Araya's Outdoor Adventures

Tag: girlshunttoo

  • A Boost in Morale: Overcoming A Bear Drought

    A Boost in Morale: Overcoming A Bear Drought

    June 12th, 2025

    Six days of no bears makes a hound man a bit crazy. So much so, that you start to wonder if there is in fact any bears in the woods that you’re hunting in. As my dad, Andy Rasmussen, declared after six days of no bears, “There ain’t no bears in these woods!”

    There Ain’t No Bears In These Woods

    After a day of no bear tracks, races, or any hard strikes, Dad, my brothers, AJ and Adam, and I cruised our way down to the hot springs twenty minutes away from camp.

    Clouds rolled in while we wrapped up our soak in the springs, and with it came Dad’s renewed hope.

    “The bears got be moving now.” Dad said, taking in the clouds looming above.

    “You’ve been saying that the last six days, Dad.” Aj replied, hands on hips, a cowboy boot casually propped on top of a river rock.

    “Well, one of these times it’ll be true.” Dad smirked.

    The guys had scoured the loops around camp several times a day trying to run some bears. But the little buggers were being tricky, crossing at night, or not crossing the roads at all. It got to the point that Dad considered cutting his losses and going home early. However, the refreshing natural occurring hot springs, and his own determination, kept him from leaving the area.

    So, after I arrived six days into their trip, fresh to go, the guys on the other hand, were dragging. As six days of no bears, makes a person a bit crazy. I just hoped I’d be the their lucky charm and we’d end the bear drought with our evening hunt, despite our lack of luck earlier that morning.

    Did You Guys See A Bear?

    A quick change of clothes, some dinner, and load up of the dogs later, and we were once again making the loop around Four Corners. AJ, the designated chauffeur for the evening, drove us along to the thump and beat of rock music, Dad taking the evening off after having to drive from 3:30am to 1pm.

    Adam and I, on the other hand, chilled in the back, both lost to our devices.

    About a mile in to our hunt, indistinct words came from the front of the truck before suddenly, AJ gunned it down the road.

    The hounds broke out into a ruckus of a strike. Gravel crunched. Indistinct words came from the cab of the truck again, and then AJ slammed into park, jerking us all around like bobble heads. Doors left ajar, Dad and AJ scurried to the tailgate, leaving Adam and me confused, and a bit concussed.

    The dogs were dumped loose, screaming up the sandy mountain and around the soaring Ponderosa Pines that made up the area’s landscape.

    Adam and I looked to each other, then back outside. Scurrying out, we hastened to see what was going on.

    The dogs came back around a minute later, the dust and excitement of the race throwing them off the track. Dad hollered them back up the steep incline, and for the second go around, the hounds screamed up it.

    Striding over to Dad propped against the truck on his hand-held Garmin, I asked, “What happened? Did a bear cross or something?”

    Looking up from his GPS, he quirked a brow. “Yeah, a yearling crossed right in front of us. You’d know that if you’d been paying attention.”

    I mean he wasn’t wrong, but did he have to call me out like that?

    A Running Bear

    AJ cruised us down the road until we were able to flip around and head back towards the dogs, who were now paralleling the road behind us. It took about a minute, and then we were within hearing range once again.

    The truck jerked to a stop, but the radio played on, overshadowing the dogs barking two hundred yards up the mountain from us.

    “Turn that off!” I whisper-yelled, half hanging out the window, phone in hand.

    The truck rattled for a moment, and then there was silence. The hounds’ barks doubled in volume. But to my chagrin, they kept side-hilling along the mountain, leaving us in their dust. Rather than crossing down in front of us, where I could’ve gotten a video.

    We hit Four Corners again, taking the middle split, but we only got about a half mile down it before Dad directed AJ to turn around again, the bear having decided to turn and head straight for the road we had just left.

    We bumped, shook, and rattled our way to the dogs, until we screeched to a halt fifty yards short of the race. Doors slammed and we all went to running. Dad, the only one without a phone, caught the bear crossing, but the rest of us missed it. The little bugger quick as it lopped across the road into the bushes to the right, crossing the creek a second later.

    Thankfully, it only went about another seven hundred yards or so and treed. So, after some painstaking efforts to park the truck, AJ still a rookie driver at the age of sixteen, we hiked in to see the first bear ran and caught over the last six days.

    A Little Morale Booster

    Seven hundred yards of being raked across by trees and bushes, landed us at what we assumed was a treed bear.

    The dogs’ barks echoed around us, the sound music to our ears. No more drought. No more wondering whether there were bears in these woods or not. Because we did it. We’d caught a bear. It just may have taken us six grueling days to do so, was all.

    To the right of the skid road we’d walked out on, the hounds circled a pile of boulders. Chewy, Rocky, and Ace’s heads were deep into the rocks, the rest of the hounds standing around them, heads up to the sky barking their hearts out.

    Crawling down to them, we peeked in and saw the light brown snout of the yearling we’d caught. Body tucked underneath a boulder, the little feller stayed out of reach of both the dogs and us.

    Patting the dogs’ heads, we said our ‘good jobs’ and rounded everything up, ready to go.

    The thick overgrowth of the skid road once again raked over us, sweat dripping down our foreheads, the dogs panting and trotting along with us.

    “Welp. That was a nice little morale booster. Let’s go find us another.” Dad said, his long legs striding through the growth, his head held a little higher.

    He was right, we did in fact have more bears to catch, now that the bear drought was over, we were ready to get ‘er done. We had AJ and I’s tags to fill after all. There was no more time for messing around.

    If you want to watch this hunt in video format, check out the link below!

    https://www.tiktok.com/@arayanicole_20/video/7524073442832829709?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7524070114279835166

    Tell Me About Your Story

    Have you ever went through a bear drought? Or maybe some other game drought?

    Well that is all she adventured, live life to the fullest and get out and hunt!!

    Araya Rasmussen

    July 6th, 2025

  • Shotguns and Turkey Hunting: Overcoming Gun Shyness & Becoming a Certified Turkey Hunter

    Shotguns and Turkey Hunting: Overcoming Gun Shyness & Becoming a Certified Turkey Hunter

    April 2013

    How Many Turkeys Does It Take To Pull The Trigger?

    How many toms did you have to see in full strut while turkey hunting before you found the courage to pull the trigger? Well, for me it was five, maybe even ten if I am being honest. It wasn’t because I was scared of turkeys, or anything like that. Nope. I was afraid of the shotgun. It was loud, had a killer kickback, and I was positive the gun was going to go off every time I reset the hammer. So, my solution to that was to not pull the hammer back at all when a turkey came in on Dad and I at full strut. And if I did, I let Dad de-arm the gun for me.

    But after witnessing me pass up so many perfect toms, my father, Andy Rasmussen, a big-game outfitter based out of Idaho, had had enough of my gun shyness. So, after that fifth (or maybe tenth) turkey mess up, he’d decided no more passes were going to be given. It was time for me to get over my fear of the shotgun. Otherwise, he was done taking me turkey hunting.

    My First Wild Turkey

    It was an early spring morning. The birds were chirping, and the sun had peeked over the tops of the trees twenty minutes prior. It was a peaceful morning. Ruined only by my own anxiety over the hunt to come. Would I finally fire the shotgun? Would I miss? What if I somehow managed to shoot myself, or Dad on accident? The possibilities for my future mess-ups were endless. 

    My right leg bounced up and down. Up and down. My hands fidgeted in my lap. And my mind swirled. Catching Dad’s side-eye, I grabbed a hold of my thigh. Stop that. Everything’s fine. I’m totally going to shoot a turkey today.

    The truck came to a stop. This was it. It was time to get this show on the road. No more messing around, otherwise Dad may not take me out turkey hunting again.

    “Let’s go, Araya.” Dad grabbed the gun and exited the truck.

    My brows furrowed. “What are we doing? Don’t we need the turkey call?” I looked forlornly at the abandoned object, sitting on the dashboard ready to go.

    “Nope. We’re going to do some target practicing.” He rummaged in the back of the Toyota, grabbing abandoned pop cans as he went. “We got to get you over this fear of the shotgun. So, I’m going to have you shoot these cans off of the log over there.” His head dropped and pointed southwest, directing my attention to the log in question.

    Blood rushed to my ears and my hands started to shake. “What? NO! Right now? I thought we were huntin’?”

    Dad’s eyes seared into me. “This is a part of huntin’, Araya. Now, come on, you got some cans to hit.” A rare smile graced his gruff face, highlighting his five o’clock shadow.

    Target Practice

    My feet dragged as I trailed after him, in no hurry to rush this along. No matter what he said. I still had lots of apprehension about handling the shotgun. It was not my friend. Honestly, I’d hardly call it an acquaintance of mine.

    Gravel crunched underfoot as I closed the last few yards to the log. The area was cleared of trees and brush, leaving us in a great spot to see our surroundings. You never know when another hunter may come up on you, and you don’t want to accidentally shoot them after all. Especially since most people that hunted in this area did not wear orange, including Dad and myself. 

    My target, the log, splayed across the forest floor with zero branches left attached, the years turning them into deadfall to litter the forest floor with. The whole thing was rotted, which would allow the bullets to sink rather than ricochet off the wood.

    Dad grabbed my shoulders and drew me back a few big steps from the log. “Okay, we’re going to start back here, and then once you get more comfortable, we will step back even farther. We are going to keep doing this until you get more comfortable with pulling the trigger.” He finished maneuvering me into position and then handed me the gun. “Alright. Aim and fire.” He left out all the in-between, the words too redundant for his liking.

    Overcoming The Fear Of The Shotgun

    My left eyebrow pitched, almost touching my hairline. “Um, yeah. Sure, I’ll do just that.” My hands shook as I shouldered the gun. The safety came off and the hammer drew back precariously. The barrel tightened in my right hand as my left index finger rested around the trigger. Fresh air and the smell of pine filled me, no better way to calm myself than smelling mountain air. On the exhale I closed my right eye and aimed.

    “BOOM!”

    The gun recoiled with a jerk. I held my shoulder firm, but my eyes closed and my face pinched. The log, while my intended target, didn’t receive a single pellet of the buckshot. Dang it. The gun fell to my side.

    Dad removed his hands from his ears, and declared, “ You flinched. Try again without flinching.” With a nod he placed his hands back over his ears, leaving no room for argument.

    My lips thinned, turning into a fine line. Despite the displeasure that filled me and the lack of confidence in my shooting abilities at this point, I pulled the gun back up and ran through all the motions again; pump, safety, hammer, and fire. 

    “BOOM! Thump.”

    I blinked at least ten times if not twenty trying to process the fact I had managed to hit the tree on the second try. Woohoo! I’m getting better at this! Maybe I could be…

    “Again!” Dad demanded. There was no room for bragging or for getting cocky in his book. Nope. There was only practice and perfection. Especially when it came to turkey hunting.

    Turkey Call

    A half a box of bullets and an earache later, Dad decided I was good to go. My new target would be moving and a whole hell of a lot smaller, but I’d managed to attain some precision with my shots. They weren’t always accurate, no I was not that good, but one didn’t need to be completely accurate with a shotgun. The buckshot expanded out enough to make up for a slight variance in accuracy. Rifles, on the other hand, were different. You had to be more accurate with their single projectile to make sure it was well and truly aimed at the heart. But, with the shotgun the turkey’s head only had to be within the buckshot’s spread. 

    Trees and mountains ambled by as we drove around calling at all of the good spots Dad knew turkeys roamed, hoping for responses. The call, of the wood box variety, was chalked up every so often, as Dad’s calling constantly rubbed the substance off. His pristine scraping with the top portion of the call against the bottom sounded just like a hen. I had attempted to mimic it in between traveling from one point to the next, but my actions only headed horrible screeches from the object rather than the top notch results Dad achieved. So, I abandoned my efforts and left him to do his thing. He was the master after all, and I was the student.

    At the fourth attempt to get a tom to respond to us, the sounds of a gobble filled the air. One would almost describe the sound as a gurgle followed by the ruffling of feathers if you were close enough. However, we were still a few hundred yards from it, so all we heard was the gurgling sounds of the tom’s gobble. 

    The Hike

    Dad tossed me a piece of clothing and said, “Grab the gun and put this on.” 

    The material rubbed between my hands as I inspected it. The rough netting of the neck gator met my fingers. With a look at Dad I could tell he had his own on, he just hadn’t raised it from his neck yet to cover the lower half of his face. Instead, it was tucked into the hood of his black Carhartt sweatshirt, which he had in turn tucked under a light camo jacket. The matching bottoms to the camo top also covered his legs. Turkeys were a lot smarter than you’d think. So, we both were decked out in full camo as a necessity. 

    My borrowed pants swished loudly across the ground as we followed along a gated road twenty yards back from the truck, the old pair of Dad’s too long for my 5′ 5’’ frame. While it was nice of him to share, sometimes I really wished I had my own gear. That way, they not only fit me, but made me look cool. Not like a child swimming in the abyss of excess material.

    We walked like mimes as we closed in on the turkey, well except for the little swish here and there of my pants, but besides that not a word was spoken. We skirted along the side road, only accessible by off-road vehicles, horses, or by old fashioned walking. And every twenty yards or so Dad would stop to call, ensuring the tom’s interest, and to assess the distance between us. On our second stop to call, the turkey broke the hundred yard barrier.

    The Set Up

    Dad, in full mime mode, signaled to follow behind him closer as we neared a bend in the road. His boots left the gravel, muffled by grass, and then started to sidehill down the mountain to set up. A glance over his shoulder, ensured I followed. 

    We went a little ways and then Dad shoved me in front of him, signaling for me to sit down and set up to shoot, which I did once I recovered from the shift in my balance, and like a silent assassin he set himself up behind me without making a single noise. 

    Conscious of my every movement, I attempted to sit down as gently and quietly as possible, but in the end no huge sound announced my position. I pulled up the neck gator, the portion in front of my mouth already wet from my heavy breathing. Nervous and shaking to the bone, I turned to Dad for further instruction. A scalding look and some hand signs later, I got the point. I needed to raise the shotgun and prepare to shoot.

    The second I’d rested the gun into my shoulder, the barrel balanced with my knees, Dad called again.

      “Cluck, Cluck, …”

    “Gobble. Gobble…Puff, puff, puff.” The tom’s feathers and fan puffed loudly, announcing its full strut status as it approached us from the right.

    The gun shook alongside my body, knees knocking as I tried to steady myself. My whole body vibrated with adrenaline, the turkey seconds away from peeking through the trees in front of us. Come on. 

    “PUFF.” 

    The Takedown

    I closed my right eye, the metal sights aligning into my vision. I took a deep breath, fingers going white as I basically shoved the gun into my shoulder bone, and then on my exhale the turkey’s head bobbed around a small spruce. It took a step. Then two. Pausing, it used its beady eyes to look for a hen, or inadvertently us. The waves of Dad’s own anticipation and impatience wafting down my back. Tension filled me as the clock ticked on this opportunity. Would it be another failure? No. I wouldn’t let it.

    With a deep breath I pulled the trigger. 

    “BOOM!” 

    In a flourish of movements, the turkey flopped over, its feet kicking in the air, and its life force leaking away terse moment by terse moment. Dad ran down, almost biffing it on a log, but caught himself. Devoid of life, the turkey stilled when Dad made it about half way. Its feet stuck in a curled up position a few inches above its chest. Dad paused his movements, turning back to me. Eyes alight, he waved me down. 

    The bird, the first of many for me, was thick and beautiful, the coloring varied from chest, to wings, to fan. Brown, black, white, blue, and red all pieced together to complete the tom’s coloring. The beard, maybe only three to four inches long, was no record breaker, but it wasn’t something I really cared about. I was just happy I pulled the trigger. Score. Take that shotgun. You’re not that scary after all. 

    My first wild turkey!

    Certified Turkey Hunter

    I did it. I was officially a certified turkey hunter and shotgun user, all thanks to my dad. And I couldn’t wait to do it again. And well, again of course. Because once you were hooked on hunting, her long and tight claws never let you go. It wasn’t just a hobby. No, it was a way of life. One I was glad my Dad had introduced to me at a very young age, otherwise I wouldn’t be so chocked full of amazing memories of hunting the backwoods of Idaho with him and his haggard Toyota.

    Pictured above is me with this turkey, happy as can be that I’d finally pulled the trigger.

    Other Related Articles

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    Tell Me About Your Story

    Have you ever struggled with pulling the trigger? If so, let me know how you overcame it in the comments! 

    Well that is all she adventured, live life to the fullest and get out and hunt!!

    Araya Rasmussen

    June 8th, 2025