Discussions the evening before opening day are always exciting.

What about the anticipation of planning that “big hunt?” You know, the one that you and your buddies look forward to every year: “Who’s bringing the food? Who’s got the camper? What about the coffee pot?” Yep, there’s nothing like the camaraderie of a few good friends getting together over the campfire, knocking a few beverages back and talking about the next morning’s hunt: “Who’s hunting where? What kind of sign have you seen? What time are we breaking stands?” These are just some of the many conversations that go on every night in campgrounds all over our state.

Sometimes I think about how lucky I am to be able to hunt one of the largest hunting clubs in the world, where the dues are a mere $15.00 per year. There’s never a stand number to pull or a feeder to fill. There’s no limits on hunting space, no guest fees, and no work days. There’s no “club politics” as we know it. Yes, I’m sure everyone that has ever hunted public land has some sad story about the crowds, flashlights, or trails of flagging that seem to never end. Sure these things can be discouraging to most of us, but it’s their land too. We all have a right to it, but if you put in your time you’ll learn how to limit these inconveniences and turn them into opportunities. When those hard times come and I find myself dogging our state’s public access lands, I stop and think about a few things for a minute. What if there was none? I’d never find myself hunting those palmetto ridges of Thistlewaite again. Gone would be the days of taking that hour-long boat ride down the bayous of Sherburne, or telling my buddy, “Lock the hubs!” before we hit Yackey Road in Red River. I’d miss freezing our butts off on those four wheeler trails in West Bay, and the view from those breathtaking bluffs at Tunica Hills. What if there were no places like Jackson-Bienville, Manchac, Attakapas, Joyce, Grassy Lake, Boeuf River, Point Aux Chene, or Fort Polk? I couldn’t imagine my world without them.

Honestly, it could be the rush I have when I finally get a chance to tag out. Maybe it’s feeling my heart trying to jump out of my chest when I hear that stick crack behind me, reaffirming I did everything right. Or maybe it’s the the overwhelming heartbreak that takes over when I turn around only to see the notorious “white flag” and knowing that I’ve been busted.

I could ramble on all day about why I do it, but maybe it just all boils down to the challenge of taking a nice deer with no strings attached—being able to hunt the natural way. Part of it’s having to use my wits and skills that I’ve acquired over the years to try to outsmart that old buck—to know that I’ve played by his rules, not mine. I feel as though I owe him that much respect. Some of these public land hunters are the best I’ve ever seen at what they do. Some can go into a deer’s home and consistently accomplish what most only dream of. To me, that’s an incredible feat in Louisiana. I hunt public land by choice; some hunt it out of necessity, but whatever the reason, we can all benefit from what this great state has to offer. Sometimes out there I win; most of the time I lose, but it’s a game that I hope to play forever. •