Field Stories
Real stories. Real hunts. Real memories. Straight from the NorCal backcountry.
Handpicked tales from NorCal hunters — deer camps, duck blinds, turkey ridges, and everything in between.
Field Story
Building the Next Generation in the Blind
With the Balance of State duck opener sitting just a few weeks out on the calendar, we are turning our eyes toward the blinds, the rice fields, and the heritage that makes Northern California waterfowl hunting what it is. This week's field note comes from a guide who is actively building the next generation of duck hunters right here in our backyard. Laura Allen, of MOA Outfitters, sent in a reflection on why she built a guide service dedicated to welcoming women into the blind, what it takes to step into a male-dominated field, and why the future of the sport depends on community over competition. You can find MOA listed on our Local Boys page at norcalhunt.com
Here is Laura's story in her own words:
"Being able to provide ladies a safe, welcoming hunt environment is always top on my list every season. Why all ladies? Let’s admit that waterfowl hunting is a very male driven sport. The idea of meeting strangers on the side of the road out in the middle of nowhere at 4:00 am is a lot less intimidating when you know you are meeting up with a group of like minded women.Running a guide service in the Sacramento Valley not only enables me to host women, but share the tradition and heritage of what waterfowl hunting is all about. We are fortunate enough to have wonderful relationships with quite a few other guide services in the valley that totally support my mission of “getting women into the sport of waterfowl”.The vibe on these hunts is incredibly supportive and not competitive at all. Women are so understanding and want to support each other no matter what the skill level. So if you are questioning yourself about being able to jump into it, I promise YOU that you can do it! My motto is 'find you a group of likeminded women and pull the trigger, literally'...
Laura Allen, MOA
Field Story
A First Buck, and the Two Old Brothers Who Made the Morning
It was deer season, and we were in the mountains. A family friend had been kind enough to lend us the use of their cabin up near our zone so wouldn’t need to camp. Thus the hunt had gone from my father, my sister and I; to us my grandfather, my great uncle, and an old friend of my fathers. We had been hunting for a few days, there was a bit of sign but we’d yet to see hide or hair. I was anxious as it was the first season in which I was hunting, previously I’d only helped haul and skin.
The autumnal air was cold the day I went hunting with the old men. I had put on my jacket to protect from the chill and had put a few rounds into the jackets pockets. This was because we would be heading out in a truck and I wasn’t to have a loaded rifle in the vehicle. My grandfather and great uncle clambered up into the front seats and I into the back. The outside was cold and the old men were colder still, so they turned up the heat in the truck, and after about an hour of driving I was too hot and removed my jacket. In my anxiety I kept one round to fiddle with so that my hands had something to do.
Then it happened, my grandfather stopped the truck
“Deer”
Sure enough walking further away from us through the trees was a buck. I leapt from the truck rifle in hand and made to follow. In my haste I did two things; firstly, when I left the truck and did not bring my jacket, secondly, I made lots of noise. I fumbled sliding my one round into my rifle while moving towards the buck. It turned towards me as I slid the bolt home and brought the butt to my shoulder. I aimed for the heart and squeezed the trigger. While I missed the heart, I had blown through the bone of one of its fore legs.
When I fired the rifle it took off in the direction it was facing and not directly away from me. This wouldn’t have mattered except that by now my grandfather had made it to me. I turned to him and asked if he had a round I could use. He looked at me for what felt like eternity, taking me in in all my foolishness and youthful haste. He then handed me his rifle and, taking mine from me, told me to take the shot. I hurriedly brought the unfamiliar weapon to my shoulder and took a rushed shot that I barely aimed at the torso.
By some miracle I hit it. I once again missed where I was aiming, and took out the throat instead, so it made some distance before succumbing, but not much.
I then set to work field dressing my first buck, I had watched my father several times but hadn’t done it myself. Luckily I was with two hunters whom had been at it for more than double the number of years I’d lived. So I asked their advice in field dressing and went to it. I pulled out multiple organs, and had asked them multiple times if we had gotten it all only to be told to what I was missing. Eventually when I asked if we were done, I was told to get it to the truck and into the bed. I got the surprisingly heavy deer back to the truck and into the bed with the help of some fellow hunters that had happened upon us while I was field dressing the animal.
We drove back to the cabin to find my father, sister and my father’s friend back from their morning hunt and making breakfast. The old men had had an exciting and longer than expected morning, so they proceeded to tell my father the good news, eat the breakfast he had just made himself and then promptly fall asleep on the couch. My father went outside with me and helped me string it up to a tree head down for skinning, also commenting on the weight of the deer, while the old men ate.
Unfortunately their being tired from an exciting morning didn’t start when we got back to the cabin, it had started when I had asked for the fourth time if I was done taking organs out of the deer and they had said yes. Now you may be wondering how I missed organs, I mean they are fairly obvious. If you put yourself in the mind of a boy on his fist actual hunt fresh off the excitement of the experience I described, a boy who has pulled several hunks of flesh who's names he is too excited to currently remember, and then he peers into the body of a deer and sees an unpierced diaphragm. I think it was rather understandable to miss every organ beyond the diaphragm. My father was not impressed and went to ask the two old men why they had let me leave the diaphragm intact. It was at this point that we walked into living room and find the two old men, the two brothers, completely passed out in mirrored poses on either side of the old floral couch they laid upon.
Most people will never forget their first hunt, but I reckon I’ve a better story than most.
Devon A. Chico CA.
Field Story
The Catch
There are moments between a father and son that don't seem important when they're happening. Years later, they're the ones you remember best.
My son was ten when we headed out for an evening dove hunt near Arbuckle, California. It was one of those late-summer Sacramento Valley evenings when the heat hangs around until sunset and everything turns a dusty shade of gold.
We were hunting a newly planted almond orchard. The young trees stood in straight rows, too small to offer much shade. Sprinklers were running throughout the field, throwing long arcs of water across the dusty ground.
Fortunately, the orchard next door was older. Its mature almond trees gave us a shady place to stand while we watched the young orchard.
And that evening, the doves were flying.
They weren't trickling in one or two at a time. They were pouring into that orchard like something you'd expect to see in Argentina. Singles, pairs, little groups—they came from every direction.
For a ten-year-old boy hunting beside his dad, it was quite a show.
"Here comes one."
Then another.
"Over the top!"
Doves have a special talent for making shotgun hunters look bad. They'll come straight at you, then change direction as you shoulder the gun. They'll dip, climb, twist and catch a breeze that carries them safely past your shot pattern.
I reminded my son of the basics: pick one bird, swing through it and keep the shotgun moving. Dove hunting is great wingshooting practice because the birds rarely give you the same shot twice.
Then a single dove came across just right.
I raised my shotgun, swung through the bird and fired.
The dove folded cleanly.
Instead of falling among the young almond trees, it was dropping almost directly toward us.
I watched it tumble.
Twenty feet.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Without really thinking, I kept the shotgun safely in one hand and reached up with the other.
The dove dropped right into my hand.
I caught it.
For a second, everything stopped.
I looked at the bird in my hand, then at my son. His eyes were wide.
I probably should have said something profound about hunting or the outdoors.
Instead, I said, "You better remember this because you probably won't see that again anytime soon."
He stared at me with the expression only a ten-year-old can give his dad—half amazement, half disbelief.
I did my best to act like catching falling doves was something I did all the time.
Then another bird came over the orchard, and we went right back to hunting.
Today, I don't remember how many doves we brought home or how many shells we fired.
But I remember the sprinklers crossing those young almond trees, the shade of the old orchard and my son standing beside me when a dove fell from the California sky and landed in my hand.
A father only gets so many years when his son believes he can do things nobody else can.
When one of those moments falls out of the sky, you'd better catch it.
NorCalHunt Subscriber, Butte County
Field Story
More Than a Limit
By Chad M.
Winter mornings in California's Sacramento Valley have a way of making a hunter appreciate silence. A north wind swept across harvested rice fields, carrying the scent of wet soil, rice stubble, and distant marsh water. Low gray clouds hung overhead, flattening the light into a steel-colored sky that looked made for geese.
The seven of us, six old college buddies and me, gathered around the trailers before daylight, nursing cups of coffee and catching up. It had been years since we'd all hunted together. Careers, families, and busy schedules had scattered us in different directions, making weekends like this hard to come by.
"You boys still remember how to put out decoys?" someone joked. "Or are we going to be here until lunch?"
The laughs came as easily as they had in college.
We tucked our layout blinds into the rice stubble and built a mixed spread of specklebelly, snow goose, and Canada goose decoys. We left open landing pockets into the north wind, knowing geese prefer to finish with the breeze in their faces. It took time to get everything right, but experience has taught us that details matter.
The first flock announced itself with distant calls before appearing beneath the overcast. A group of specklebellies circled once, then committed.
"Take 'em!"
Seven shotguns echoed across the valley. Feathers drifted in the wind as birds folded into the field. We gathered them quickly and settled back into the blinds.
The second wave arrived less than twenty minutes later. Mostly snow geese with a few dark birds mixed in, they circled several times before finally dropping into the decoys. Once again, good calling, patience, and a realistic spread did the job.
By then, the morning had turned into one of those hunts you'll remember for years.
The third wave was unforgettable. Long strings of geese appeared from every direction, their calls filling the gray sky. Some birds circled high while others locked their wings and finished perfectly over the spread.
When the shooting stopped, every one of us had filled our limit of both dark and light geese.
Someone looked around the field and laughed.
"It took longer to set out the decoys than it did to shoot our limits."
He wasn't wrong.
It also took much longer to pick them all up.
By the time the last decoy was loaded, we still had a mountain of birds to clean. Most of the afternoon disappeared around the cleaning table, sharpening knives, plucking feathers, and reliving every volley while turning birds into meals for our families.
Driving home that evening, I realized the limits weren't what I'd remember most. Those geese will eventually be eaten, and the decoys will be packed away until next winter. What will stay with me is sharing a cold Sacramento Valley morning with the same friends who once shared college classrooms and late-night dreams.
The birds made the day successful. Seeing old friends again made it unforgettable.
Chad M., Escalon CA
Field Story
Lessons in the Clouds
By Paige A.
The week my dad pulled me out of school to hunt the late-season G1 deer hunt in Tehama County, I thought missing class was a big deal. He didn't. "You'll catch up on school," he said, loading the truck before dawn. "There are things you can only learn out here." I didn't believe him yet. By the end of the week I did.
The weather had set in the way it does late in the season up here — low clouds draped over the ridges, a fine mist dripping off the pines, visibility changing by the minute. One second we could see a hundred yards through the timber, the next the fog closed in around us. Our rain gear hissed with every step and the whole place smelled like wet bark and pine sap. It was the kind of morning that keeps most people home. It was also perfect deer weather. Blacktails disappear when conditions are easy, but give them fog and drizzle and they move longer into the morning and travel more openly. Dad knew that. He'd hunted these mountains for years.
I was carrying Pop's lever-action .308 — walnut stock worn smooth, dinged up from years of honest use. Dad had handed it to me before the hunt. "Pop would've wanted you carrying this." It felt like it carried more than cartridges.
We still-hunted along a timbered ridge, stopping to glass the openings, the mist swallowing our footsteps. "Don't rush," Dad whispered. That was about half his hunting instruction over the years, and honestly half his instruction on everything else. We found fresh sign everywhere — tracks pressed into the soft ground, rubs along a draw — and the hours went by. Deer move when they want to. Your job is just to be there when they do.
Around midmorning the timber opened up above a foggy basin and Dad stopped cold. I almost walked into him. He pointed, and at first I saw nothing — then the shape came together. A buck, feeding through the drifting cloud, no idea we were there. "Three-point," he whispered. My heart was going so hard I could barely hear him.
The buck stepped into the open and stood broadside, the mist drifting past him. I eased the rifle up. It felt heavier than it had all morning. I settled the sights, and Dad said, calm as ever, "Take your time." Not hurry. Not shoot. Take your time. I squeezed the trigger. The shot rolled out into the mountains, and the buck lunged into the fog and was gone.
For a moment neither of us moved. Then Dad looked over and smiled. "You got him." I wasn't sure. "You think so?" "I know so." He'd watched the buck's reaction — that's a lesson too, you watch the animal after the shot as close as before it. We still waited a while before going after him. You don't rush that either.
We found him a short way off, lying in the wet pine needles under the clouds — a solid three-point blacktail. I stood there a few seconds, and not because of the antlers. I looked at the buck, then at Pop's old rifle, and three generations seemed to meet in that one spot. Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Good shot."
We spent the rest of the day taking care of the deer and packing out through the mountains, and that work felt every bit as important as the hunt. Dad showed me how to move on steep wet ground, how to respect the animal, how to leave the woods better than we found them.
I couldn't tell you a single assignment I missed that week. What I remember is standing in the clouds with my dad in the pines of Tehama County, carrying Pop's .308, learning patience from a man who was never in a hurry. Every time I see low clouds hanging in the timber, I'm right back there.
Paige A.
Field Story
Deer Sledding with Pops
By Alex A.
Some of my favorite hunting memories have nothing to do with filling a tag.
They happened after dark, when the rifles were cased, the coffee pot hissed over the fire, and the October chill settled into the pines above Susanville. Our little deer camp came alive at night. My mom would finish cleaning up dinner, my sister would curl into her sleeping bag, and Dad would lean back against a log, the orange glow of the campfire dancing across his face.
I was six or seven years old, and I had only one request before crawling into my sleeping bag.
"Dad... tell me a story."
Night after night, he never disappointed.
Some stories were true—or at least I believed they were. They were about bucks that vanished into the timber like ghosts, long hikes through volcanic ridges, and frosty mornings when every breath hung in the air. He described the smell of wet pine needles after a storm, the crunch of frozen ground beneath worn leather boots, and the way a deer's ears seemed to catch every careless step a hunter made.
I hung on every word.
One story, though, became my favorite.
Dad said he'd shot a nice buck high on a snowy ridge years before. By the time he dressed the deer, daylight was fading fast. The pickup sat far below, and the temperature was dropping with the sun.
"I knew I wasn't going to make it if I dragged him," he'd say with a grin.
So he had an idea.
He climbed onto the deer's back, grabbed both antlers like handlebars, pushed off, and rode that buck down the snow-covered mountainside like a kid on a toboggan.
According to Dad, snow flew everywhere. He zigzagged around pine trees, bounced over drifts, and slid all the way to the truck just as darkness settled over the mountain.
I could picture every second of it.
The image of my father laughing as he rode a deer through the snow seemed perfectly reasonable to a little boy who believed his dad could do just about anything.
Every evening I'd ask for that story again.
"Tell me about riding the deer."
He always did.
Years passed. I grew into the hunter Dad hoped I'd become. My .270 Winchester bolt action eventually replaced the little sticks I'd once pretended were rifles, and I learned that successful deer hunting had much less to do with luck than patience. We studied fresh tracks before the morning sun softened them. We glassed shaded slopes where deer lingered after feeding. We moved slowly enough that the forest accepted us instead of announcing our arrival.
The lessons were real, even if some stories weren't.
Then, when I was about twenty-five or twenty-six, we were sitting around that same deer camp after another October hunt. The same mountains surrounded us. The same smell of wood smoke drifted through camp. The same stars slowly appeared above the dark ridges.
Dad chuckled to himself.
"You know that story about riding the deer down the hill?"
"Yeah," I said.
"I made that one up."
I laughed.
"No, you didn't."
"I sure did," he said. "I'd run out of stories, and you kept asking every night."
For a moment I just stared at him.
All those years, I'd believed every word.
Then we both started laughing so hard we could barely catch our breath.
Looking back, I realize the story never needed to be true.
It accomplished exactly what it was meant to do. It made a little boy dream about deer camp. It made cold October nights feel magical. It turned campfires into theaters where imagination and the outdoors shared the same stage.
Hunters are natural storytellers. Around enough campfires, you'll hear tales that grow just a little with every telling. Distances stretch. Bucks gain a few inches of antler. Weather gets a little rougher. Sometimes, if you're lucky, a deer even becomes a sled.
The older I get, the more I appreciate that those stories are part of our hunting heritage. They aren't always meant to record history with perfect accuracy. They're meant to keep families together a little longer around a fading fire, to make children smile, and to pass along a love for wild places.
I never did see anyone ride a deer down a snowy mountain.
But every October, when the campfire crackles and someone says, "Tell us a story," I think of my dad.
He may not have ridden that buck.
But he carried my imagination farther than any sled ever could.
Alex A.
Field Story
Bacon, Widgeon, and Winter Memories
By Alex A.
A hard north wind swept across the rice fields north of Little Dry Creek, carrying the smell of wet stubble and cold water. By first light, Julian (aka Jules), Matt, and I were tucked into the blind, watching the eastern sky brighten over a winter landscape that looked made for ducks.
The birds cooperated from the start. Small groups of teal zipped through the decoys, followed by pintails and widgeon riding the wind. The cold weather had ducks moving, and before long we had a respectable pile of birds behind the blind.
Around midmorning, Jules decided it was time for breakfast. He fired up a camp stove and soon the smell of bacon and eggs drifted through the blind.
"Nothing better than hot food on a cold morning," he said, working a spatula over the skillet.
Just then Matt looked up and whispered, "Widgeon."
A flock of about thirty birds was approaching from the north, wings flashing in the sunlight. They were headed straight for the decoys.
Julian glanced up. His shotgun was leaning against the blind wall.
In his hand was a spatula.
For a moment he stood there, caught between cooking breakfast and shooting ducks.
"You've got to be kidding me," he laughed.
The flock dropped lower. Matt and I were already reaching for our guns while Julian carefully set down the skillet and grabbed his shotgun. By the time the birds committed, all three of us were ready.
The shooting was fast and clean, and when it was over we were laughing almost as hard as we were celebrating the birds we'd added to the strap.
The bacon survived. So did the eggs.
By the end of the hunt, we had nearly three limits of ducks, a couple of specklebelly geese, and full bellies to match our full game straps.
Looking back, the birds were only part of what made the day special. What stands out most is the friendship, the laughter, and the sight of Jules standing in a duck blind with a spatula in his hand while a flock of widgeon dropped into the decoys.
The ducks filled the straps, but moments like that are what keep us coming back. Years from now, I may not remember every bird we shot, but I'll remember that winter morning north of Little Dry Creek, sharing good food, good hunting, and good company.
Alex A.
Field Story
The Old Pole and a Lassen County Rainbow
By NorCalHunt Subscriber
One overcast summer morning in 2025, I loaded up my gear and headed to a favorite stretch of water in Lassen County with my dog, Chewy. The sky was covered in gray clouds, and a cool breeze carried the scent of pine trees and damp earth across the shoreline. It felt like one of those days when anything could happen.
I carried my dad's old fishing pole, a rod that had seen plenty of use over the years. Tied to the end of the line was a Rooster Tail spinner that had already traveled with me on a fishing trip to Alaska. Neither was new, but both held memories that made them special.
Chewy stayed close as I walked the bank, occasionally stopping to investigate a scent or watch birds along the water's edge. The lake was quiet, disturbed only by the occasional rise of a trout feeding near the surface.
My first few casts produced nothing, but I stayed patient. Overcast conditions often keep trout active, and I felt confident that the fish were nearby. I cast toward a deeper section of water and began a steady retrieve.
Halfway back, the strike came.
At first, I thought I had snagged the bottom. Then the line started moving. The fish surged away, and the old rod bent deeply. It was immediately clear that this trout was much bigger than I had expected.
The rainbow made several strong runs, forcing me to carefully manage the fight. Each time I gained line, the fish seemed to find another burst of energy. My heart was pounding as I watched it finally break the surface for the first time.
"That's a good one," I said aloud.
Chewy stood nearby, watching the action as if she knew something important was happening.
After a few more tense moments, I guided the fish into the shallows. It was a beautiful rainbow trout, larger than any I had expected to catch that day. Its colors stood out against the gray water and cloudy sky, making the moment even more memorable.
As I admired the fish, I couldn't help but think about the gear that helped bring it to hand. Using my dad's old fishing pole and the same Rooster Tail that had traveled with me to Alaska made the catch feel connected to past adventures and family memories.
The rest of the day was peaceful, and while I caught a few more trout, none matched the excitement of that first fish. Walking back to the truck with Chewy at my side, I felt grateful for a great day on the water.
The biggest lesson from that trip wasn't about fishing technique or equipment. It was a reminder that some of the best outdoor memories come from simple moments—a loyal dog beside you, trusted gear in your hands, and a fish that turns an ordinary day into one you'll never forget.
NorCalHunt Subscriber
Field Story
My First Pintail
By NorCalHunt Subscriber
Some hunting memories never fade, and my first pintail is one of them.
I was 14 years old, hunting with my uncle near Butte Creek west of Richvale, California. It was a cold winter morning with steady rain and a light wind blowing across the flooded rice fields. The sky was gray, the air smelled of wet earth and rice stubble, and ducks could be heard moving through the darkness before daylight.
We settled into the blind with our decoys and waited. My uncle quietly pointed out birds and shared advice, reminding me to be patient and watch how the ducks worked the wind. I carried a 20-gauge shotgun and was eager for an opportunity.
As the morning went on, a small flock of pintails appeared through the mist. They circled the decoys several times before finally committing. My heart pounded as my uncle whispered, "Take the drake."
I stood, swung on the bird, and fired. The pintail folded cleanly and splashed into the flooded field.
"Did I get him?" I asked.
My uncle smiled. "You sure did."
Walking out to retrieve that beautiful bird was one of the most exciting moments of my young life. The long tail feathers and elegant markings made it unlike any duck I had taken before.
Today, years later, I still remember that rainy morning. The pintail was special, but what means even more now is the time spent with my uncle. He taught me patience, confidence, and respect for the outdoors. My first pintail wasn't just a successful hunt — it was a memory shared with someone who helped shape me as a hunter, and that's what makes it unforgettable.
NorCalHunt Subscriber
Share Your Story
Got a hunt worth telling? Submit your field story below for a chance to be featured on the NorCal Hunt website and in one of our weekly newsletters. We want to hear about your best (and worst) days out there.
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