California Girl Falls Hard For Georgia Deer Hunting

By Traci Brautigam

Let me start by saying that I am from southern California. I was born and raised there, spending the first 40 years of my life surrounded by pavement, master-planned communities, streetlights and overcrowded beaches. This was all I knew, and all I ever thought I wanted. Time was regulated by clocks, and days were planned right down to the last detail. Life was a rush to get everywhere, while really going nowhere. I was happy enough in my little bubble of a world, or so I thought.

At the age of 40, divorced, with one daughter attending college in upstate New York, and another daughter about to enter middle school, I suddenly found myself selling nearly everything and moving across the country to northeast Georgia. I traded in half a lifetime and took the plunge, so that my younger daughter could be near her father (who had recently moved to Georgia), and his extended family. We loaded up what possessions we wanted to take with us, including a dog and two cats, and drove across the county. I have not looked back since.

We arrived at our new house in the middle of the night; it was raining, thundering and very dark. When the rain cleared, I heard frogs and cicadas and crickets singing. I remember standing in my backyard at around 2 a.m. and just breathing deeply. My world had changed.

There were trees and creeks and ponds and wildlife. It took me 15 to 20 minutes just to get to a store. Streets were one or two lanes each direction, instead of four. If I missed a turn (which happened often), I would have to travel sometimes miles just to be able to turn around. The streets themselves were dark at night, without an overabundance of streetlights, and there were stars, so many stars. I found myself looking up almost as often as I looked straight ahead or down. I did not want to miss a thing. Now almost five years later, I am still in awe.

Traci, who now lives outside of Augusta, started out just taking pictures while her boyfriend hunted. She quickly learned how to climb trees faster and moved on to deciding she wanted to put down the camera and pick up a deer rifle.

About a year and a half ago I met a boy. He had a southern drawl, was very stubborn and loved the outdoors. He walked into my life, started talking and has not shut up since. He has zero sense of time, is completely blunt, overprotective and has yet to buy me flowers. He is nothing I ever imagined myself with. I love him dearly.

It didn’t take long to become obvious that he had a love besides me—deer hunting. His whole face would light up when talking about it. On my end, I was not the least bit interested in killing or eating “Bambi.” No way. Not me. He would watch stupid YouTube videos on his phone about hunting, and I rolled my eyes. Then I stopped rolling my eyes and would occasionally sneak a peek over his shoulder at what he was watching. Then “occasionally” became a little more often. I asked him if there was a way to go hunting with him and maybe just take pictures of nature and take video but not actually hunt. He knew he had me. Suddenly the stupid YouTube videos became instructional videos on proper tree-stand safety.

He pulled out bin after bin of hunting gadgets and clothes and patiently explained to me what everything was used for. He took me to the store and bought me boots, pants and gloves. He took me to a tree and made me practice climbing up and down, up and down. The practice climbs were maybe 10 feet up the tree and were easy. I still had no intention of ever killing a deer, but I was looking forward to the views from the trees and taking pictures.

The first morning he took me hunting with him, he woke me at 4 a.m., packed our gear and snacks in our backpacks and got dressed. I was more excited than I wanted him to know but also scared that I would hold him back with my lack of experience. We drove in the dark, and to this day I have no idea how he can find his way around all the endless winding paths of hunting land. I was just along for the ride.

I still remember getting out of the truck that very first morning and trying to be quiet, yet seemingly stepping on every twig and rattling every piece of equipment. He sprayed my boots with fox pee scent and helped me as I struggled to put on my safety harness. He adjusted the headlight on my head when I couldn’t even figure out how to turn it on, and he helped me hook up my backpack to my tree stand and loaded both onto my back. Then we walked. And walked. And walked. It was cold. It was dark. It was muddy, and I was carrying what felt like 100 pounds on my back.

We arrived at the tree he had picked out, and I unloaded my tree stand. As he hooked it up to the tree for me, I asked how far up we were climbing. He told me, “30 feet” and pointed to a limb that seemed impossibly high. My heart sank. I would never be able to climb that high. This was something he loved, and I was going to let him down. I knew he could probably climb that tree in five minutes. I am only (almost) 5-2 and no matter how much I might want them to, my legs are not getting any longer. I started climbing. Slowly. Even with my flashlight, it was still dark. I tried to remember everything I had to be taught. I became scared. I started to sweat. I inched up maybe 2 inches at a time. I wanted to stop and tried to think up any excuse I could. He didn’t let me. Instead, that boy with his southern drawl and years of hunting experience, just patiently encouraged me.

That first morning it took me 45 minutes to get up the tree, and it was daylight by the time we settled into our stands. He didn’t complain once about how slow I was. I hadn’t let him down. Instead, he smiled. He watched as I took in the views from way up high for the very first time. He listened to me babble about how pretty everything was. He watched as I learned that covering up my face with a proper hunting mask and staying warm was more important than looking cute. He helped me as I struggled to figure out how the best way for was for me to pee while in a tree. He taught me how to scan for deer and what his various deer calls were and meant. I took pictures. It was calm. It was beautiful. We stayed up in that tree until after sundown and saw maybe 15 squirrels, heard many leaves fall and saw exactly one deer. That one deer quickly moved out of range. As we climbed down in the dark, all I could think about was going again.

We went hunting a few more times but were on public hunting land and did not see much. I kept taking pictures though. The boy found out he would be working out-of-state for the next several months. I still remember the night that he told me he would bring the camper and we could go hunting on the weekends. Or rather, he would hunt and I could enjoy the views and take all the pictures I wanted. I am pretty sure he already knew it was only a matter of time until I wanted to actually hunt, but he didn’t let on.

The boy had friends and family who owned hunting land and were generous enough to allow him to take me along on his hunts. Now when I climbed trees, I could do it in 15 minutes. Still nowhere close to his five minutes, but it was an improvement for sure. I could put on my safety harness by myself and finally figured out how to turn on that headlight. I also learned how to climb mounted tree stands and how to hunt from a ground-level blind. Or rather, I learned how to take pictures from all of these.

Then, one evening, I saw movement in the brush. It was a deer, and it was in range. I remember whispering to the boy and I vaguely remember him getting into position, shooting and the deer dropping immediately to the ground. It was a blur though. I took a video, and it was a very bad video, but he pretended it was great. We climbed down and went to fetch the deer cart. By the time we put away our gear, got back to the deer, loaded it onto the cart and started walking back to the truck, it was dark. Time stood still for me that night as we were headed back through the trees. It was a surreal moment for me, a 45-year-old girl from southern California—tromping through the woods at night, wearing camo from head to toe, boots all muddy, carrying a machete and trailing behind a boy carrying a deer on a deer cart. The air was clean, stars dotted the sky, and all I knew, at that very moment, was that I wanted to hunt. I told the boy. He smiled.

The next thing I knew, I was learning how to shoot. This came with another detailed set of instructions when it came to safety matters and everything that goes along with learning. I actually was able to hit the practice targets and only shot through the boy’s hoodie once. Luckily, he was not wearing it at the time. I learned about local sheriffs and game wardens and hunting licenses. I learned to keep my finger away from the trigger until I was actually about to shoot. I learned that it was not proper to say “pew pew pew” while pretending to shoot, since there was only one bullet in my gun at a time. And I learned how to load that bullet. The boy refused to do any of it for me, just as he refused to let me quit the first time I climbed a tree.

I pestered and pestered the boy to take me hunting whenever we could, and he promised to allow me to shoot the next deer. I told him I only wanted to shoot one, and then I would be happy forever. Just one.

A couple weekends later, I was happily watching the sunrise from 30 feet up in a tree. It was a chilly morning, but I was warm and comfortable up in the tree stand and enjoying every moment. Then I saw movement. It was a doe, and she was about to step out onto the path and was within my range. She was not the largest doe, but she was old enough to shoot. I let the boy know, and then once again, time froze. I vaguely remember whispering back and forth, but I did not hear a word the boy said. I know I somehow moved my gun and used the scope and aimed, but I do not even remember pulling the trigger. The doe reared up and ran. I thought I had missed. I wanted to cry. It was my first deer, and I thought I had done everything right but had missed it. A couple minutes later, the boy, who had taken a video, was reviewing it, and let me know that, no, I had shot it, and it was normal for them to run off a bit afterward. I had done it. I had shot my deer. I would be happy now to “retire” and just take pictures from that point on.

Soon we climbed down from the tree and packed up a bit, and I was ready for the boy to go find my deer and bring it back. Turns out I actually had to track the deer, and he was not going to do that for me either. So I learned somehow how to spot tiny drops of blood mixed in with dirt and mud and leaves, and figure out which direction the deer ran. Hours later (probably really 15 to 20 minutes), I was certain I would never find my deer. The boy, who was a bit up ahead of me stopped and asked if I heard something in the bushes. I looked over and there was my deer—dead. He had spotted it a few minutes earlier and was waiting for me to find it.

He dragged the deer out onto the path and brought it back toward the truck. The next thing I knew I was kneeling down next to it, holding its head toward the camera and taking a picture of my deer. Then the boy dipped his finger in the blood and wiped it on my face—another picture. I was completely horrified and let him know just what I thought of that.

Five minutes later, I was asking when we could go again so I could try to shoot a buck. Just one buck. Then I would be happy forever.

Something magical often happens to a person when they move away from pavement and street lights. Traci Brautigam knew nothing else but southern California living, until she moved to Georgia and met a “boy” who liked to deer hunt. It didn’t take very long before the allure of hunting reached her soul. She is pictured here with her first deer, a Richmond County doe she killed in January 2021.