The Hunting Stories We Don't Share

Published by Eric Clark on Sunday, July 12th 2026

I've been chewing on this idea for a couple of years now, and I still don't know if I have all the answers, and maybe that's okay.

This Isn't a Rant About Trophy Hunting... Well Kinda

Believe it or not, it's not meant to be a rant about trophy hunting. So if your goal is to kill a mature buck, I hope you do, and I hope he's got a helluva rack. Seriously. Whether you spend all year managing a property, grinding on public land, or chasing one deer you've had history with for three seasons, I hope it all comes together. Mature bucks are hard to kill, and that's a major part of what makes them so special and coveted.

I am not here to take anything away from those stories. That's far from my point. It's more about wondering why so many other stories never get shared.

The Photos Hunters Send Privately

When Tyler and I started Okayest Hunter back in 2020, something unexpected happened. Hunters started sending us photos they weren't posting anywhere else. Spikes. Basket racks. First does. Little bucks. The kind of deer that rarely end up on YouTube thumbnails, magazine covers, or in "buck of the week" posts.

Here's the thing, though: those photos (the ones that didn't get shared/posted publicly) almost always came with a story. A dad. A son. A grandfather. The first deer after years of trying. The rifle that had been passed down through generations. The meal they shared that night. The tracking job they'll never forget. It's almost like there's a trend, right!?

What caught me off guard the most wasn't the deer. It was how many people felt like they needed to send those stories privately.

"Thought you guys would appreciate this."

"Didn't really want to post it publicly."

"Thanks for letting me share."

That last one has stuck with me ever since... Thanks for letting me share.

Think about that for a minute. Why on earth would someone need permission to be proud of their legal, ethical deer that meant something to them? That question has been rattling around in my head for years, and this is my attempt at distilling the issue. 

I Caught Myself Doing the Exact Same Thing

A couple of seasons ago I shot a spike buck. I wrote about it later in Field & Stream in an essay called Going Backwards, but there was one part of that experience I couldn't shake.

For a split second, I hesitated, and not because I didn't want to shoot the deer. Not because I thought it was the wrong deer. I hesitated because I wondered what everyone else would think. How f****** stupid. 

That's insane. I co-own a brand that's built around the idea that hunting shouldn't revolve around validation from strangers, and even I felt it. If I'm susceptible to that feeling, I have to believe there's no way I'm the only one.

The Problem Isn't Big Bucks. It's the Stories We Stop Telling as Hunters

What bugs me isn't that people celebrate giant bucks. We should. They're incredible animals, and they often represent years of work, patience, discipline, failure, and perseverance. Those stories deserve to be celebrated and learned from. 

The thing that rubs me the wrong way is that so many hunters don't celebrate the other deer. Those hunts meant something to them. They just don't want to deal with the ridicule. So they don't post the picture. They don't tell the story. Eventually, they stop feeling like it's a story worth telling at all. That's not okay, and that's why our brand gets out of bed every day, so to speak. 

Sadly, I think hunting loses something every time that happens.

How Antlers Became Institutionalized

I've been trying to find the right word for this, and the best one I've come up with is institutionalized. It's not because anybody planned it or because there's some grand conspiracy within the hunting industry. It's more so, simply, because it's become so normal that most of us hardly even notice it anymore.

Big antlers have become the default "language" of success. We see it everywhere. Magazine covers, YouTube thumbnails, ads on Meta and across its group pages. 

Even the poaching stories that make national headlines almost always involve giant deer. If someone illegally shoots a couple of spikes or a few does, you rarely hear about it, or at least I haven't. The crime isn't more wrong because the buck carried 180 inches on his head. The antlers are usually what made the story travel.

I think that's what I mean by institutionalized. Nobody's being malicious about it. It's just kind of fully baked in at this point, and has been for a while. 

Every Industry Has a Metric. Hunting Has Inches.

There's just something about antlers, especially big ones. I mean, I think we can all agree big deer are visually compelling to say the least. We slam on our brakes when we see them when we're driving. We can't wait to get that cell cam notification with a big rack, and no mancave feels complete without a nice wall mount. Moreover, they're rare, they're aspirational, and they're most certainly easier to market. Lastly, a big buck is an objective measurement in a pastime that's otherwise incredibly subjective.

If we zoom out and look at almost any industry, we see that they gravitate toward metrics. Business has topline revenue. Fitness has body fat and six-packs. Social media has followers (eye roll), and hunting has... you guessed it, inches. These metrics aren't inherently bad, but they become a problem when they start replacing other things with deep intrinsic value.

It feels like the hunting industry is addicted to antlers. There's probably more truth in that than I'd like to admit, but like any addiction, the quick hit is hard to quit. A giant rack gets attention. Attention becomes clicks. Clicks become dollars, and before long, the stories without giant antlers attached start getting crowded out. We all (should) know that meaning was never the issue, but those stories just don't come with a number attached.

What Hunters Actually Say When You Ask Them

What's interesting is that I don't think hunters actually think this way. At least not most of them. A few weeks ago we asked our community to share a deer they'll never forget. Dozens of stories came in. There were mature bucks. There were spikes. There were does. At first, I thought I was looking at a bunch of harvest photos, which was awesome, by the way. Then I started reading. Turns out very few people led with inches; instead, most led with people. One follower talked about his dad, and another about his son.

One said, "The smallest deer I have, but the one I smile the most about." Someone else said, "The smallest buck I've ever killed led me to the hunter I am today."

One comment that really stood out was a hunter admitting that one of his favorite bow hunts ever ended with a small buck, but he almost felt ashamed to share it because he knew social media would judge him. He ended by saying, "Thanks for letting me share."

There it was again... The exact same feeling I'd had seen back in 2020.

The 17-Year-Old Passing 170-Inch Deer

I remembered a conversation I had at the Iowa Deer Classic when Okayest Hunter exhibited there in 2023 or 2024. A 17-year-old kid told me he was passing 170-inch deer because they weren't "big enough."

He wasn't talking about holding out for a specific mature buck he'd been after for years, and I'm all about holding yourself to a standard or goals, but that's not what this was. I think he absorbed the idea that 170 wasn't enough. I remember standing there thinking, how did we get here? How did a 17-year-old arrive at the conclusion that a 170-inch whitetail wasn't worth shooting? You've gotta be kidding me. 

That's not woodsmanship, discipline, or patience. It sounds a lot more like comparison, which is the thief of joy. 

Okayest Hunter Is Not Anti-Improvement

I want to be really clear about something, just so it's stated. Okayest Hunter has never been anti-improvement. I feel like calling this out because our name throws people sometimes. They assume we're celebrating mediocrity. We're not.

Of course I want to become a better hunter every year. I want to scout smarter. Shoot better. Learn more. Become a better woodsman. Take ethical shots, and understand deer behavior better. I mean, I hope I'm a much better hunter ten years from now than I am today.

Growth matters. Craft matters. Effort matters.

What I'm pushing back on is the idea that there's only one way to measure whether you've grown. The hunter who finally killed his first spike after three seasons of trying improved, or the adult-onset hunter who punched their first tag improved. The dad who spent the whole season helping his kid fill their tag improved. None of those accomplishments become less meaningful because another buck somewhere scored twenty inches bigger.

Maybe that's where Okayest Hunter has always been different. We've never rejected aspiration. I think we've just made room for more of it.

Some people dream about a Boone & Crockett buck, myself included. Literally had a dream about a giant the other night. Guess what others dream about? Some dream about hearing their kid whisper, "I see one." Some people want to climb all the way to the top of the mountain, while others are perfectly content to make it to the first overlook, crack a beer with their buddies, and tell stories about the hike.

Here's the thing: neither person is wrong. I think the mistake is pretending only one of them had a successful day.

We Don't Need Fewer Big Buck Stories. We Need More Room for Everything Else.

I don't know that we'll ever untangle the institutionalization of antlers. Maybe we shouldn't. Giant bucks deserve to be celebrated. Record books have their place. The challenge of hunting mature animals is real, and so is the accomplishment. I just don't think those stories should consume all the oxygen.

If the last few years have taught me anything as a deer hunter, podcaster, business owner in this space... it's this: hunters don't naturally tell antler stories. They tell human stories. Stories about family. Friendship. Persistence. Failure. Growth. Tradition. Meals shared around a table. The people who taught us. The people we miss.

The deer simply gives those stories a place to happen, and if we're not careful, those stories can get snuffed out by the smoke of antlers.

I don't think we need fewer stories about giant bucks. I just think we need more room for everything else, because long after we forget what a deer scored, I bet we'll all still remember who was standing beside us when it happened and I think anyone reading this will agree.