Home Is Where The Hunt Is

Jordan Burse with an opening-day bow buck from Catoosa County that she took with her dad in the tree with her. Jordan was diagnosed with Lupus in August. It certainly presents daily challenges, but she wasn’t going to let it stand in the way of her deer hunting. She goes as far to say that if it weren’t for Lupus, she wouldn’t have spent this hunt with her dad by her side.

By Jordan Burse

I once heard a quote that sums up my entire raising in one simple sentence: “I wasn’t born in the woods, but I got there as fast as I could.”

I was born on Nov. 12, 1995. To any old regular person, this is just a random day in November, but to my family, this date is a clear indicator that the rut has begun. Although I was born in the comfort of four white walls inside of our local hospital, coming into this world during such a sought after time to be in the woods during deer season might have just been the second piece of the puzzle that pieces together my life in the outdoors. If you happened to notice that I said second, you’re probably wondering what the first piece of that beautiful, camouflaged puzzle could possibly be, while still being attached to my mother by my umbilical cord. The answer to that is simple. My DNA.

One of the first memories I have of my father is him coming home from a deer hunt on the day of my fifth birthday party. I can confirm that he spent as much time as he possibly could in the woods that day without having to miss out on my party because I met him outside by his truck while being fully dressed in my birthday party attire. This sight was not an oddity for me, nor would it ever be. All I knew was that I wanted so badly to get dressed in camouflage, get up and to venture out into the woods with my dad. When he caught wind of even the tiniest bit of interest in me going with him, he took to it. This, my friends, was the starting line of my full on sprint into the woods.

It wasn’t until I was in the seventh grade that I would graduate from spectator to huntress, by killing my first deer. There I was, meeting my dad out by his truck while he was dressed in camouflage. He was preparing everything for him and my brother to head out on a youth hunt in Dayton, Tenn. There wasn’t much that could stop his pre-hunt scurries, but man did these next four words stop him dead in his tracks.

“I want to go,” I said as he was putting everything in the truck. It would have been very easy for him to have said no. It was extremely last minute. I didn’t have camouflage of my own, I wasn’t initially expected to come on this hunt, and I had never even shot a gun before. But without hesitation, he said yes. I threw on some of my brother’s camouflage and off the three of us went. All of the what if’s and possible roadblocks that could arise in this scenario didn’t matter to my dad. He believed in me, and that was enough.

While I have always admired the outdoors, it wasn’t until that evening that it became my passion. I had camouflage of my own, willingly woke up before the birds and would count down the seconds until I could get back in the woods again. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could possibly keep me from pursuing this passion. Every season, there were plenty of those what if’s and roadblocks that I mentioned before, but I somehow always made it in a tree at least once every deer season. It wasn’t until this year that I genuinely thought chasing whitetails wasn’t in the cards for me anymore.

In August, I was diagnosed with Lupus. In a very short period of time, this disease took everything from me. My physical capabilities were dwindling away because the pain and fatigue overpowered them. When someone is diagnosed with a disease that they will carry for the rest of their life, there are many things that go through one’s head. I feel confident that I might be one of the only few people whose first concern was missing out on deer season.

Every year, in the months leading up to the opening day of archery season, I practice shooting my bow relentlessly. Before this year’s opening day, I had only shot my bow once. Opening day of deer season is like Christmas to me. I didn’t care what my chances might be, I was going to be in a tree before the sun came up. For this year’s season opener, I opted out of a morning hunt. Mornings are the hardest on my body. I knew that an evening hunt would be best for me.

As the morning grew into the afternoon, I started to get anxious about hunting alone. I texted my dad to see if he would go hunting with me. Not even an hour later, I received a photo of a lock-on stand that he had just hung beside mine. This was the same man that didn’t hesitate to take me on that hunt my seventh grade year.

My parent’s house sits on a quaint 4 acres of land in Catoosa County. Just south of their back deck are the woods and our lock-on stands.

Around 4 p.m., we were en route to our treetop thrones. Climbing up the tree was extremely difficult for me, but I prevailed. Once I got to the top, situated my bow and strapped on my release, I sat down and closed my eyes. With today’s modern medicine, there are many things my doctor can prescribe to help me live with this disease. But, there is no treatment that holds a candle to being out in the woods.

Not even an hour later, I hear my dad say, “Stand up and grab your bow.” While doing just that, I could now see why those instructions were given so sternly. In walked my target buck that I had been watching on our camera since the beginning of August. I couldn’t believe that I was finally meeting this buck in person. Even if I left this hunt without him, I was happy to have seen him with my own two eyes. It was time for me to make my move. Here we go. Inhale… THUMP.

“He’s dead! You got him! He’s down!” These were the words I heard while hunched over my knees and sobbing. When I looked up at my dad, he, too, had tears in his eyes.

“That was a perfect shot! Everything that has happened has led you to this moment right here. I love you.”

He’s right. If it weren’t for my recent health struggles, he wouldn’t have been in that same tree to share the moment with me. And for a moment, it somehow made my diagnosis feel all worthwhile.

This story is dedicated to my father, John Moore. Thank you for getting me into the woods as fast as you could.