Some hunts you plan for.
Others happen to you.
This one did both.
This year was different from the start. For the first time ever, all four of us were drawn for Utah — Don and me, Reagan and Matthew. That doesn’t happen for us. Usually we’re out there with the kids while we wait our turn, hoping someday the draw will line up. And somehow this year, it did. Four tags. One unit. A whole week ahead of us.
We headed out Thursday night and made it as far as the gas station just before our unit. We’ve done this enough times that it almost feels routine — that quiet drive in the dark, the anticipation building with every mile. By the time we rolled in the next morning and fueled up, it felt real. We were here.
We unloaded the side-by-sides and headed into the unit just as the sun was coming up. There’s something about that first ride in — the chill in the air, the smell of dust and sage, the feeling that anything could happen. We kept it simple that first day. Just covering ground. Glassing familiar ridges. Getting a feel for the pressure.
That evening, right before we were about to call it, we spotted a buck in an area we’ve hunted for years. Not a giant, not a once-in-a-lifetime deer, but a solid buck. The kind that makes your heart pick up a little. We didn’t push it. We quietly backed out and headed back to camp. No big talk. Just that quiet excitement sitting in your chest. Opening morning was coming fast.
We were up before daylight, thinking we had an early jump on things.
So was everyone else.
That’s public land. Trucks parked everywhere. Side-by-sides coming in from every direction. Hunters glassing the same hills you are. It can be frustrating. But it also forces you to think differently. You can’t just do what you always do. You have to adjust.
I was still getting over a pretty bad head cold, and hiking felt heavier than usual. But there’s something about opener that pushes you forward anyway. We checked the area where we’d seen that buck the night before, and there were already five different groups watching it. That plan was done before it started.
By late morning, the sun came up and the crowds thinned out. That’s when we decided to move into one of our go-to spots — a half-mile loop through thicker brush where bucks like to bed once it warms up. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy walking. But it’s worked for us before.
We pushed through the brush slowly, picking apart every shadow. And right before we finished the loop, we saw them.
Two bucks. Bedded. Both shooters.
Everything slows down in those moments. I got set up on one. Reagan got on the other. You don’t talk much. You just breathe and settle in.
They stood up almost at the same time, like they felt something wasn’t right.
I shot. Mine dropped.
Reagan’s buck started to move downhill, just out of sight. Don and Reagan took off after him. They found him, and Reagan set up using Don’s shoulder as her rest. It wasn’t textbook. It wasn’t perfect. But she made it count.
Two bucks down on opening day.
It was my first Utah deer. Reagan’s second deer. And I don’t think either of us will ever forget that feeling walking up to them.
We still had daylight and two tags left, so we kept going. As the shadows started stretching long across the hills, Matthew spotted the buck he wanted. He got into position, took his time, and when he shot, it went down clean.
Three tags filled on opener.
If you had told me that morning — standing there looking at all those trucks — that we’d end the day like that, I wouldn’t have believed you.
That night at camp, we processed deer under fading light, tired but running on adrenaline. There’s something about that work after a successful day. It’s not glamorous. It’s messy. But it feels earned.
The next morning, Don and Matthew headed back out to an area that had looked promising. A bachelor herd was feeding in a meadow, and Don picked the cleanest opportunity. When that buck went down, it almost felt surreal.
Four tags. Two days.
Just like that, we were done hunting.
With warmer weather coming in, we took the deer into town to Nay’s Meats in Panguitch. They’ve always taken good care of us, and it felt good knowing everything would be handled right.
And then the trip shifted.
We found out some friends of ours were hunting the same unit with their kids and hadn’t had any luck. So of course we invited them to camp. That’s the part I love most about these trips — the sharing.
Don took Marc and his son Warren out that afternoon. It was Warren’s first deer. When his buck went down, the cheers echoed through the canyon. Hunters from different groups, different camps, all celebrating a kid’s first deer. That moment alone would have made the whole trip worth it.
The next day, Charlie and his daughter Bristol put in miles — real miles — searching for her deer. A father and daughter who know how to grind it out. They spotted a herd and made a plan for the next morning.
While they were setting up their stalk, we went fishing at Panguitch Lake and Piute Reservoir. The fishing was slow, but the day was beautiful. No pressure. No rush. Just being out there.
That afternoon, we got the call. The buck was down, but they needed help finding him. We headed back out, helped track him down, and stood there together knowing that six tags had been filled in just a few days.
A storm was rolling in the next day, so we packed up and moved closer to the road. That night we sat around the fire, lightning flashing in the distance, telling stories and replaying every moment.
The kids learned how to clean a skull and get it ready for transport. We tried our luck again at Otter Creek. Fishing was still slow — until it wasn’t. We finally pulled one out of a small stream along the road and celebrated like it was a trophy.
Lunch in Circleville at Butch Cassidy’s Hideout Cafe felt like sitting down with family. Good food. Great dessert. The kind of place that makes you slow down a little. That night we watched the storm roll across camp.
The next day we headed back out to Panguitch Lake, the fishing finally turned on. We pulled our lines just as the rain started falling. That afternoon we picked up our meat and visited with some family near by.
Our trip was over, eventually, we packed up and started the drive home.
Four tags in two days sounds impressive.
But that’s not what I’ll remember most.
I’ll remember Don dancing on the ridge trying to get a buck to stand up and move.
Reagan and Matthew’s laughter echoing through camp.
The cheers rolling through the canyon for Warren’s first deer.
Watching Sadie launch herself into the water, convinced she could caught the fish herself.
Shooting stars streaking across a black Utah sky.
Storms rolling over camp while we sat warm around the fire.
And that quiet, steady feeling that settles in when you realize you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
That’s what stays with me.
The tags get filled. The meat goes in the freezer. The season moves on.
But the memories?
Those are the real trophy.
And that’s why we keep going back.