Pink Cowboy Boots

By Stephanie Spika

Growing up in Montana, I’ve been on my fair share of hunting excursions.  After moving across the country, however, years went by without donning the blaze orange I so missed. 

One Friday afternoon I found myself at a work happy hour boasting of my hunting skills.  There may have been some embellishment, but still, I wasn’t a complete novice to the outdoors.  After a few glasses of liquid courage, I challenged my male co-workers to step up to the plate and take me hunting.  Sweet Jeff Johnston volunteered, without knowing what he was getting himself into.

Stephanie and her buck

He later confessed that when he told me to show up at his house – an hour away – at 5 am the following morning, he put it at less than a 10-percent chance I’d show up.  Indeed, it was all I could do to get out of bed.  But after all my trash talk the night before, I wasn’t about to snooze.

I showed up at Jeff’s house in head-to-toe black spandex and hot pink cowboy boots.  I’d neglected to remember that I’d left all of my hunting gear back in Montana.  Luckily, Jeff was able to outfit me from head to … well, I still wore the pink boots.

Jeff drove me out to his buddy’s land, in the pouring rain, thinking I’d maybe last an hour.  We hiked a little way up the mountainside then settled down at the base of a tree.  It wasn’t 15 minutes later when a mature doe strolled right up next to us.  Jeff was eager for me to take a shot, but I took looked at him and matter-of-factly explained that I wasn’t here for a doe – I wanted a buck.  I saw the wind fly out of Jeff’s sails; he was not thrilled to spend more time with his co-worker in the rainy woods.  We barely knew each other, and he surely had more important things to do.

The pink cowboy boots

After 30 minutes with no activity, Jeff leaned over and asked if I had taken a scent-free shower.  I proudly announced that I hadn’t showered at all that morning.  He told me he could tell, because I reeked of the bar from the night before.  He suggested that my “ridiculous” pink boots, “strong” odor, and lack of hunting prowess would prevent me from finding a buck that morning.  I knew I had to prove him wrong.

Sure enough, as if God was trying to give me the win, a large buck strolled out in front of us only 30 yards away.  This was certainly about to become my lucky day.

The mature 8-point walked within 20 yards of us and turned broadside, as if begging me to shoot him.  Jeff handed me his gun, a CVA muzzle-loader.  Wait, what?  I’d never shot a muzzle-loader before, yet alone held one.  Jeff asked if I knew what I was doing but before I had time to think I had taken the gun from his hands, steadied my elbow on his knee and BOOM! 

Nothing could have prepared me for the amount of smoke that comes out of the end of a muzzle-loader.  Once I got over that shock, I realized the great buck I expected to be on the ground was nowhere in sight.  Crap.  Jeff asked if I thought I hit it.  Overly cocky, I told him of course I did (although in my head I began to doubt myself). 

It took us a solid five minutes of wandering across the side of the mountain until Jeff motioned for me.  As I stepped next to his side, I saw one of the most wonderful sights – my fallen buck.  Jeff and I spent the rest of the morning celebrating my kill, and getting to know each other better.

That following Monday I was the talk of the office.  I’d managed to back up my trash-talking and make a lot of the guys jealous with stories of my kill.  Even better, I stole Jeff’s heart, and I did it all wearing those hot pink cowboy boots.

Stephanie is a native Montanan currently residing in Northern Virginia.  She is the social media manager for the National Rifle Association.  In her spare time, Stephanie enjoys hunting, fishing, and a nice glass of whiskey.