Thank you to Bec for sharing this story with us. Bec was invited on a hunt with Moroka.30's own Rob Fickling.

My First Deer Hunt

Even I was surprised when I said the words out loud: “I’ll come for the hunt in the morning.”  I caught the expression from my friends and husband—half curiosity, half disbelief—as if to say, “Are you sure?” 

I wasn’t entirely sure myself. 

Hunting had always existed on the periphery, it was something others did—friends, husband, my sons—but never something I had truly felt drawn to personally. I understood it, respected it, even appreciated aspects of it—but stepping into it myself felt like crossing an invisible line. 

For over 20 years, our annual Easter camping trip has been a cornerstone of connection—friendships, families, laughter, drinks around the campfire and shared traditions. We return each year to the same rhythms: time in nature, long conversations, a jigsaw puzzle, noisy children, lots of children, a cheeky glass of bubbles or two and our Easter Monday pilgrimage to a beloved pub. 

But this year was different. This year, I chose something new and decided to go on a hunt. Something that quietly challenged my own assumptions about myself.  I knew I was in safe, knowledgeable hands as this hunt was guided by a trusted friend and experienced hunter, Rob. That mattered. A lot. 

And it wouldn’t be just Rob and I, my son decided to join us, which made it even more special. Although I couldn’t be sure, I believe my 18-year-old opted in to share my experience, watch out for any shenanigans that may unfold and help out if trouble arose. 

We were up at 5 a.m., driving into the hills in near silence. There’s a certain stillness that comes before sunrise: anticipation, calm, and something deeper that feels almost reverent. 

We parked just before the light began to break, gathered our gear—a small backpack, water, blaze, snacks—and stepped into the bush. 

This wasn’t just about a hunt for me, I wanted to understand the experience. 

I wanted to see the land through a different lens. To learn how to read it. To test whether I could manage—physically and mentally—to move quietly and intentionally through the terrain. Walking alongside Rob and my son, I found myself thinking about a completely different set of thoughts. Moving slowly and deliberately. Sustainability. Pest control. Responsible hunting. Food scarcity. The beauty all around.  

We stopped often—examining tracks, reading the ground, noticing subtle disturbances in the bush that I would never have registered before. Over the years I’ve heard about animal behaviour, wallows, what to look for, how to interpret signs, how to think like a hunter rather than simply walk like a bushwalker. 

I became acutely aware of every sound. Every step and every shift of weight. The discipline in moving quietly through uneven terrain, a mindfulness that sharpens your senses. And with it came an even greater appreciation for nature and the stillness of the bush. It wasn’t empty. It was alive, layered and deeply intricate. 

 

I was proud of how quiet I managed to be… aside from one memorable ‘rookie error’ of opening a bottle of soda water during a break. The hiss on the bottle felt thunderous in that silence. Lesson learned. 

After several hours of traversing a few gullies, we navigated to higher ground where we sat patiently and quietly near the top of a gully above a wallow, but still no movement. We walked down to the spot Rob wanted me to see – a wallow, which turned out to be unused with no fresh sign.  Disappointed, we continued on, moving away from the wallow towards the blackberries. From that moment it unfolded in the blink of an eye, a deer broke cover on the far side of the blackberries. I didn’t see the movement, yet Rob managed to see the movement and the deer glance across the clearing only 30-40 meters away. In that split second, Rob took the shot, visually tracked the movement and took a second and final shot. In those moments, the purpose of the morning shifted. 

I’ll admit, I felt a level of apprehension and surprise as I barely saw the movement and the moment happened so rapidly. Apprehensive for the recognition that what came next carried a different kind of weight. Respect and responsibility were words echoing loudly and what followed was something I hadn’t truly understood before witnessing it firsthand. 

The harvesting of the deer was carried out with skill, care, and a respect that was unmistakable. There was no wastefulness, no casualness, only intention and gratitude. 

It required knowledge, precision, and experience. Watching it unfold made me a little anxious at first, with Rob and my son checking in on me. The harvesting was not as I expected, it was cleaner, methodical and skilful. What I saw gave me a new perspective on the responsibility, camaraderie and necessary maturity that comes with hunting, something that goes far beyond the moment of the shot. 

We packed all usable meat and began the carry out. 

I later learned that it was close to an ideal scenario: a downhill route, stunning surroundings, sunshine filtering through the trees, and a return to the car in about 30 minutes. But at the time, I was simply present, absorbing it all. 

That morning left a lasting impression. 

I gained a genuine appreciation for the complexity of hunting; the often silent communication, preparation of gear, the tracking, the patience, the reliance on senses, the understanding of terrain, and the discipline of movement. It’s a skillset that takes years to hone, and one I had only just begun to glimpse. 

I was incredibly proud to have challenged myself in this way and surprised to learn I was the first woman to join Rob on a hunt—I stepped into something unfamiliar and found the experience to be one of curiosity and growth, not hesitation and discomfort. 

And perhaps most importantly, I found even greater connection.  

Connection to the people I shared it with. 

Connection to the process of cooking and more meaning to sharing a meal.                     

Appreciation for the land. 

My children have gone on hunts with Rob and my husband before, having their own incredible experiences of spotting deer, learning the process, and understanding where food comes from in a deeply tangible way. Now, I share in that understanding too. 

The meat we bring back isn’t just food, it’s part of the story. It’s cooked, creatively shared, and appreciated fully. Nothing is wasted. 

It was a step into something I had quietly questioned for years. A chance to challenge myself, to learn, and to see the world through a different lens.   I left with a deeper appreciation—for the skill, the respect, the tradition, and the experience itself. 

And for that, I am truly grateful.