Baptism on the Mountain: My First Hunt in Maui

I didn’t come to Maui for a vacation or to sip Mai Tais on the beach. I came for something entirely different, my first hunt. Being new to MTN OPS has opened my eyes to the world of hunting: the stories, the passion, and the way it connects people to their food and to the land. I’ve listened, learned, and admired from the sidelines, but this trip was the first time I would step behind the rifle myself.

Over four days, I learned what it means to step into the wild not as a tourist, but as a participant. I felt the grind of lava fields underfoot, the sting of lantana thorns tearing at my arms, and the awe of watching deer communicate across canyons with a sharp bark of alarm. I felt the weight of field dressing and packing out the animal, the responsibility of not wasting a life. And through it all, in every sunrise, in every ridge and ravine, in every breath of humid island air, I felt the unmistakable presence of God’s creation.

Day 0 – Arrival & Reset

The plane door opened and Maui air rushed in, heavy and salty, alive. My gear was already packed, checked twice, and stacked in the corner: boots, bino harness, rangefinder, knives, backup headlamps, batteries, MTN OPS supplements. You name it, I was ready.

The next morning I woke at 4:30 a.m. Part nerves, part time change. A long stretch, then a five mile run along the beach with the Pacific lapping beside me. The run wasn’t about training, it was about calming the heart and mind for the days ahead.

Our guides were trusted, having worked with MTN OPS for many years. They felt like an extension of the team and welcomed us as such. My resolve was simple: admit what I didn’t know, ask questions freely, and be present to listen and learn.

Day 1 – Into the Wild

The Road to Hana is legendary for its cliffs, waterfalls, and hairpin turns. We wound along its narrow shoulders before veering off onto rough 4x4 tracks, climbing higher into the mountains. Camp was modest but perched high, with a porch view spanning ancient lava flows, the endless Pacific, and the winding road etched below.

That evening, Sarah—our VP of Marketing at MTN OPS—tagged a mature buck at last light. It was her first hunt, her first kill, and it unfolded against a canvas of fading orange light. The crack of the rifle, the buck folding clean, it was surreal to witness. We gathered for dinner afterward, laughter mixing with reverence, awe hanging in the air.

Day 2 – Heat, Thorns & Ghosts

The second day broke us in. We climbed treeless ridges under punishing heat, sweat soaking through packs, the sun bouncing off bare rock. Then we dropped into dense forest, where shoulder-high lantana thorns clawed at our arms, ferns tangled at our knees, and every step felt like resistance training.

Crossing ancient lava fields, we picked our way carefully across jagged, glassy rock scarred from centuries-old flows, pale lichen clinging stubbornly to black basalt.

Then the air shifted. Heavy. Musky. We could smell the deer before we saw them. Axis will often bed down in the thick during the heat of the day, and their scent hangs low, an earthy mix of hide, musk, and crushed vegetation. The guides picked it up instantly, but once I tuned in, it was undeniable. It felt like stumbling into someone else’s living room. We were close, but unseen.

Later, from beneath a lone tree overlooking a dry riverbed ravine, we glassed. Does emerged, flicking tails, ears swiveling like radar. Their alertness was constant. Then it happened: a sharp bark, piercing and urgent. Axis deer use that bark as alarm, most often the does. It freezes the herd, communicates danger, and with a few flicks of ears and tails, they melt back into cover. On Maui, with no natural predators other than us, their wariness is astonishing. Experiencing that call for the first time hit me hard. It was the sound of creation defending itself, a language older than we are.

As dusk settled, a massive buck broke across a ridge 200 yards away. He moved steady, never slowing, never pausing, then slipped into cover like smoke. Tyson, hunting with a few other guides, managed to take a strong buck and a wiry goat. For me, the day was a lesson in patience.

Day 3 – My First Buck

We returned to the same ridge the next morning. Hours of glassing, then a shape across the ravine: a mature buck at 420 yards. With calm coaching from my guide, I steadied, squeezed, and made contact. My first shot with a rifle. My first harvest.

We waited forty minutes, then crossed the dry riverbed, climbed, and found him lying still. The view was staggering: the Pacific heaving with energy, waves pounding the shoreline; ancient lava fields spilling down the mountain toward the sea; the Road to Hana winding like a scar through the green below.

I stepped in without hesitation to help field dress him. Knife in hand, sleeves rolled, I wanted to learn. Every usable pound of meat comes home. Standing there, I understood that the hunt doesn’t end with a shot. It begins with carrying the weight forward.

Day 4 – Sobriety & Symbolism

This day carried another weight: twenty years sober. Two full decades since I last drank. The guides, gracious beyond words, offered me another chance at a mature buck to honor the milestone.

The night before we had glassed a group of deer across a valley tucked deep in the hills. Sure enough, they returned. By late afternoon, with the sun dropping, a buck stepped clear at 250 yards. Broadside. No brush, no guesswork. I steadied, breathed, and pulled the trigger. The shot was clean. The buck fell.

Unlike the first, this one struck deep. As I walked across the ravine and up the slope toward him, the years rolled through me. Twenty years ago, I was heavier in body, clouded in mind, stuck in cycles that would have swallowed me whole. Choosing to put the bottle down was the first domino. Without it, nothing else falls into place.

I thought of the seventy-five pounds lost, one disciplined meal at a time. I thought of selling a business, of leading as a two-time CEO. I thought of raising a family, of mornings with my wife, of holding my newborns. Every blessing traced back to that one decision two decades ago.

Standing over that buck, I let myself feel pride. Not arrogance, but quiet pride. The kind that wells up from honoring a commitment so long it shapes who you are. I don’t often pause to feel that. But in that moment, with the Pacific behind me, lava rock under my boots, and the animal before me, I did.

The first buck had been disbelief—shock that I’d even made the shot. This one was clarity. Clarity that the life I live today is built on yesterday’s choices. Clarity that God’s grace carried me through twenty years of highs and lows. And clarity that in the raw presence of His creation, He sometimes speaks the loudest.

Chasing Goats

The last half-day was reserved for goats. At seventy-five yards, I expected simplicity. I fired high. Not fatal. The billy staggered, then bolted.

What followed was chaos. We sprinted over cliffs and ridgelines, lungs burning, legs on fire, sweat soaking through my shirt. Every time we closed the distance, he rose again and gained ground. It was as if the mountain itself was helping him. Heart rate spiking, then crashing, adrenaline rising and falling like a tide.

Eventually he bedded in a cave across the canyon. I steadied, raised the rifle, and realized we were out of ammo. The hollow click echoed my frustration. His hooves scraped against stone as he surged away, vanishing into thick cover. Alive, yes. But wounded. And I was the reason. That truth cut deeper than any thorn.

Hunters talk about clean, ethical kills. I hadn’t delivered. And the sting of that failure stayed with me.

Later, I redeemed myself with another billy. The shot was quick, true, final. The goat dropped instantly. Relief rushed in, but it didn’t erase the sting of the first. It only underscored it.

This wasn’t a game. It was life and death, responsibility and consequence. I walked away humbled, knowing I had more to learn, not just about shooting, but about the weight of taking an animal’s life.

Maui’s Bones, God’s Presence

Hiking those ridges, boots grinding into lava and soil, I felt Maui’s story underfoot. Ancient Hawaiians crossed these same fields centuries ago, building heiau, stone temples of offering and prayer. Some, like Piʻilanihale, date to the 13th century. Later, missionaries dismantled many temples and raised churches, reshaping the island’s spiritual landscape but never erasing its echoes. The chants of old Hawaiians and the hymns of Christians remain woven into the rock.

Everywhere, creation sang. The bark of deer, the crash of surf, the shimmer of lichen on stone, the endless Pacific. Out there, stripped of noise, it was easy to feel God’s presence in raw form. Not in a building. Not in a service. But in the unfiltered magnificence of His work.

Final Thoughts

I came to Maui as a novice. I asked endless questions. I leaned on guides and colleagues. I stumbled, learned, tried again. I off-roaded across ridges, glassed under the sun, dressed animals, carried meat. I failed once and succeeded thrice.

The trip was more than a hunt. It was a hike through history, a test of endurance, a confrontation with creation, and a reminder of God’s hand in every detail. It was symbolic: twenty years sober, first hunt, first buck. And it was grounding.

I’ll never forget it. And I’ll never again underestimate the power of walking raw into God’s creation, listening, learning, and being humbled by it.