The plan was simple—two desert deer tags.
One for the 12-year-old. One for the 17-year-old.
The 17-year-old’s hunt ended before it ever began. One week before the opener he wrecked on his dirt bike and shattered his foot. Three months minimum on the bench. Just like that, his tag turned into tag soup.
That left it all on the shoulders of the 12-year-old.
Armed with his new Seekins 6.5 CM “great kids and women’s caliber BTW” ), me, him, and Grandpa loaded up with one goal: find a desert giant.
We had five days to get it done.
Days 1–4 were all discipline. We glassed hard, hunted harder, and passed deer most kids wouldn’t hesitate on. Small bucks walked. Forkies lived another day. The kid stayed locked in while we watched a group of six bucks all week, waiting for the right moment.
Day 5 came fast.
Final morning. Final chance.
He made the call.
Out of that group of six, he picked the herd bull forky—the one he’d earned after four days of restraint. What started as a 1.5-mile stalk turned into a 350-yard prone shot, cactus buried squarely where the sun doesn’t shine. No excuses. No rushing. He settled in, laid the wood, and sent that fork straight to the freezer.
Perfect execution.
Grandpa rolled the SxS to within a few hundred yards and we made short work of him from there.
This kid is a problem.
His second buck this season.
Fifth big game animal this year.
He’s got an itchy trigger finger and a healthy dose of bloodlust—but what impressed me most was the self-control. Passing that buck for four straight days wasn’t easy. I knew when Day 5 showed up, it was over.
And it was.
Hell of a hunt. Hell of a kid.
The future of this sport is going to be just fine.
Stay tuned all these adventures will be turned into films this spring. We have two full time video guys on staff now they make us look way cooler than we are.
One for the 12-year-old. One for the 17-year-old.
The 17-year-old’s hunt ended before it ever began. One week before the opener he wrecked on his dirt bike and shattered his foot. Three months minimum on the bench. Just like that, his tag turned into tag soup.
That left it all on the shoulders of the 12-year-old.
Armed with his new Seekins 6.5 CM “great kids and women’s caliber BTW” ), me, him, and Grandpa loaded up with one goal: find a desert giant.
We had five days to get it done.
Days 1–4 were all discipline. We glassed hard, hunted harder, and passed deer most kids wouldn’t hesitate on. Small bucks walked. Forkies lived another day. The kid stayed locked in while we watched a group of six bucks all week, waiting for the right moment.
Day 5 came fast.
Final morning. Final chance.
He made the call.
Out of that group of six, he picked the herd bull forky—the one he’d earned after four days of restraint. What started as a 1.5-mile stalk turned into a 350-yard prone shot, cactus buried squarely where the sun doesn’t shine. No excuses. No rushing. He settled in, laid the wood, and sent that fork straight to the freezer.
Perfect execution.
Grandpa rolled the SxS to within a few hundred yards and we made short work of him from there.
This kid is a problem.
His second buck this season.
Fifth big game animal this year.
He’s got an itchy trigger finger and a healthy dose of bloodlust—but what impressed me most was the self-control. Passing that buck for four straight days wasn’t easy. I knew when Day 5 showed up, it was over.
And it was.
Hell of a hunt. Hell of a kid.
The future of this sport is going to be just fine.
Stay tuned all these adventures will be turned into films this spring. We have two full time video guys on staff now they make us look way cooler than we are.
