September Scaries

I’m not sure if I just got lucky, or maybe I helped out a game and fish agent on an optic sale, but life threw me a pretty decent bone recently. I drew an early-season archery bull tag here in AZ. While I am ecstatic, over the moon, and insanely grateful, I’m also terrified.

I do not think of myself as a great hunter. I don’t play in the same league as the Chris Denhams of the industry. Further, I’m not a great archer–I simply don’t prioritize practice enough. Long story short, I have a little less than five months before this hunt, and I feel severely under-gunned... literally.

Opportunities like this don’t come around often. This is my second elk tag in as many years (I know, I’d hate me too). The best part? Same unit as the late tag I had last year. So I guess when I said severely under-gunned, I was being dramatic. I have a lot of unit knowledge in my back pocket.

I’ve got the gear (perks of working where I do), I know the area well, and I have enough time to shoot my bow and feel confident. I guess I’m just worried about the intangibles.

I suppose that’s where the anxiety lies. How will I react when (God willing) I’ve got a screamin’ bull coming in on a string? Will adrenaline take over and I blow it? Will I rise to the occasion and accomplish a goal I’m sure I share with 99.9% of hunters out there?

That’s the rub though, isn’t it? That uncertainty. Vulnerability. Being forced to look at yourself in the mirror and confront your gumption: Do I have what it takes? Isn’t that why we do all of this?

And maybe that’s the whole point–not just in hunting, but in life. That feeling of “I don’t know if I can do this” seems to show up right before anything worthwhile. I’ve learned to take it as a sign I’m exactly where I should be.

At work, my role’s evolving, the stakes are higher, and suddenly the projects I used to dream about are landing on my desk. That doubt creeps in again. But here’s the thing–I think the fear is the proof. The proof that the moment matters. The proof that I’ve arrived at something with weight.

That’s the thing with hunting. Technically, I don’t have to show up. Nothing depends on me killing an elk. No one’s life changes if I blow the shot. In the end, it’s a selfish pursuit. And maybe that’s why the anxiety hits different. With work or family, you have to rise to the moment. People are counting on you. But with this? I could quit. Stay home. Blame the wind. And nobody would care but me. That’s what makes it harder. No obligation. Just the mirror.

But maybe that’s the value in these so-called “selfish” pursuits. They sharpen you. Quietly. Without applause. You test your discipline when no one’s watching, so you’re steadier when it counts. Maybe showing up for the hunt helps me show up better for the rest of it–work, family, life. And if chasing elk helps me become the kind of man who doesn’t flinch when the stakes are real, then I’d argue it’s not so selfish after all.