hide anything from a cow. After no further turkey action, I hiked to my car and headed back to the ranch for a sandwich and some rest, feeling excited about the potential of tomorrow.

The next day, I had a plan. I picked a tree near an abandoned house in a glade, knowing the turkeys were roosted nearby, then waited for sunrise. It became evident I had picked the wrong spot. I was so far away, I could only hear the fly down. I spent the morning chasing gobbles and flushing bobwhite quail, feeling both fear and freedom. Hunting stirs something primal: a mix of courage and vulnerability. It felt good just to be out there though, fighting my fears and anxiety, enjoying the outdoors.

As I headed back to my car for a late afternoon lunch, I heard a gobble and froze. A tom was strutting right next to my car. There was no cover between me and him, and he wouldn’t come my direction no matter what I tried, so I resigned myself to enjoying the show. He eventually crossed onto the neighbor’s land. I ate lunch, watched storm clouds roll in, and listened to gobbles that never came closer. Still no shots.

On the third day, I returned with resolve. I picked the perfect spot. I cozied myself up into the base of the tree, ready to see what the morning might bring. The dim light started to wake the forest. Through the haze, I heard rustling. My adrenaline started pumping. Not a turkey. It looked … fluffy? Strutting maybe? Grouse-sized? I didn’t even know if there were grouse here.

It was a skunk.

He wandered closer, and I bolted, grabbing my gun and abandoning my backpack. Moments later, I heard the turkeys fly down, right where I’d been sitting. Because of course they did.

From up the hill, I watched two toms strut and show off for their hens, right beside the skunk investigating my things. A mixture of frustration, stubborn pride and excitement kept me going. Later, I moved to a new spot. Maybe this was my lucky spot. A gobble surprised me from behind moments after I sat down, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. There he was, poking his goofy head over the ridge, barely five yards away. Heihei, the chicken from Moana, immediately came to mind (as a mom to twin girls that are obsessed with Moana!). We had a long stare down before he wandered off, putting as he went. He skirted me for hours, never quite close enough.

We were playing a slow game of tag, and it was almost cruel at that point.

By now, I was tired. Not just from waking up early to hunt, but from everything I had going on in life. Becoming a mother took so much out of me. That season had taken over everything. I wondered if I even wanted to be turkey hunting or if I was just giving in to peer pressure. But I was also proud because I was out there doing it. On my own. Relearning to just be alone with myself.

The final morning, my 4 o’clock alarm came way too soon. I debated on if I should keep trying. I was exhausted but a small part of me was also determined. I chose to drag myself out of bed for one more try. On the drive in, a deer ran into the side of my car. It was pitch black, and I was alone on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, contemplating the sheer absurdity of my luck this week, questioning everything. As I checked my car for damage and watched the deer limp away under the stars, I nearly called the hunt off right then. Maybe this was a sign that I should just quit. Something told me to keep going.

I arrived at the lease, still shaken from being hit by a deer. I quietly walked to my same, lucky tree in the dark. A tiny flicker of intuition was telling me this is it. Turkeys were gobbling from the roost. I made a few soft calls, so they knew I was there.

First light, fly down.

In the opposite direction. My goodness, this morning was not going as planned.

The tom was talking to me at least. I knew he was right over the hill in front of me. I kept telling myself that if he gobbled one more time and didn’t sound closer, I would creep over to him. And he kept gobbling, not getting any further away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of a tail fan. He was close. I stayed put. He disappeared again, still nearby. Not long after, I heard a hen come in. She was talking back to me when I called. Then I saw movement through the sage brush. The hen slipped out into an opening about 35 yards away from me. And behind her: him. Big, bold and beautiful. Never lifting his head, just following his own primal instincts.

I didn’t know what to do now! Panic was setting in. I’d never done this part alone! Someone had always been there to guide me. When he got to a clearing in the brush, I threw it all to the wind and yelled “HEY!”

It worked! He popped his head up! BOOM. And that was it.

My heart was pounding with adrenaline as I ran to him, breathless, overwhelmed. I stood over this bird, foot gently on his head as he flopped, tears in my eyes. A perfect shot. I had done it, from start to finish. Alone. Bravely. With patience. With fear. With the mother in me and the wild woman in me, both fully awake.

It wasn’t just a turkey. It was a reclaiming.

The gift wasn’t only in the harvest, though that part mattered too. The real gift was in the quiet moments alone: the morning light, the songs of the quail, the brush of the wind in tall grass, the reminder that I’m still that woman who finds herself in the wild. It wasn’t just about success, albeit the perfect finishing touch for this story. It was about sovereignty. It was about doing something hard. And sacred. On my own terms. About moving through the fear and fatigue and doubt and still showing up.

This was the first time I’d hunted since becoming a mother. I wasn’t sure this version of me still existed. In all the years postpartum, the idea of hunting, of taking a life, felt too overwhelming. Everything made me cry. Commercials, music, silly TikTok videos of dogs, the thought that one day my girls will go to college. Literally anything could turn on the waterworks. And here I was, alone in the woods, crying again. But this time, I didn’t cry from sorrow or sadness or loneliness. I cried because I remembered. I remembered that I am strong and powerful and soft. That I can be both hunter and nurturer all at once. I didn’t have to leave parts of myself behind just because I’ve become someone new.

The wild has always been where I come home to myself. This hunt - every missed opportunity, every gobble in the distance, every moment I questioned everything and wanted to turn back - brought me back to that place. Back to the version of me that feels whole and capable and deeply connected to the earth.

I sat with that turkey, bobwhites whistling in the background, in the stillness of nature, and I sobbed. “I did it by myself! I did it. I got him. I’m so grateful.” Not just for his life, but for what he gave me: courage, clarity, and a reunion with a part of myself I thought I lost.

Thank you – to the wild, to your courage, to the version of you that showed up even when it was hard.