Deer Pee and Compound Bows

There was a brief period in my life when I became convinced I was going to be a huntress.

Now before you picture me gracefully moving through the East Texas wilderness like some woodland warrior princess, let me assure you the reality was far less impressive.

For those unfamiliar with a compound bow, it's basically a bow and arrow designed to hunt animals. Sounds simple enough.

Pull string. Release arrow. Hit deer. Go home.

Except that's not how any of it works.

First, you have to learn how to pull the bowstring back. This sounds easy until someone hands you a bow with a draw weight somewhere between a sack of concrete and a small pickup truck.

There is a mysterious point during the pull where the tension suddenly becomes manageable. Hunters call it "let-off."

I called it "the magic zone."

The problem was getting there.

For weeks, I looked like I was arm wrestling an invisible giant.

The bow would shake. My arm would shake. The arrow would wobble. Anyone standing nearby would quietly take a few steps backward for safety reasons. Because if I missed the target, and I often did, that arrow wasn't stopping anytime soon.

Which brings us to another important lesson.

Arrows are expensive.

And when you miss a target, which was apparently my spiritual gift, those little boogers disappear.

There we would be, wandering through waist-high East Texas grass searching for a tiny arrow while keeping one eye out for copperheads, rattlesnakes, fire ants, and whatever else considered that field home.

Nothing builds confidence quite like spending an hour looking for an arrow you launched into another zip code.

Then came the hunting lessons.

Apparently, deer can smell everything.

Perfume? Absolutely not. Deodorant? Nope. Shampoo? Don't even think about it. Laundry detergent? You must be joking. Your hunting clothes cannot smell like a human.

Unfortunately, after several days of following these rules, they also don't smell particularly pleasant.

Then someone handed me a bottle of deer urine.

For camouflage?

I remember staring at it and wondering if perhaps the deer and I could simply agree to stay out of each other's business.

No such luck.

Before long I was dressed head to toe in camouflage, wearing snake boots, carrying enough equipment to outfit a small militia, and smelling like a homeless woodland creature who had made several questionable life choices.

Hunting season always seemed to begin at an hour when decent people should still be asleep.

Not "early morning."

Earlier than that.

The kind of dark where you're not entirely convinced it's actually tomorrow yet.

The kind of dark where the coffee maker sounds louder than a freight train and every life decision that led you to this moment deserves a serious review.

Somewhere around three-thirty or four in the morning, I'd pull on cold camouflage clothes that smelled faintly of pine needles, damp earth, and poor decisions.

Let’s talk about the uniform, shall we?

Because apparently hunting isn't something you do. It's something you dress up for. First came the camouflage pants. Then the camouflage shirt. Then the camouflage hat.

Then the bright orange mesh safety vest that completely defeated the purpose of every camouflage item I had just put on.

I never quite understood that contradiction.

"Blend into the woods."

"Also, dress like a traffic cone."

Then came the snake boots.

Now, if you've never spent time in East Texas, let me explain.

The snakes there are God's way of reminding you to pay attention.

Copperheads have a remarkable ability to disappear into a carpet of brown leaves until the exact moment you are about to step on them.

The snake boots were less a fashion statement and more a survival strategy.

Then came the arm guard.

Apparently, if you release a compound bow incorrectly, the string can slap your forearm with enough force to make your arm fall off.

Then there was the glove. Not because it was cold. Because repeatedly pulling back a bow string powerful enough to launch an arrow into next Tuesday is hard on your fingers.

Then came the quiver for the arrows. The sling for the bow. The harness for carrying everything. The backpack for carrying the things that carried the other things.

At some point I stopped preparing to hunt and started preparing for a six-month wilderness expedition.

By the time I was fully dressed, I weighed approximately forty pounds more than when I woke up.

I smelled like deer urine.

I hadn't worn deodorant in days.

I was carrying enough gear to invade a small country.

And somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed I was ready. By the time we reached the woods, a faint gray light was beginning to creep across the horizon.

The East Texas woods were beautiful at that hour.

Cold enough to make your nose sting. Damp enough to soak through your clothes.

A thick blanket of fog hovered just above the forest floor.

The towering pine trees disappeared into the mist like silent giants standing watch over the woods.

Everything felt still. Sacred almost. No traffic. No phones. No noise.

Just the occasional rustle in the distance and the sound of your own breathing.

The silence was so complete that even whispering felt disrespectful.

Then came my favorite hunting instruction.

"Don't step on any leaves or sticks."

I remember looking down. The ground was leaves. Leaves on top of leaves. Leaves under leaves. Leaves that had apparently been accumulating since Noah parked the ark.

And sticks.

Thousands of sticks. The entire forest floor was basically nature's version of bubble wrap.

Yet somehow I was expected to cross it silently.

The experienced hunters seemed to float through the woods.

Meanwhile, I sounded like a herd of cattle running through a potato chip factory.

CRUNCH.

SNAP.

CRACKLE.

Freeze…Listen…Take another step,

CRUNCH.

Stealth, it turns out, was not one of my spiritual gifts.

Now gun hunters get tree stands.

They climb up into the air, sit comfortably, and wait.

Compound bow hunters?

Nope.

Apparently we were trying to hunt like Native Americans.

The idea was to become one with nature.

Blend into the woods. Move with the wind. Become invisible.

My version looked more like a confused raccoon dragging sporting goods through the Piney Woods.

And if you actually managed to shoot a deer with an arrow?

Congratulations.

Your work had just begun.

Because unlike the movies, the deer doesn't politely fall over.

It runs.

Fast.

Which means now you're tracking a wounded deer through brush, briars, creeks, and terrain that would challenge a mountain goat.

One afternoon we were climbing over a giant pile of boulders, and I found myself asking a very important question.

If I can barely climb this mountain without an arrow sticking out of me, how exactly is the deer doing it? And more importantly...why am I following it?

Looking back, I learned something important during my brief hunting career.

The hardest part wasn't shooting the bow.

It wasn't finding the deer.

It wasn't even the deer pee.

The hardest part was discovering how much capacity was required before you ever got to the part you thought you were preparing for.

I thought hunting was about taking the shot.

Turns out it was about endurance. Patience. Preparation. Persistence. Funny how life works that way. Most of us think the challenge is the thing we're aiming at.

The promotion. The business. The weight loss. The dream. The relationship. But most of the time, the real challenge is building enough capacity to carry everything required to get there.

And just like that compound bow, life has a funny way of feeling impossible right before you reach the magic zone.

Continue the Conversation

The funny thing is, Lauren Callahan and I talk about something very similar in this week's episode of Delay the Binge.

So many women think they have a discipline problem when what they really have is a capacity problem.

Sometimes the challenge isn't the target.

It's everything required before you ever get the chance to take the shot.

Subscribers to Inside the Pause will receive early access to tomorrow's episode, along with my personal reflections and takeaways.

Then join me Thursday for Behind the Mic™, where we'll take a deeper look at Lauren's message and how building capacity, not just pushing harder, can change everything.

And if today's story made you laugh, share it with a compound bow hunter.

Especially one who has ever told a beginner not to step on any leaves.

If it reminded you of someone carrying more than they realize, share it with them too.

Sharing is caring, and it helps these stories and conversations reach more people who might need a little encouragement along the way.

Until next time...

Pause. Choose. Build momentum. Finish stronger.
- PJ