Pancho & Lefty - the 2025 Hunt

Chancho & Righty or was it, Pancho & Lefty?

Our brave new world has evolved into a place where humans demand instant and immediate feedback. The scrolling newsfeed of life keeps us pinned to our devises – or more aptly called just “vices”. I sometimes can’t tell the difference. The 3 second rule of TikTok says that you have just 3 seconds to catch a viewer’s attention. Otherwise, you’ve lost them and they will just swipe on by. The dopamine hit associated with “likes” and emojis connected to your Facebook profile cannot be disputed. Some can stay humble and live a normal life. I cannot.

My name is Paul Kirby and I am an addict.

Michele would argue that I spend too much time on all of the “socials” but what we’ve come to learn is that my addiction is not entirely social media related. Instead, I have become attached to Trail Cameras. To save our marriage, the “alerts and notifications” settings had to be adjusted earlier this Fall because we were both losing sleep when the TactaCam cellular plan lit up the night. Moments after silencing my morning alarm clock, I developed a habit of immediately logging on for the overnight updates from the woods. I looked forward to the latest uploads and craved the digital connection to the woods.

I love my wife and children but my love for all things wild may be a close second. My addiction to trail cameras can no longer be denied. 

Logan and Tyler had zero obligations on the day prior to deer opener. Because Chancho’s young pup, Lewie, has struggled this Fall containing his excitement in the duck blind, the boys conceived a plan to meet up that morning and chase ditch parrots. Their first Friday field yielded results proving the pup is more suited for running wild and free, scaring up pheasants then he is staring at spinning wing decoys. With a bird in the hand and a few in the bush, Chancho and Righty had a confirmed kill on the eve of the great orange migration.

Unfortunately, the kennel wasn’t open to accept Lewie until midafternoon. I suppose it didn’t matter much anyway because the school district served me up a dose of mandatory cultural competency training like I was being punished for a crime I didn’t commit. When the horn sounded quitting time, I bolted and joined the boys north bound by 4 o’clock.

The flight manifest for the 2025 deer season unfortunately dwindled down to the Outfitter, Aaron Kirby, and my delegation, consisting of me, Chancho (Logan) and Righty (Tyler). Uncle Tim had yet to turn in his walking papers and was therefor still assigned to punching in and out on the company clock. He was off “working” in the U.P. or Illinois or somewhere in between. Poppa Tom, on the other hand, had to forego handwarmers and blaze orange for an unplanned trip to Florida. Grandma Judy had fallen ill and although she insisted that he stay and play in the deer woods with the other Kirby boys, Tom felt otherwise and subsequently, headed south to look after and support his mother. (Side note: at the time of this writing, Grandma is out of the hospital with less innards than she went in with but is on the mend and in a rehabilitation facility. “The food aint great and this place isn’t my first choice, but I’m getting by,” she says.)

So, there we were, me, the Outfitter, Chancho and Righty, talking smack talk in the garage off Buzzle Road, a couple of Mich Goldens down the hatch, as we readied our gear for the rising sun.

            When we started our opening morning routines , an overnight, light frost coated the ground. For Day 1, Aaron decided to take a swing at some state land a couple of miles south of his digs, so he warmed his pickup. We layered on clothes and packed more than enough snacks to hold us over until Labor Day. A couple of handshakes were exchanged as pleasantries and before long, Tyler trekked off east towards the box blind; Aaron motored south to a portable in the southern pines and Logan and I rode the frost covered Honda southeast into county land for our regularly assigned posts.

               A significant drop in the mercury kept our usual text message string to a minimum that Saturday morning. There was very little deer activity to report aside from a random doe or two and a fork buck messing around over by Logan. Overall, it was a quiet first post. Besides sending Mountain Dew selfies to each other, we kept busy waiting for a 10:00 a.m. extraction time by wishing we owned a pair of electric socks like Aaron. Lunch time sandwiches and all the Pringles a guy could ask for were followed by a quick snooze in the small apartment complex that the Outfitter calls a Fish House.

               Through midday, the sunshine wrestled with the cloud cover enough to warm the air and make the evening post significantly more tolerable. Naysen joined his dad in the field blind. Tyler and Logan gave a few more deer a free Hall Pass. It didn’t sound as if the neighbors were doing the same. Chancho’s scent control and Little Debbie wrapper discipline afforded him the chance to have deer bed down in his general vicinity. As the sun set on Day 1, he was “pinned”. By 5:30 p.m., the depleted Kirby delegation had retreated without a shot fired.

               Since last season, the recipe for Tyler’s 2^nd place chili was misplaced but to make up for it, he treated us with some “Participation Award” chili for dinner that first night. Daylight savings time came a week earlier than usual this year, and that afforded us for more time to visit with Arica, Naysen, Natalia and her new beau, Will. The kitchen was filled with laughter and more light-hearted teasing. I slipped away to call my Dadd and check in on Grandma Judy with no deer news to report but was pleased to hear that Grandma was doing well. Shortly after that call, I took a phone call from my buddy, Scott, on a reference check on a potential Marketplace deal. Seems his Ice Castle was listed for sale and creating a buzz. I thought nothing of it.

               After a short phone visit with my huntin’ and fishin’ buddy, I checked back into the kitchen banter and filled them in on Grandma’s progress. When small talk resumed, I remembered an earlier conversation I had with Aaron about his father’s pending retirement. Right then it hit me, I had a potential match for Uncle Tim’s retirement fund. After seeing a couple of photos and hearing Logan and I reminisce about our time in that shack, Aaron started pecking away a text message to his dad somewhere in the Upper Peninsula. Tim needed to “swipe right” on Scott’s fish house. An hour later we had successfully negotiated a deal for Tim’s purchase of Scott’s Ice Castle. Not to be outdone, Tom got in on the action from afar as we found him a heck of a deal on a used Polaris 4-wheeler, also in Rush City. Tim got the Toy Hauler and Tom got a Toy. For different reasons this year, the brothers were missing out on this deer season but with both now retired, we’re hoping they rejoin us in the woods next. In the meantime, a couple of ice fishing adventures with their new toys will have to do. My brokerage fee can be paid with free LOTW guiding.

               The next morning, perhaps for the first time, Naysen decided to join us for consecutive hunts. He and his dad took to the field again for Day 2. Tyler would return to the box blind that we invested some time and treated lumber into earlier in October. I wanted to mix things up and chose to sit in the green blind near Tyler and have a look at the woods from a new angle. Logan stuck to what he’s repetitively done and headed to the farthest ladder stand. Although he had not shot a deer from there, it has historically been the most dependable spot for action. That proved to be the correct choice.

               Seems the affinity for Trail Cameras is a familial trait. Aaron runs just as many cameras if not more in Bemidji than we do down south. And he is equally addicted to the shot of dopamine associated with the instant “Notification” from the Tactacams.

At 7:06 am he sent me a picture of a big buck walking by Logan’s ladder in real time.

At 7:08 Logan text, “We’ve got work to do.”

               Painted unclearly at the break of dawn, the faded black and white image was being beamed from phone to phone in our hunting party faster than the .243 jacketed hollow point Logan sent down range. No one dared guess just how big this bruiser was, but it was apparent from the pixelated photo that this dude was definitely a shooter. A young doe grazed beneath me while Logan said that he was going to get down and look for blood at the point of impact. With the sun yet to even hit the tree line, we anxiously waited for more confirmation. He then went radio silent for much longer than I had anticipated.

               After what seemed like a long time without finding a hint of blood, Logan climbed back into his stand and onto the phone to recount the shot and solicit advise. Logan felt like he made a good quartering away shot at about 60 yards and felt confident after seeing the deer mule kick and bolt off. Tyler asked for permission to join his younger brother and help. Aaron offered to climb down and head over and lend a hand too. I reminded everyone that we had time to wait. There was no rush. We aimed for 8:30. The best we could do was 8:17.

               Tyler and I met up and swung by the house to shed a layer of clothing and visit the porcelain facilities before joining up with Aaron on a tracking job in a place with a history of drawn-out adventure. Naysen made it to the house and his Legos about the same time the rest of us met up near the tiny pine trees 60 yards south from where Logan fired. Chancho marked where the deer stood and promised us that he had not trampled more than 10 yards in any direction. His account of the deer’s initial direction of travel was confirmed by a light dusting of snow. Some disturbed leaves provided small hints that the wounded buck hurried around the hill before disappearing out of sight. No blood had the hunters confounded. Logan speculated that the deer moved off in a southwesterly direction towards the stands from which our last two deer perished. We struggled to find any more sign. The rising and rolling terrain of the county land let doubt creep in.

               An hour and a half had passed since Logan squeezed the trigger. The 4 of us stood confused by the lack of blood on what should have been an easy shot for the young hunter. The light caliber rifle may have hit bone; may have not exited the wounded animal, thus making it less likely that we’d be successful finding a blood trail. The perplexed recovery crew began to silently separate, each of us in our own heads trying to solve a murder mystery. I wandered southwest in the direction my youngest swore that he heard it crashing. Tyler made small circles. Aaron was visibly trying to look up ahead and IN TO the woods searching for a clue. The marksman, feeling dejected, stood in place.

               After a while, I returned to the last set of tracks that we were sure belonged to the buck. I retraced his steps leading up to that point. It was then that I found a drop of blood. The colorblind fool I am would be rewarded when the rest of the hunting party gathered and quickly spotted one more drop. Two drops of blood trickled on to some oak leaves just six inches apart. The blood spots only confirmed that we had a wounded deer. That proved to be all the clues we’d be given. We were not able to definitively determine anything else and soon returned to our confused wandering.

               For another hour we grid searched and wandered. Because of the rolling topography and other property limitations, we generally worked in a clockwise direction and hopscotched south by southwest. At times we moved methodically and skipped a hunter ahead to cover while the others slowed down and picked apart the countryside. Other times, we meandered and daydreamed. A couple of live deer were kicked up and safely escaped without an attempt lobbed their way. Deflated and on the precipice of defeat, we eventually hit the north/south fence line. It was possible that Logan had lost his buck.

               When we reached the Pit, we paused to catch our breath and make a decision: call it good and go in for lunch OR ask for permission from the neighbors to the east; head back to the last known waypoint and keep trying. Aaron phoned the neighbor. Now midmorning, Tim Lewis was still posted in the middle of the hardwoods his family owns directly to the east.  Aaron explained our plight and Tim happily obliged. We agreed to only work 75 yards or so across the property line and would do our best not to disturb any remaining part of his hunt. If anything, we thought we might push deer his direction. The choice was made; our search to recover the mystery buck was still on.

               Back into the woods our team paused to formulate another plan. Ironically, we stood in front of the Outfitter’s trail camera while it perfectly captured our dilemma. We tossed a couple more ideas around but settled on another trip through the county land to the south. Once we reached the southern border we would swing to the east and double back, this time crossing into the Lewis’ property and working back towards the impact zone in counterclockwise movement. Fifteen minutes later, the boys and I got a new view of the land that we had only seen before on the OnX app. About the time we arrived at a major property intersection with an endless view of prime hunting land in all directions, my phone ping’ed. Another Rud boy had taken another buck. Although Tyler and I were very happy for them, I was reluctant to show Logan. The agony of defeat and the pain of loss was setting in.

               Moving north now and closing in on the last couple hundred remaining yards, the team passed by an unused box stand that Aaron pointed out was the one that we were denied permission to borrow weeks earlier. Positive vibes had long since left me; my thoughts drifted towards lunch. Tyler and I walked beside each other on the public side of the fence while Logan and Aaron picked through some young popple trees on the Lewis property. The two pairs drifted apart when suddenly Logan called for my attention. When I was able to get a clear line of sight on him through the tangled saplings, he had his rifle shouldered and was waving me over. Aaron hurriedly pecked away at his phone trying to alert Mr. Lewis that we planned to fire again. Tyler and I closed the distance as quickly as the woods allowed and when it was apparent that Logan had found his wounded buck and had him sufficiently covered, we backed off and waited for the final shot. Aaron was unable to reach Mr. Lewis. Although the buck was not strong enough to get to its feet, the deer raised its head and needed to be put down.

Logan fired and our search was over.

We had “work to do.”

               A dark antlered 8-point buck lay at our feet, perhaps 250 yards from where he was first hit three and a half hours earlier. Turns out, Logan misinterpreted the smashing and crashing through the woods and Aaron’s hunch was correct. The wounded animal continued along the same general path that it was on when it came by Logan. Our determination and persistence were difficult to understand but we had accomplished another drawn out but successful recovery. Chancho finally laid his hands on his trophy while his three partners snapped pictures and fired off text messages to friends and family that had been waiting with bated breath.

               Congratulations and salutations poured across the airwaves. Logan’s sigh of relief was heard three counties over and his smile revealed that a major weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Mista Stutzman text from somewhere along the shores of the St. Louis River and wondered if this was a “local Buck” known to us through trail camera footage or whether it was a “sex crazed trespasser”. Turns out, we had a couple of great trail camera pictures of this buck and had seen him before. He was a local.

               Our diminished hunting party hunted together for a few more posts but never fired another shot that weekend. Tyler was able to join Logan and I and hunt Zone 225 around Rush City for a couple of days on the second weekend. The trail cameras there sent pictures of deer so regularly that we all became oddly familiar with a couple of different small bucks. Being able to be in the woods with my boys for a second weekend made this season all that much more memorable for me. We had action. We shared laughs and we swapped trail camera pictures to feed our addictions.

               Man, those things are fun.

 

 

 

 

POST SEASON SIDE NOTE:

After seeing a SnapChat that Emma’s roommate, Mia, sent of an Urban MONSTER BUCK, I am considering setting up a deer stand in Emma’s back yard in Duluth next year.

Likewise, Tyler may be hunting from his back porch in Plymouth after seeing the RING camera footage of another sex crazed trespasser.