Tag: deer

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The Winter Deer Hunt

By John Andrews

Deer are the most popular big game species hunted in South Dakota. The state earns nearly $4.8 million annually in license revenue. Photo by Jesse Brown Nelson.

We arrived just before the sun crested the eastern horizon. A small propane heater buzzed in the corner of the 4-by-8-foot shack, softening the bite of a 29-degree late November morning.

Our eyes strained through cloudy windows into the thick shelterbelt, watching for any movement. A hen pheasant clucked furiously somewhere inside the tangle of cottonwoods. A squirrel pounced back and forth between tiny branches that barely held his weight.

Our silent vigil was aided by 6 inches of snow that had fallen the week before. The draws and valleys, normally a monotone late autumn brown, were filled with white, making the deer we sought even more visible.

Deer are by far the most popular big game species hunted in South Dakota. Deer license sales, on average, are about three times greater than all other big game licenses, and generate $4.8 million annually in license fee revenue. In 2015, about 61,000 South Dakotans (7.5 percent of the population) and another 6,850 non-residents hunted deer in the state.

For many families, the winter deer hunt is a long held and cherished tradition. That’s what brought us to this deer blind on a farmstead north of Henry, in the far western edge of Codington County — to pass that tradition along to my son Joe, a newly licensed 12-year-old, experiencing his first hunt.

The hunt was a lesson in patience. Not a single deer appeared in the first hour of daylight, although we knew this stand of trees was a favored spot. Just three days earlier, a fine 4-by-4 had been harvested from this very shelterbelt. And two weeks earlier we watched two trophy bucks chase several does up the ridge on the far side of the trees. One of them stopped, alerted by the faintest of sounds coming from our hiding spot, and stared in our direction for what seemed an eternity.

As the sun finally peeked over the tops of low-lying clouds to our backs, the gnarled cottonwoods were bathed in golden light. Stubble in the field off to the south began to lose its coat of frost. A thin layer of fog formed over a small pond just beyond the trees, and slowly burned away as the sun rose higher into the sky. But no deer. More than once, Joe’s attention turned to his iPhone and a rousing game of Brain Dots to stem the boredom.

Just before 9 a.m., we saw three does trotting south to north through the trees. My young hunter quietly opened the hinged window and rested the barrel of his rifle on the ledge.”Shoot the last one,” our guide whispered. Nervous anticipation filled the shack. He had done well shooting at targets in the farmyard, but what would happen now that an actual deer stood in his crosshairs? For some hunters, this is the moment they learn that they simply can’t pull the trigger, despite the desire and preparation.

A shot rang out — but not from us. A hunter somewhere to our south had spied his own prize. The deer froze for an instant, and then ran north into thicker trees. The opportunity was lost.

Once again, we waited. Two young bucks wandered into a clearing from the east, but since Joe’s tag allowed only the harvest of one antlerless deer we watched as they jumped the barbed wire fence with ease and trotted into the trees.

At 9:40, we called it a morning, much to Joe’s disappointment. Deer are most active in the hours immediately around dawn and dusk, bedding down for much of the bright daylight hours. Later, we would have another chance.

Joe Andrews, a newly-licensed 12-year-old, discovered that the winter deer hunt can be a lesson in patience as he waited in the deer shack west of Watertown with uncle Eric Johnson.

The first written record of deer hunting by European explorers came in 1804, when Meriwether Lewis killed two mule deer at the mouth of the White River. Deer were abundant when homesteaders began flooding into Dakota Territory in the 1860s, which meant they were a steady food source for families eking out a sparse existence on the frontier. Deer numbers dropped so drastically that in 1883 the territorial legislature banned hunting from Jan. 1 to Sept. 1, hoping to help herds recover.

The animals rebounded, but slowly. More stringent legislation in the early 1900s and creation of the state Game, Fish and Parks Department in 1909 aided deer populations. A structured deer season was reintroduced in 1929, when 2,000 residents were given licenses to hunt in the Black Hills. An East River season was added in 1947, followed by a West River Prairie season in 1952. Deer hunting in South Dakota reached record levels in 2010, when 81,478 hunters purchased 128,250 licenses to hunt deer, resulting in a harvest of 95,000 animals. Today South Dakota offers separate seasons for archery, muzzleloaders and youth, among others, all under the watchful eye of Game, Fish and Parks, the agency tasked with ensuring South Dakota’s deer herds remain healthy and plentiful. At last count, 426,000 whitetails and 116,500 mule deer roamed the state.

We returned at 4:10 p.m., with 41 minutes of daylight left and 71 minutes to hunt. It was 46 degrees; no need for the heater. Now, as we faced west, we stared into the brightly setting sun. There wasn’t a breath of wind. A squirrel — maybe the same one we saw just hours earlier — leapt from thin branch to thin branch, evoking a sense of dÈj‡ vu.

But this wasn’t a repeat of our morning in the blind. After barely more than 30 minutes, three deer ambled along the fence line. Again, the window quietly opened. We watched as they nosed through the undergrowth, pausing every now and then to sniff the air and listen for sounds that didn’t belong.

Joe trained his attention on the large deer in the rear, waiting for it to emerge from the brush. Silence filled the blind. The deer stepped forward and raised its head.

The loud crack of his rifle shot reverberated throughout the small confines of the shack. Two deer turned and ran, while the third reared up on its back legs. It cleared the barbed wire, stumbled and fell no more than 20 feet into the clearing. It was 4:51. Sunset.

Another November is now upon us; talk of returning to the blind has permeated suppertime conversations for several weeks. Joe was lucky enough to secure an East River buck tag for 2019, in addition to his youth tag. His trophy buck roams this very morning somewhere in the trees of Codington County. Soon, we’ll be back for another season among the squirrels, pheasants and the chill of a late autumn day.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the November/December 2017 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call (800) 456-5117.

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Oh Deer

Photographer Christian Begeman avoided the big deals Thanksgiving weekend and went for big game instead. His travels took him to Walworth County, Custer State Park and the Badlands, where he found deer and other wildlife engaged in romantic pursuits.”I came across a mule buck that had added a crown of thistle to his rack. It must’ve worked, as I watched him court a doe and take care of business,” Begeman says.”The bighorn sheep were active and I heard the crack of horns echo through the valleys more than once. I did not witness any of those hostilities, but the big rams were on the move.”

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Mount Moriah Winter

Mount Moriah Cemetery, named for the land in Genesis 22, looms directly over Deadwood. Scores of the poor and nameless lie unremembered in pauper’s graves, but most tourists come to read the stones of colorful Deadwood characters like Seth Bullock, Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane. In winter visitors are few and deer feel free to roam and rest there. Photos by John Mitchell.

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Writer’s Block in South Dakota

Editor’s Note — Pierre native Joseph Bottum went to Washington and built a career by writing about politics and religion. When he and his family came home to settle in Hot Springs, he knew there’d be challenges to continuing his career path in South Dakota. But he wasn’t thinking that the new roadblocks would have antlers and four legs. We reprint this essay from The Weekly Standard.

By Joseph “Jody” Bottum

She seemed more curious than frightened, the doe-eyed … doe, I suppose, and we studied each other for a long moment or two. She, calm in a farmer’s field, looking over the fence line. And me, unmoving in the wreck, staring back at her through the shattered glass.

Then some click of the cooling engine, or maybe a groan of bent metal and drip of radiator fluid, convinced her that I wasn’t worth her time. The deer trotted a few yards further along the fence, leapt it with a neatfoot bounce, and disappeared off into the woods — leaving me to climb my way out of my broken car and scrabble back up to the highway, hoping to flag down some help.

Odd, really, to see her so clearly, so sharply, when I never actually saw the other deer, the one I hit at 80 miles an hour on a South Dakota highway–the one that left me with a couple of cracked ribs, a chipped collarbone, a gouged ankle, and a sprained wrist. Oh, and a spectacular set of bruises placed around my body with the precision of a drunken xylophonist.

Plus, of course, a totaled car. There are, it is said, more deer in North America today than there were when the Pilgrims landed. Certainly there are more out on the western prairies. The Homestead Acts often required the planting of acres of trees to prove a farmer’s claim, and those windbreaks and narrow groves have added up to a massive national nature preserve: a refuge for white-tails and mule deer. Of course, they then wander out onto the highway, where there’s not much refuge for either deer or the drivers who hit them.

Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to, in the days since my accident, has a story of animals on the road. The problem, in my case, is that the first notice I had was the darkening of my field of vision as the windshield bowed in at me. Picturing the accident now, I realize that the deer probably didn’t see me, either. Driving into the dark, with the twilight behind me, my car would have been invisible, and the deer must have jumped up out of the long fall grass of the road’s shoulder at exactly the right moment to slide across the hood of the car and land, back first, on the windshield.

But I see that only in retrospect. At the time, the craze of cracks in the safety glass left me blind as I flinched and swerved, only to slide sideways down the steep embankment and bang along a 50-yard line of–what else?–trees planted as a farmer’s windbreak maybe a hundred years before. Eventually, the fender was bent in enough that the front wheel could catch on one of the trees, swinging the car 180 degrees so that the driver’s side could get its own share of smashing.

I’m not sure where, along the way, the deer fell off. A little blood on the fender, as though I’d clipped its legs, and some hair on the windshield shards were all that was left–even on the trail of plowed down grass I’d left behind. However badly injured, the deer somehow managed to walk away from the accident.

Which is better than I did. For me, it was more of a crawl out of the car and up the embankment to wait for help. After I declined an ambulance, a paramedic told me I’d need X-rays and taping up, and, sore as I was, I’d be even sorer the next day, once everything tightened up. So I signed the highway patrolman’s accident report and had the tow-truck driver drop me off at a Sioux Falls car-rental agency– deciding that, since I still faced a six-hour drive back home to the Black Hills, I might as well do it immediately rather than wait for the painful stiffness of the next day.

That may have been a mistake. The Midwestern demand for self-sufficiency, an often self-defeating virtue drilled into my boyhood, was strong enough to get me up and moving. Strong enough, for that matter, to keep me going about as far as Rapid City. But, man, the hour in the car beyond that, driving home into the Hills, was a trial.

Still, I figured that if the deer I hit could walk away from the accident — if the other deer, the one I watched from my wreck, could stay calm even after I’d smashed through her woods — I could probably make it home, however painful the final miles. And though I saw a few deer in the woods along the way, they must have decided enough was enough. None of them jumped out into the road, and I made it at last home to painkillers and bed.

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West River Photo Hunt

By Christian Begeman

I’m not a normal hunter. Not like my older brother, anyway. He’s a true hunter. Growing up in West River country, I rode along with him from time to time as a spotter. I suppose I provided companionship and moral support but almost always left the shooting to him, mostly because he was pretty good with a gun. He once spotted and shot a deer from our back sidewalk without the taking the time to put shoes on. I believe he still has the antlers, mounted with the title”In Stocking Feet” printed below.

It wasn’t like I was a bad shot. I spent countless hours honing my skills with my .22 caliber rifle in the prairie dog town a few miles west of our house. That said, I never was much good with a shotgun. I’d rather hunt grouse with my .22. One fall afternoon I did just that with my hunter brother. He made fun of me, like any good older brother would. I silenced him as I took a grouse of the haystack on the hill with my first shot. One shot, one grouse. Of course I didn’t hit anything else all day, but my point had been made.

Nowadays I shoot wildlife with different gear. A 100-400mm lens is my weapon of choice and instead of antlers on the wall I hope to get photos that might be wall-worthy. This means I don’t get to enjoy deer jerky or mom’s wonderful pheasant gravy over mashed potatoes, but I get to enjoy all the other fun of hunting in South Dakota, and maybe more. Many of the animals that are off limits to hunters are not off limits to me. I also get to shoot after the sun goes down and in our national and state parks. Our park systems offer some of the best wildlife viewing opportunities this side of Yellowstone.

I took some time off before Thanksgiving to do a little hunting my way before seeing the folks for the holiday. I started off in the Badlands. That first morning I was up and out before the sun and on my way. Most wildlife is active early in the morning or in the last hours of the day, so I knew if I was going to be able to see anything interesting I needed to be out early. A nice bonus to doing this is being able to witness the beauty of daybreak. Let me tell you, dawn over the Badlands is truly a sight to behold. The following morning as I was driving through Custer State Park in search of early morning elk, I was treated to another colorful sunrise. I eventually found elk in Wind Cave National Park, but they were quite shy and I didn’t get as close as I wanted. No matter, the thrill of just seeing them on the horizon line while hearing the coyotes howl across the canyons made the day a winner anyway.

I’ve been thinking about how many animals I saw on this two and a half day excursion and it really is quite a list. From a fleeting glimpse of a bobcat to a bald eagle in the middle of a prairie dog town as well as bighorns at sunset and a lone coyote howling in the late afternoon, it was a thrill for both the eyes and camera lens. I didn’t get to photograph all I saw, but thrill of being out there and hunting for the”shot” was enough. In fact, it’s enough to keep me going back year after year. Now if I can just get some deer jerky from my brother…

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog.


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Close Encounter at Choteau Creek

By Roger Wiltz


When I fell through thin ice into Choteau Creek, I thought deer hunting was over for the day. My only hope was to escape the icy water alive and retreat to home and hearth.

As I settled into the water, I instinctively raised the rifle over my head. Maybe I did it because I had read about outdoorsmen who were saved from drowning when their rifle or shotgun straddled a hole they had made in the ice.

My stupidity bothered me almost as much as the cold water. Any fool should know a creek with moving water might have thin ice. By good fortune, my accident occurred in a creek less than 15 feet wide and shallow enough that my feet hit bottom while my head was still above water, which I am sure is more pleasant than a full bath.

Still, hypothermia didn’t feel far away so I wasted no time in wading toward shore. The depth didn’t change much with the first step, but I was pleased that it became more shallow with the second and the third. I broke ice with the butt of my gun as I proceeded to shore … or should I say, to the icy wall.

The creek bank was so steep and slippery that repeated attempts to climb onto solid ground seemed futile. A rope would have been good. I looked at my rifle sling and decided it wouldn’t be much help to a cowboy catching a steer but it might be enough of a rope for me.

I took the sling off my Ruger and threw the rifle onto the bank. To add some length to my rope I took the belt off my pants. (You probably don’t know this, but it’s not easy taking a belt off wet trousers with cold fingers.) Finally, I connected the belt to the sling and my first cast at a close-by tree branch was successful. I pulled my frozen self onto the snow-covered bank.

I had propped myself up on my elbows and was wondering whether I could make it to the farmhouse a half-mile away when I heard a crash in the brush and looked up to see a big whitetail buck charging my way. He was less than 30 yards away and it seemed he was intent on running right over the top of me.

Maybe all this reads like a scene from an Indiana Jones adventure but I was a high school principal in Wagner at the time, and went hunting and fishing to get away from the routine stresses and strains of small town life. I had been looking forward to the East River deer season for weeks and my father and I spent opening day together, hunting Missouri River bottomland. We held out for bucks but all I saw were does, a two-pointer and coyotes.

The temperature dropped with the sun on that November Saturday afternoon and the stirring winds and ashen-grey sky suggested snow. Sure enough, I awoke Sunday to a foot of snow and a raging blizzard. Only a fanatical hunter would consider venturing out in such conditions. I pulled on my boots and stepped outdoors.

I knew of an abandoned farmstead northeast of town where a four-point buck often bedded down. Certainly he would seek shelter there in this storm. I didn’t plan to drag the deer back home in the minus 50 degree wind chills. I’d just field-dress him and hang him in one of the vacant buildings.

The half-mile hike into the wind was brutal but I knew it would ensure that I arrived ahead of my scent. There must have been 100 pheasants in the jungle of cedar, lilac, mulberry, honey-suckle and Russian olive that formed a perimeter on three sides of the farm place. The birds were reluctant to fly and they dodged behind or under the boughs. I’d never seen pheasants act like that.

After a thorough search, I realized the buck was not there so I returned home, with the wind. The storm howled all night and continued Monday. No school for this principal. The house across the road was nothing more than a fleeting mirage. The Dakota winds played eerie notes into the night on our home’s north rain gutter.

But, as with all prairie storms, it stopped as quickly as it had begun. The dead stillness was accented by bitter cold and starlit skies. County and township snowplows would start their rounds at daybreak but school was called off for Tuesday.

Thus it was that opening weekend of the deer season stretched into a fourth day for me.”What luck,” I thought to myself as I filled the pickup box with snow so that the added weight would keep my back wheels gripping as we headed for Choteau Creek. There was not the faintest whisper of a wind and the 15-degree temperature felt unseasonably warm. Against the white background of fresh snow, I expected to see deer everywhere. But after three hours of checking favorite whitetail haunts I hadn’t seen any.

A South Dakota blizzard will leave 10 feet of snow in protected areas while open areas will be relatively free, so I was able to walk over open prairie that separated the wooded bottoms from the giant bluffs that overlook the Missouri River.

I wondered whether ducks or geese were sitting on the river, and how much of the water was still free of ice, so I hiked to the bluff’s top, momentarily forgetting about my search for deer. From my high vantage point I soon discovered why I hadn’t found deer earlier. They were all gathered together in a cattail slough about 40 yards below me — maybe 50 in all.

Taking a shot was out of the question. There would be no practical way to retrieve the deer. More important, my license was for Charles Mix County and I was standing on the wrong side of Choteau Creek, in Bon Homme County. However, I figured the deer might work their way to the mouth of the creek and into fields of alfalfa stacks and corn piles where I had permission to hunt so I took a stand along the most likely route.

I waited for two hours … more than enough time to wonder whether I knew anything about deer and their habits. Finally, I begrudgingly worked my way back to my pickup in the yard of the Soukup family farm. I half-heartedly worked at slipping my rifle into its case when I caught some movement on a hill above the creek — a half-mile to the south. My naked eye told me it was a deer and reflected sunlight off an antler indicated it might be a big buck.

Fresh excitement came over me and I decided to walk down the Choteau Creek so I could hide as I advanced. Yes, I checked the firmness of the ice with my first few steps, but my worries were forgotten as I neared the spot where I thought the deer might have been.

I was looking for a place where I could climb onto solid ground when the ice broke. I thought my problems were over for the day as I finally crawled out of the cold water and prepared to rise up and hustle, as quickly as frozen legs would allow, toward the pickup.

That’s when the deer charged. I grabbed for my rifle when I realized he was going to run over the top of me. Much of the rifle was covered with snow. Would snow in the barrel cause the gun to rupture if I fired it? It’s funny how many questions enter your mind when you’re in a hurry.

I raised the rifle and held it at arm’s length with my right hand while supporting myself with my left elbow. The buck was close enough to detect his bad breath when I squeezed the trigger and a four-pointer tumbled, literally, at my feet. Soaked as I was, a warm feeling swept through my body. At the farmhouse, dry clothes and a warmed-over Thanksgiving dinner offered still more relief.

Was the buck the same one I had seen earlier? I don’t know. I didn’t retrace his steps. Did he see me lying in the snow? Was he going to intentionally run over the top of me? I don’t know that, either. I’m guessing he just happened to be running full-out. Perhaps he felt like running after being huddled down so long in the storm. Deer are like kids in that respect.

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the Nov/Dec 1991 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.

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Magic Moments at Little Moreau

By Christian Begeman

As if the grand landscape stretching out under the golden light of the sunrise wasn’t enough…and as much as I reveled in the sweetly scented West River breeze when the evening dew settled on the prairie grasses, it still wasn’t the highlight of my visit to Little Moreau Recreation Area near Timber Lake, SD. On my last day in the park, I had one of those experiences that bordered on magical. But let me back up a bit before I get to that story.

Little Moreau Recreation Area and I have some history together. Roughly 20 miles as the crow flies to the southwest is the ranch and farm of my youth. The picturesque Little Moreau Creek, which meanders through the park, was also the inspiration for the name of the Little Moreau Athletic Conference, of which my high school (Isabel Wildcats) was a member. To be named a Little Moreau All-Conference basketball player was a pretty big deal to me 20-plus years ago.

I also have fond memories of summer church picnics at the park. I clearly recall gathering at the softball diamond for a spirited game after we picnicked. At that age, it never occurred to me that the pastor, deacons and Sunday school teachers might be able to hit the ball into deep left field and to the trees at the edge of the creek. I’m not sure why, but playing with them and having them cheer me on as I hit the ball over the second baseman’s head is a special memory for me. It plays back in slow motion when I recall it. It pretty much is my definition of a perfect summer afternoon.

I never swam, fished or waterskied at the main dam in the park, but I watched a lone boat pull a skier in figure eights around the small surface area at sunset in early July. It reminded me of learning to ski at Isabel Lake, which was also small. You had to always turn to keep up enough speed to stay on top of the surface and avoid the tall reeds along the shoreline.

The Little Moreau Creek Valley begins to deepen just a few miles northwest of the park. By the time it exits, the beautiful valley is flanked by majestic shortgrass prairie hills as it makes its way to join the Moreau River near the small town of Whitehorse. According to the South Dakota Game Fish and Parks website, the area was used by both the Sioux and Cheyenne as winter shelter before modern times. This sheltered area also means that wildlife is abundant. Especially deer…

Which brings me back to the highlight of my time at the park. On my last morning there, I pulled into one of the picnic areas. As I got out of my vehicle and gathered my camera gear, I saw movement at the edge of the tall grass of the old softball diamond. I quietly shut the door and moved to the nearest tree.

I peeked around the tree trunk and saw two fawns moving my way. I was too far away for any good photos so I took a chance and moved to another tree about 50 feet closer when both their heads were down and eating grass.

SNAP! I stepped on a small branch right as I arrived at the next tree. I was sure the deer heard and were gone. I put my camera to my face and looked around the tree trunk. Lo and behold, the twins were still there and much closer. I held my breath and did my best statue impression. About this time the twins caught a glimpse of my CRV in the parking area and therefore didn’t seem to sense me standing there. The closest fawn was a mere 20 feet away and dappled in the beautiful morning light. I couldn’t believe what was in my camera viewfinder!

Click, click… And just like that they were gone and into the trees. I guess that is why they call it the great outdoors. You never know when something magical will happen. But I’ll tell you what, you will definitely increase your chances of experiencing greatness by spending time at Little Moreau Recreation Area. I did and have the photos to prove it.

Christian Begeman grew up in Isabel and now lives in Sioux Falls. When he’s not working at Midcontinent Communications he is often on the road photographing our prettiest spots around the state. Follow Begeman on his blog. To view Christian’s columns on other South Dakota state parks and recreation areas, visit his state parks page.



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She Shoots Like a Girl

By Bernie Hunhoff

It takes a lot of people to produce and publish South Dakota Magazine, about a dozen to be exact. And we’re proud of every one of them — both for what they do during work hours here at 410 E. Third Street, and also for all they do after hours.

Our staff includes two yoga instructors, a marathon runner, several great chefs, a hockey mom, a Girl Scout leader, etc. They are also dedicated community volunteers, super moms and dads, and all their children are above average. You get the point.

But we have only one deer hunter. That would be Jana Jonas Lane, a mostly-quiet and reserved young lady who runs our circulation department. If you get the magazine by mail (as most of our readers do) then you can thank her, because she manages our 43,000-name mailing list.

Jana and her husband Jim have two young daughters, so you can imagine how busy she is. She occasionally likes to do a little hunting, but Jim teases that she “shoots like a girl.” He hasn’t said that for a week now.

The story goes like this. All the local hunters east of Yankton have been watching and waiting for a big 5-point buck that appeared on game cams in the Jim River valley over the summer. The whitetail was very cagey, and wasn’t often spotted in daylight.

On opening weekend of the East River season, Jana spent a few Saturday hours in the cold and howling wind, wondering why she wasn’t indoors with her two little girls, Rain and Rose. She saw a few does and a big buck with a broken antler, but eventually she went home to warm up.

Sunday dawned with a shining, warm sun. The wind was down and pheasants were cackling. Geese were flying overhead. “It’s amazing what sunshine will do for the soul after a cloudy day,” she said. “I saw a couple of does pass through our CRP and I looked over and saw a really nice buck as he was headed into a tree line.” It was the big Jim River buck!

She says her heart started racing, and she told herself to relax and be ready. Minutes passed but he didn’t reappear. Meanwhile, a second buck walked by. It stopped to watch something. Then a doe appeared and crawled through the fence between a pasture and trees. The second buck chased after her.

Jana heard crashing sounds and saw a blur of motion in the switch grass and big blue stem. Eventually, the big buck appeared. He paused about 150 yards in front of her.

Then a young buck came along. It looked at Jana and slowly walked into the trees. A fourth buck came along, chasing after a doe, and they disappeared into the tree line.

Jana took aim at the 5-pointer, through the scope of her .308 Remington, and fired. Just like a girl. She got the Jim River buck.

She’s not a braggart, but nothing’s stopping the rest of us from telling everyone we can.