Araya's Outdoor Adventures

Tag: Idaho hunts

  • 15 Do’s and Don’ts When Hound Hunting Black Bears

    15 Do’s and Don’ts When Hound Hunting Black Bears

    August 1st, 2025

    What are some black bear hunting do’s and don’ts when it comes to hound hunting? Let’s explore my top fifteen tips below, but first, why should you listen to me?

    Who Am I, And Why Should You Listen To Me?

    I am no professional. No, I am totally average when it comes to the levels of experience for hound hunters. But I’ve been going along with a professional since the age of five. So, I’d say I’ve picked up on some things over the last twenty-one years. Especially when it comes to bear hunting – my favorite thing to do in the world.

    The adrenaline high of walking into a bear tree is like no other. The echoes of the hounds bouncing around the canyon as you pick your way down or up to them, your heart beating so fast you can’t focus on anything besides putting one foot in front of the other. Even after a hundred bear trees, that rush was still there, and I imagine it’d never change. That isn’t to say there aren’t downsides to it. Because that’d be a blatant lie, but it was what made my – and my father’s – heart sing.

    If you are just starting out, or maybe want to hone your craft a bit more, so that hound hunting black bears makes your heart sing too, then take into consideration the below fifteen do’s and don’ts next time you head out and chase some bears around.

    #1 The Hound Pack

    Do’s: Find a good strike dog, or four. Not all dogs are ‘The One’, sometimes it takes a few generations and pups to find a good one. But stick it out. Train them with the best, and if needed or possible, you can always buy one from a buddy or from a well renowned hunter. However, the dog may not be what they were all bragged to be. Also, you want to make sure all of your dog’s will tree and bay a bear, because you can’t have a dog leave the tree and ruin the hunt, or even more dogs.

    Don’ts: Hunt with too many pups, unless you want to be out all day searching for them. Or have the patience for it. Don’t hold onto those dogs that aren’t working out, if they fight, don’t tree, or don’t even leave the truck, in the long run they are going to do you more harm than good, someone out there could use them more, whether it is for hunting or not. 

    #2 Tracking Equipment

    Do’s: Make sure to update your equipment. Make sure the equipment is charged, and don’t forget it before you set off. You don’t have to have the best, only something that works for you. Also, you want to keep on top of the dogs’ location as you chase them around, that way you can catch the bear and dogs crossing along the way, which makes it easier to grab backdogs and re-dump them back in if possible.

    Don’ts: Forget it. Or forget to charge it. Especially the collars, otherwise you’ll be up shit creek.

    #3 Distance

    Do’s: Be prepared to walk anywhere for any amount of time. Bears can run for miles, and miles if they want, and there is not always road access to said areas. This can be cut down with a Side-By-Side, or good judging of distance and where to hike in from. Bears are distance runners, not sprinters like cougars, so always be ready to walk.

    Don’ts: Overestimate the distance it will take to get somewhere. If you have anywhere to go after a hunt – like to a New Year’s Eve party – be prepared to be late, or absent. The day can take a turn for the worst fairly easily. 

    #4 Location

    Do’s: Be aware of where you are, whether you are on public, private, potlatch, state, or federal land. You can get in serious trouble if you are hunting on land that you are not supposed to be on.  Especially places like Idaho where new legislation no longer allows access in some areas, except for walking. Be familiar with where you are hunting, and practice makes perfection. The more you explore, the more you know.

    Don’ts: Push your luck. You do not want to be lost for the day, you don’t want to lose your license, and you don’t want to go to jail.

    #5 Packing

    Do’s: Pack necessities when walking into a bear tree/bay job; a weapon of your choice, spare bullets/arrows, a flashlight, water, leashes, tracking equipment, and if possible a phone or a camera. When going out for the day, make sure your truck is always loaded with all of the above, plus, spare drinks, a shovel, a first aid kit, lunch, snacks, extra collars, a spare battery or two for your GPS tracker, spare clothes, and more spare bullets/arrows.

    Don’ts: Be cocky, bring the extra bullets/arrows. You don’t want to have to hike back to the truck to get more, or leave a wounded animal. I’ve spent several hunts wishing I’d brought along some water or a flashlight, so don’t be me. Remember those things when the time calls for it. Also, don’t over pack yourself on a hike, you don’t need all the extra weight.

    #6 Weapons

    Do’s: Pack a rifle, and a backup. If you are using a bow, also have a backup. A pistol can save your life, or save the bear from suffering longer than necessary.

    Don’ts: Forget to check your gun’s accuracy. Or forget a pistol, you’ll never know when you’ll need it. I’ve wasted a slew of bullets trying to finish off a bear because the rifle was not sighted in properly. Don’t be me. Be smart.

    #7 Bear Scouting & Tracking

    Do’s: Watch for tracks while driving around, you might catch one before the dogs sniff it out, especially if it is a bit rained or sunned out. I’d also check the area for tracks before dumping your strike dogs if you are unsure if it isn’t trash – coyotes or whatever you dogs may try and run when they are bored and ready to run.

    Watching the ridges, the road, and the clearcuts for a retreating hind end when driving around, might also earn you a bear race as well. Lastly, be aware if you are running a black or grizzly bear, it is very uncommon to come across Grizzly’s, but there’s always a chance. Same thing goes with a sow and cubs, you need to be aware if there are cubs, because if so, it’s illegal to kill a sow with cubs. In general, be sure to pay attention to whether it’ll be a legal kill or not.

    Don’ts: That track may look big, but don’t overestimate that bear. It is probably only a buck fifty. Also, don’t put all your trust in your dogs, you are putting in the work too, look for tracks and stay on top of the race when you get it started.

    #8 Treeing

    Do’s: Be prepared for anything. You might need your climbing shoes. I’ve seen more than one person climb up after a hung up bear. Always tie back your dogs, you don’t want a bear falling on top of them, or to come down fighting and grab a hold of one. Always make sure to judge the shot properly as well. Shooting from a tree is different from a close or short range shot on the ground. However, also make sure to simply enjoy the rush of the tree, as it is one of the best parts of hound hunting.

    Don’ts: Climb into the tree after a hung-up bear unless you are a hundred percent sure it is dead. Don’t let your dogs fight at the tree, or leave them treeing for too long, otherwise the bear can get anxious and jump, restarting your race. Also, it can lead to wolves coming in on your dogs, if they are in the area. Nobody wants wolves coming in on their dogs, so always be aware that’s a possibility, and try to avoid it as much as possible.

    #9 Baying

    Do’s: Be aware it happens, that it can be dangerous to walk into, and that not all dogs are bay dogs. 

    Don’ts: Accidentally shoot a dog, go near the bear unless you have a weapon – you never know when it’ll charge –  or overestimate that the bear won’t take off again, and again. Some bears simply do not like to tree. So, you might need to prepare to shoot on the ground, or pull the dogs off of it.

    #10 Be Prepared For Loss

    Do’s: Always be prepared for the worst. A dog can get hurt/killed any day, whether it’s from a bear, the terrain, wolves, another hunter, old age, cancer, or from being overworked. It happens, and it’s a killer on the heart. Be careful and enjoy every moment you can with your pack, because hound hunting is rough.

    Don’t: Act in anger. You can always make things worse.

    #11 Be Prepared For A Thin Wallet

    Do’s: Be prepared to spend lots and lots of money on tracking equipment, vet bills, dogs, clothing, broken vehicles, new vehicles, bait supplies, and shiny new things. Hunting is expensive, especially hound hunting, don’t be surprised for the big and small bills along the way.

    Don’ts: Don’t buy every new thing you see, it’s probably not going to help you anyway, and don’t drive on roads you’re not supposed to be on. That’ll just make it that much more expensive for you.

    #12 Always Be Aware Of The Land You Are On

    Do’s: Keep track of whether you are on private, public, state, potlatch, or federal land. Each one has their own regulations which may leave you avoiding the area per their rules.

    Don’ts: Say that no one will catch you, otherwise they will, and you’ll lose your license.

    #13 Know Your State’s Regulations

    Do’s: Each state is different, know your own’s regulations and rules, and any other ones that you are traveling to. Know what equipment you can use, like cameras, baits, and dogs. Also be aware of when the seasons are – which may differ from place to place -because you do not want to be thrown in jail or have your license suspended.

    Don’ts: Wing it. You don’t have to read the rule book every time you hunt, but it is always good to know the basics of your area’s regulations.

    #14: Field Dressing

    Do’s: Make sure to clean your kill within a timely manner so that you do not ruin your meat. Clean your knife before and after hand. Know what you want to do with the hide ahead of time, so you can skin it to match the style you want done. And enjoy your steaks, fingersteaks, backstrap, and your wall mount!

    Don’ts: Cut yourself, leave the guts too long – especially in the heat – and always refrigerate or freeze the meat when finished. Additionally, find the proper butcher or taxidermist to do any additional work, as a bad one makes for an empty wallet and horrible results.

    #15 Be Thankful, Be Respectful, & Be Modest

    Do’s: Be thankful for the good days, because the next day could be a shit show. Be respectful to the land, the animals, and your fellow hunters. It only takes one person to ruin it for all. Secondly, you’ll want to be modest, bragging too much can earn hate and discontent from hunters and non-hunters. It’s okay to share your beautiful catches, but just know bragging and showboating to an extreme can lead to resentment from those that hate the lifestyle of hound hunting.

    Don’ts: Be rude, disgraceful, or boastful to a degree that you create a bad name for every other hunter out there. Hunters’ worst enemies are ourselves, especially those who hate on other forms of hunting like hound hunting, compound bow hunting, or trapping – we are a team. You don’t always have to love everything others do, but one change in legislation leads to another. Not speaking up or pushing to eliminate certain types of hunting – like hound hunting – is just as bad as being an anti-hunter.

    In Conclusion

    Have fun, but be safe, and be legal. Hunting is a privilege in this day and age, and we don’t want it taken away from us. Hound hunting is one of the most rewarding things one can do, so sit back and enjoy the ride!

    Other Related Articles

    A Morale Booster: Overcoming a Bear Drought

    Passing The Torch: An Idaho Bear Hunting Adventure

    Tell Me About Your Story

    Let me know if you have any questions or additional tips in the comments below!

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

    Araya Rasmussen

    August 1st, 2025

  • Passing The Torch: An Idaho Bear Hunting Adventure

    Passing The Torch: An Idaho Bear Hunting Adventure

    Passing The Torch: An Idaho Bear Hunting Adventure

    June 13th, 2025

    The day after, A Morale Booster: Overcoming a Bear Drought, Dad, AJ, Adam, and I once again traversed the backroads of Southern Idaho trying to get a bear race going on my birthday, both AJ’s and I’s tags burning holes in our pockets. It’d been a hard week of hunting, and this day wasn’t much better. To quote Dad on this adventure, “You want a bear bad; you get a bad bear.”

    Backwards Bear Races

    The dog box blew up, the truck came to a hard stop, and my eyes flew open.

    The tailgate dropped, and one by one, the strike dogs took off behind us. Their barks filled the canyon, their quick legs climbing up the mountain to the right of us.

    Metal clanged and the dog box’s doors flew open. By the time I got out of the truck, stumbling from sleep, the tail end of the back dogs slipped up the mountain.

    Dad walked over to where the dogs took off from, and declared, “The fuckers went backwards.”

    “What, really?” I asked, pulling up alongside him.

    “Yep, the track is right here.” He pointed at a spot in the dirt untouched by the dogs’ tracks.

    “Oh.” I mumbled, taking in the imprint of the toes facing the completely opposite direction.

    Tacker already beeping, Dad threw over his shoulder. “I’m going to shock them off of the backtrack and try and get ‘em going the right way.” 

    It took a good ten minutes, but eventually we got them all back. In the meantime, AJ and Adam snored away in the backseat, both their heads slumped against their windows, too tired to care about the race. 

    I mean I didn’t blame them after the slow week they’d had. But I was fired up and ready to run a bear, and well, fill my tag. It was my birthday after all. Killing a bear would be icing on the cake of a great day.

    I could feel it. We were going to get this race straightened out. No matter what it took. 

    Little did I know just how true that was, or what we’d have to go through to achieve it, and it all started with ‘The Hell Hole’.

    To The Hell Hole We Go

    I gassed it to Dad, gravel crunching as I slammed to a stop a few feet short of him. Jumping out, I ran for the edge of the road, head turning side to side as I attempted to catch sight of a strike dog or a bear winding through the thicket below.

    The rest of the dogbox went next, their tails quickly slipping out of view. Before we knew it, they’d all hit the bottom, a good five hundred yards below, and made their way back up the other side, their barking never letting up.

    A smile tugged at my lips. “I forgot just how well we could hear the dogs here.” 

    “Yep, it’s pretty nice. But the terrain is not the best.” Dad replied, taking in the steep mountains around us.

    “Yeah, I sure don’t miss hiking it. But I do miss being able to see and hear the races so well.” I side-eyed the open clearcut to the right of us. Sage brush, some random flowers, edged around by some sparklings of pine trees, all made for a great place to see and hear a bear, compared to the thicket of mess that was the area we were used to hunting, but was also twice as steep with fewer roads threaded through them.

    “Unfortuntley the dogs are headed for the hell hole that is the other side.” Dad grumbled, changing the direction of the conversation.

    My brow rose of its own accord. “What do you mean? What’s over there?”

    He looked up from the tracker, meeting my gaze. “Nothing.”

    “Oh.”

    “Yeah, it’s towards the river between Featherville and Bumgarder. No roads. No camps. Nothing.” He rubbed at his chin, causing a sandpaper-like sound.

    Damn it. They better come back. I got a bear to kill…

    Come Back…

    Aj pulled up alongside me, eyes blood-shot-red, and hood still pulled up. 

    I eyed him, shook my head, then clued him into our developing situation. “They’re across the way and headed into what Dad refers to as, ‘The Hell Hole’.”

    “Yeah, I know.” AJ responded with an eye roll.

    “Oh yeah, I guess you guys have been out here all week, huh? So, he’s probably mentioned the area to ya by now.” I nodded to myself, trying to play off feeling stupid. 

    AJ crossed his arms. “Yep.”

    Looking up from his tracker, Dad mumbled around his lip full of chew, “They should be coming up into that clearcut any minute now.” 

    We waited, eyes peeled for the dogs in the clearcut across the way for all of two minutes.

    “There they are!” I exclaimed, catching sight of a dog moving through some bushes.

    “Where?” Dad asked.

    “Right below that tree!” I pointed to a landmark that hovered over the clearing the dogs were currently running through.

    Rubbing his face, Dad questioned, “There’s a lot of trees over there, what do you mean, that tree?” 

    After some more pointing and arguing, Dad and AJ finally caught sight of the last few dogs. There was no bear out in front of them, at least that we saw, and before we knew it, they’d all topped over into the shit hole that Dad had warned us about.

    “Come back…” Dad whispered wistfully.

    “What? Are you actually hoping to call ’em back?” I laughed.

    Dad smirked. “Yep. I got them trained just that well.” 

    I shook my head, laughing at his antics. You wish.

    But actually, we all wished.

    Running in Circles

    Driving back towards camp, we waited out the dogs at the next big point before committing to the two hour drive around to ‘The Hell Hole’. Thank the lucky stars we did too, because twenty minutes later they looped their way back to us. But not only did a man get left behind – Ace, an eight-year-old male blue-tick walker mix – but the dogs had gotten strung out, leaving us buckled in for a bumpy ride ahead.

    Gravel spit from the tires, the dogs inched closer, and AJ and I sat half out our windows waiting for the opportunity to spot them coming our way. 

    “There!” AJ yelled, pointing out his window right behind me.

    The breaks went to screeching.

    Squinting, a brown butt slipping into the timber below caught my attention. “Oh yeah, there it goes!” I added.

    We all jumped out, running to catch the bear peeking through the timber below. To our dismay though, it didn’t appear, plus the lead dogs ended up being a good two hundred yards behind it, the rest of the pack trailing another several hundred yards behind them.

    With some serious back and forth-ing, we hauled around after the bear and the dogs, catching sight of them once or twice more as we went from where we struck to the point where AJ and I caught sight of it. (As seen on the tracker below.)

    Then things took a turn for the worst. 

    This Might Be A Little Stupid

    The rear end of the truck fishtailed. The bear running straight at us, hit its own breaks, and dashed off to the left – back off into the bottom of the canyon.

    The dogs, even farther behind than they were twenty minutes ago, took a good minute before one, and then another reached us. Despite Dad’s best effort to get them to chase Speedy Gonzales, aka the bear, they refused to leave the road. Instead hitting the ground next to the truck, panting for all they were worth.

    The steering wheel squelched in Dad’s hands as he drove along collecting the rest of the lead and middle dogs. Still very peeved at the dogs for quitting, he announced to the truck, “It might be a little stupid, but I’m dumping them all back in on this sucker.”

    And so we did. Driving back to where the bear crossed ten minutes earlier, we dumped all that we’d collected loose. It took only about twenty seconds of directing them, but once they caught its scent, they all screamed after the bear once again, trailing through the thicket below.

    While Dad called in Lady and Rider, some of the last few back dogs left, the lead dogs picked up the other dog still out running – Showtime – and then headed back to where AJ saw it again.

    Watching the dogs starting to scatter again, Dad said, “I think we’re going to go back to camp and grab the rest of the dogs and get them in on this race. These ones are whooped, we’ll never catch this thing unless we get something fresh on it.”

    Running in Circles – Part Two

    Loaded down with four new dogs, we wound our way back to the race.

    Before we got to the spot where the bear turned multiple times – where AJ and I caught sight of it earlier in the day – Ace lit up on the tracker, and then the rest of the dogs, who are once again over by where we struck the bear, rounding up both end points of the bear’s current radius.

    “Looks like Ace is about to where we turned the bear.” I fiddled with the mounted tracker’s screen, zooming in on his location.

    Dad fussed with his hand-held Garmin, one hand still on the wheel. “Looks like it. The lead dogs are going to cross the road here quickly, I don’t want to miss it, we need to get these dogs in on this race.”

    “Okay.”

    We pulled up to the crossing point of where Ace was headed too, despite Dad’s reluctance to wait, which meant we missed the lead dogs crossing. Then the bear, being the pain that it was, didn’t cross again, instead side-hilling the road until it climbed back to where we’d just come from – camp.

    Circling back with them, for like the fourth or fifth time in as many hours, we watch them progress on the tracker, their barks having faded to only a bark or two here and there. Right when we thought they’d lost it, something phenomenal happened. 

    A Walking Bear

    Trees whipped by as we made a mad dash down the road, the dogs intent on crossing down low. We were just about to declare the bear had whooped the dogs, then all of a sudden they booked it straight for the road.

    The ‘Oh Shit’ handle dug into my hand, upper body half out the window in an attempt to get the crossing on camera. 

    We hit the lower split, took a left, and stopped. The second the engine shut off, Chewy, Jade, and Jill’s barking filled the air.

    They teased us, sticking to the brush to the left of the road. Then right when the cameras shut off, the blasted bear jumped out of the thicket and hit the road. 

    “Damn it! I just turned my camera off!” I laughed-grumbled, running straight for the bear, phone out and recording.

    From there, the bear walked around to the right of the road, slowly moving up and over the next ridge. We sat around waiting, hoping the fresh set of dogs we’d just dumped in would push the bear to tree.

    To our dismay, especially for me and AJ, the two with tag’s burning holes in their pockets, it continued to walk the dogs. Down to the next road, we wound after them once again as the bear side-hilled, refusing to cross.

    The dogs’ baying grew ever increasingly closer, never to cross of course, just enough to excite us into jumping out and walking the road with the rifle, but first, there was still the debate of who was going to shoot.

    You Shoot It! No, You Shoot It!

    “You can shoot it if you want, Araya. It is your birthday after all.” AJ said from the backseat.

    “No, it’s okay. You can. I’m totally okay with waiting or not getting one this year.” I’d had twenty-one years of hunting alongside Dad in my belt, it was time I started letting up the reins and letting others take advantage of Dad’s eagerness to take us hunting.

    “But, it’s your birthday.” AJ reiterated, still stuck more on the fact that we knew this bear was no monster. It was pretty average, nothing special – besides the color – which was exactly the opposite of what he wanted. No what he did want was a bear that rivaled my 400 pounder from 2023. Not this tiny thing in comparison. 

    I couldn’t blame him, I’d been in the same boat for twelve years, joining every hunt I could from the age of nine until I’d gotten that monster bear. It was a journey, and one that eventually taught me it was more about enjoying the adventures along the way, rather than the end result itself. 

    “No, you go ahead. Dad wants to get you your bear.” I said, brokering no argument. It was a hard pill to swallow, letting go of that control. But I was no longer Dad’s little girl. No, I was twenty-six today. The sun had set on my ability to hog Dad’s hunting time. It was officially time to let AJ be the son I never was. Dad needed it. AJ needed it. And I needed to let it happen no matter how much it stung.

    “Okay.” AJ shrugged, and in no time, the thrill of the hunt filled him, chasing off after Dad like a lost little puppy.

    Showdown With A Walking Bear

    Air coming in heavy rasps, Adam and I chased Dad and AJ down the road, who were in turn chasing down the bear and dogs, still parralleling the road. 

    Dad and AJ pulled further and further away as we neared a split in the road. Taking the left, and then veering off to follow the ridge instead of the road, the two ran into the timber.

    I slowed, halting Adam. “We should probably stay back, I don’t want one of us to get shot on accident if we chase after them.” I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. Man, I need to get in shape.

    “Okay.” Adam nodded, his usual mess of curls missing from his head bob. 

    Ears perked, we waited for gun shots over the next few minutes, but the only thing we heard was our own panting.

    Clearing my throat, I said, “We should probably head back and grab the truck.” I straightened, but before I could move, a gun shot rang out.

    “Bang.”

    Holding still, we waited for more gun fire, but after thirty seconds of silence, I decided it was best we head for the truck. It was an effort to run, so mostly we fast walked, then drove back to our waiting spot.

    Grass smushed underfoot, the stream to the right of us babbling as Adam and I hiked into Dad and AJ’s position. However, we went in from below, while Dad and AJ hauled the bear up the mountainside to the right of us, hitting the road I’d been clueless of.

    The End Of The Walking Bear

    Turning around after realizing our fatal mistake, Adam and I headed back to the truck, still clueless as all hell to how the situation had turned out. Because we were still operating on the assumption that the bear was in fact dead. But, for all we knew, it was still alive, and AJ had missed.

    But at Dad’s arrival at the truck, we were notified that not only did Aj kill the bear, but that there was a road we could’ve driven right up to him on.

    So, taking the wheel again, because Dad did not want to, I drove us the last few hundred yards to AJ, the dead bear, and the dogs. 

    “That’s perfect picture.” Dad said, taking in AJ sitting in the middle of the road, rifle in hand, the dead bear to his right, and all the dogs sitting around him, catching their breaths.

    It was a fitting end to our crazy adventure running and walking this troublesome bear. For me it was only day two, but for the guys it was day seven, a long time to wait to kill a bear, but they’d done it.

    In the end, we’d run the bear in several circles, dumped dogs on it multiple times, chased it on foot, and then inevitably halted the walking bear. The day had its ups, and for sure its downs, but we’d done it. We’d gotten us a bear, all thanks to the dogs, and Dad’s firm determination to get this race going, then going twice more, and then ended. The hunt, like any other, would not have been possible without him.

    Passing The Torch

    While I wished to finish out the weekend’s hunt with my own bear, it wasn’t in the cards for me. AJ’s bear was the only one we harvested, and only one of two bears the guys ran for a whole ten days, both of which I’d gotten to be a part of. 

    It was a major bummer to not get my own bear, especially on my birthday. However, I was still thrilled to see AJ kill his. I might love getting the chance to kill my own., but my opportunity to be Dad’s number one priority hunter had set with my seventh bear. It was AJ’s turn. I’d already had seven lovely goes at it. It was time to let go.

    One thing about hunting I’d come to learn was, you can’t go into it expecting a ‘trophy kill’. Because once the universe heard that, it’d throw you all sorts of curve balls. No, the most fun, and memorable hunts were the ones where you simply enjoyed the adventure, no ulterior motive in hand.

    Life is an adventure worth living, and sometimes you just have to find what really clicks with your soul to make that journey that much more worth living, and for me that was bear hunting – specifically with those that I loved. 

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

    https://www.tiktok.com/@arayanicole_20/video/7529280457314143502?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7524070114279835166

    Other Related Articles

    A Morale Booster: Overcoming a Bear Drought

    Tell Me About Your Story

    Do you have a passing the torch story you can share? If so, please let me know in the comments below!

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

    Araya Rasmussen

    July 20th, 2025

  • Double Whammy: A Mother-Daughter Turkey Hunt

    Double Whammy: A Mother-Daughter Turkey Hunt

    April 25th, 2015

    Double whammy: A twofold boon, especially favored in the United States as a reference for tagging two animals in a day.

    Sharing: A hated word in my vocabulary. 

    Swallowing Pride

    Swallowing the bitterness washing up my throat, I watched the tom strut into the open, and consequently straight into Mom’s sights.

    Would she miss it? Would it be bigger than mine?

    Mom had never killed a turkey before, so it was obvious that she’d get dibs on the first tom of the day. Well, that’s what Dad said anyways.

    Why wasn’t I first? I thought I was his favorite.

    It stung. But he was in charge, and I loved hunting with him too much to argue. Whiny babies didn’t get to go hunting after all.

    Mom’s trigger finger inched from the receiver to the trigger. This was it. She was going to shoot. 

    My gut tightened.

    I really hope I can shoot a bigger one…

    “BOOM!” 

    The turkey’s head dropped, its whole body flopping to the ground. It kicked around, trying to shake off the aftereffects of the shotgun pellets. Then the lights turned off. All movements halted, the bird left still in the dirt.

    Dad jumped up, Mom and I only a few feet behind.

    The adrenaline of the hunt pulsed through me, a wave of happiness on its heels.

    She did it! Mom got her first turkey!

    The awful heartburn-like ache from the jealousy of having to share my hunting buddy, Dad, and the opportunities to get a turkey with my mom for the day, eased. 

    Mom was awesome! Just like Dad and me!

    Halfway To A Double Whammy

    Seeing the pretty colors of Mom’s turkey, I clapped her on the shoulder. “Congrats! That was awesome! Your bird is so cool! I love the coloring!” 

    I ran my fingers over the warm colors of the inner feathers, and then over the fan’s outer ring that tipped off into a light brown-blonde color. The featherless head repelled me, so I stayed away from the pale skin that faded into the blues and reds of the neck. 

    Why do their heads gotta look so weird? I mean, they can’t help what they looked like, but gross. 

    Stepping back, I gave Mom space to check out her own bird. The thing was pretty average, no monster or mouse. It’s coloring a striking resemblance to my own hair, and it was hers.

    She did it. She’d gotten her first turkey.

    Now it was my turn.

    Dad picked up the turkey and turned towards us. “You ready to get yours, Araya?”

    “Oh, heck ya! I was born ready!” I skipped back to the truck, an ear splitting smile, Dad, Mom, and the first turkey of the day, in tow.

    Locating Another Turkey

    “Cluck, cluck, cluck.” Dad paused for a beat, then resumed scrapping the two pieces of the wooden call against each other. “Cluck. Cluck.” 

    We’d been driving for hours, stopping at all the known turkey spots to call. But after each new call with no response, my huntin’ buzz had been fizzling away, bit by bit. The thoughts of being out hunted by Mom taunted me.

    What if this means she’s the better hunter? Am I going to be skunked out? What if I don’t just not get a turkey today, but this whole season? What if my luck ran out?

    Dad tried one last time. “Cluck. Cluck.”

    “Gobble.” Came the tell-tale whisper of a tom responding a few hundred yards away.

    I held my breath, blood thrumming with so much excitement that I felt like a live wire. 

    “Cluck. Cluck.” Dad responded.

    “Gobble. Gobble.”

    The call scraped gently, coming out at a lower pitch. “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

    Satisfied, Dad slid the strap back over the handle and said, “Let’s go.”

    The Call-In

    I shifted my elbows as I rested the shotgun on top of a small boulder. The makeshift gun-stand did wonders to cut my natural shaking to a manageable degree. The turkey, now silent as a mouse, lingered closer, still a good fifty yards off in the tree-line to the right of us. 

    You’d think they’d get louder and come a running. But no. They liked to surprise you when you least expected it. Damn birds, too smart for their own good. 

    Dad, two feet behind me, called softly again. “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

    Trying to be tricky, the tom responded with a soft, ‘yelp’ too low to discern its exact position.    

    My arms shook, the weight of the gun and my excitement wavering my steadiness. I set the gun sideways on the rock, needing a brief release to shake out my arms. Taking advantage of the break, I pulled the camo netting I wore, back onto my nose. Stupid thing.  

    Seeing Dad’s eyes bouncing back and forth from the gun to me with urgency, I repositioned myself. The gun rested and ready to go in my arms once again, I flicked the safety off. 

    Come on you little bugger, show yourself. I don’t got all day. 

    My eyes scanned the tree-line as I waited for the turkey’s bobbing head to come into view. 

    Please be big. Or at least a little bigger than Mom’s.

    A rustle of leaves and an accompanying ‘yelp,’ drew my eyes to the right. It took a second for me to catch sight of anything. But once they did, they didn’t move. 

    The Second Turkey Of The Day

    The turkey hid behind a stump twenty-five yards away, the bright tips of its fan, the only thing peaking above the wood. 

    My index finger settled onto the trigger. 

    The bird strutted a few steps, head bobbing. Then it paused, eyes locked right onto me. 

    I froze, the red and blue colors of its face fading into the background as its beady eyes stared me down. Damn. The thing probably thought my forehead peeking out from my neck guard and camo hood was odd. My eyes burned, the need to blink drying my eyes. Please don’t run.

    A hair’s breadth away from blinking and busting us, the turkey turned its head.

    Releasing a pent up breath, I blinked, gripped the gun tight to my shoulder, and fired.

    “BOOM!”

    The pump moved with my hand, sliding the next shell into place. The bird wobbled but remained upright. I rested my cheek back onto the gun, ready to pull the trigger.

    Body slack, the turkey flopped over, the grass muffling its fall.

    I stood up, intent on running down to it to ensure it was truly dead, but by the time I got up with the gun, Dad had already beat me to it.

    Dad turned to Mom and me, dead turkey in hand. Blood dripped all over the place. But I did it. I’d gotten my turkey. There was no being skunked for me. Or being out hunted by Mom. Nope. 

    Now to see if it was bigger than mom’s…

    Measuring Turkeys

    If you learn anything about me, it’s that I sort of have a competitive streak a mile wide. Sometimes it reared its ugly head while I played games, but most of the time it was when I hunted.

    “I think this one might be smaller than Mom’s.” Dad said, inspecting the bird dangling from his hand.

    “WHAT?! No, it isn’t! Mine is totally bigger!” I exclaimed, voice pitched high.

    “Okay, well let’s compare them, then.” Dad walked off towards the truck, the turkey and us in tow. 

    Whelp, I guess we’re going to settle this the old fashioned way.

    The second we got back, Dad grabbed Mom’s turkey from the bed of the truck, and held them up side by side.

    Dad took in each bird; comparing body sizes, weight, fans, and beards. It took only a moment, but it felt like forever before he made the decision. 

    “Well, Araya, I think yours does have a bigger body.” Dad surmised.

    “Told ya!” Gravel crunched underfoot as I did a little dance.

    Dad cleared his throat. “But, Mom’s turkey has a bigger fan and the beard is longer.” Done with his assessment, he shook his head at my continued antics. “You know most hunters go for the bigger beards and fans, right?” 

    “Yeah, whatever. Mine is bigger.” I shrugged, not in the least bit concerned about the beard or fan, continuing to do my victory dance in the middle of the road, not a care in the world.

    How could I be upset?  I’d killed a turkey. And so had Mom. You could say we’d had a double whammy of a day.

    A Mother-Daughter Double Whammy

    I may hate sharing my dad with others when hunting, and kills, but that competitiveness it stirred in me, paid off in the long run. As it kept the doubts about the shotgun from settling in while trying to get my third turkey ever. Too focused on beating Mom, and enthralled in the hunt itself, to be worried about whether I was going to miss or not. Instead, I had a blast turkey hunting with Mom and Dad, as we not only filled one tag, but two.

    I just hoped we got to experience more days like this. Because not every hunt ends with one shot kills, and even rarer was it for us to tag two animals in one day. Rather, you could spend multiple days, and use countless bullets trying to just get that one animal for the day. But this amazing spring day, Mom and I pulled off what you could call: A Mother-Daughter Double Whammy.

    I hoped everyday could be more like this one.

    Pictured above is Mom (left) and me (right) with our turkeys.

    Other Related Articles

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

    Tell Me About Your Story

    Have you ever struggled with your ego when hunting? If so, what helps you smother it and rejoice in your hunting buddy’s successes?

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

    Araya Rasmussen 

    June 21st, 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

    Double Whammy: A Mother-Daughter Turkey Hunt

    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