Let me tell you something embarrassing.
For two years, I thought I was a decent shot. I’d go to the range every couple months, set up my sandbags, sit my ass down on a folding chair, and punch groups at 100 yards. MOA or close to it. Felt pretty good about myself. Had the targets on my garage wall like a goddamn diploma.
Then I climbed into a tree stand with an actual deer in front of me and turned into a complete idiot.
The Setup
It was opening day of rifle season, maybe three years back. I had scouted this spot on public land — a saddle between two ridges where deer funnel through. Good sign. Fresh tracks. A couple of old scrapes. I hung my stand two weeks earlier, felt like I’d actually done the work for once.
That morning, I was up at 4:30. Coffee thermos, hand warmers in both pockets, .308 slung over my shoulder for the 20-minute walk in. Climbed the tree in the dark, strapped in, and waited. The woods do this thing at dawn where the world goes from black to gray to color, and I swear that transition is why I hunt. Has nothing to do with killing anything. It’s watching the planet wake up.
Around 7:15, a doe walked out at maybe 80 yards. Behind her came a decent eight-pointer. Nothing record-book, but a solid deer — the kind you’d be proud to hang in the garage next to those stupid benchrest targets.
My heart started beating so hard I could hear it in my ears. I remember thinking, calm down, you’ve done this a hundred times. And I had — in my head. From a chair. With sandbags.
What Actually Happened Up There
Here’s what nobody tells you about shooting from a tree stand: there are no sandbags. The rifle doesn’t sit on anything. The angle is wrong. Your heart is pounding. And the deer? He’s not a paper target hanging perfectly still in good light. He’s a living animal that moves, twitches, and has no idea he’s supposed to stand broadside like in the hunting magazines.
I shouldered the rifle. The crosshairs were bouncing. Not drifting — bouncing. Like I was trying to aim during an earthquake. My breathing was shot. I couldn’t find a rest. The tree stand rail was too high, the shooting stick I’d brought was tangled in my safety harness, and I was twisted at a weird angle because the buck had walked past my best shooting lane.
I fired.
The buck flinched, took two hops, and disappeared into the brush. No crash. No white belly. Just… gone.
I sat there for 45 minutes, then climbed down and looked for blood. Nothing. Not a drop. Walked the direction he went for two hours. Kicked up leaves, checked every bush, looked for hair, bone, anything. Clean miss. I found the impact — a fresh scar on an oak tree about 3 feet above and 2 feet left of where I thought I was aiming.
I missed an 80-yard broadside shot so badly I hit a tree that wasn’t even in the same zip code.
The Honest Autopsy
I spent that week being pissed at myself. But then I actually thought about it. What was different between the range and the stand?
The range: seated, sandbags front and rear, controlled breathing, no time pressure, no adrenaline, rifle supported perfectly, shooting at a high-contrast paper circle in broad daylight.
The stand: standing, no support except my wobbly arms, elevated at a downward angle, safety harness pulling on my shoulder, twist in my spine from the deer’s position, heart rate probably 140, shooting through a gap in branches at a brown animal in brown woods at sunrise.
It’s not the same sport. It’s not even close.
But here’s what really stung: I had never once practiced from a standing position. Not once. Two years of “training” and I’d never stood up, never shot without a rest, never practiced from an elevated platform, never simulated adrenaline. I was training for a completely different activity than the one I actually did.
What I Changed (And What I Still Suck At)
After that disaster, I made some changes. Nothing fancy — I’m not a “buy your way out of the problem” guy. I kept the same rifle. Kept the same scope. Changed how I practiced.
First thing: I started shooting standing up. Just standing, no rest, like I was in the stand. My groups looked like shotgun patterns at first. It was humiliating. I’d been telling myself I was a sub-MOA shooter, and standing unsupported at 100 yards I was spraying an 8-inch circle. That’s not a group. That’s a cry for help.
Second: I bought a cheap step ladder and practiced shooting off the top of it at a target 50-80 yards out on the ground. The downward angle messes with your hold. The rifle wants to slide forward. Your natural point of aim shifts. It’s all different, and none of it shows up on a bench.
Third: I started running in place before shooting. Sounds stupid, but 30 seconds of jumping jacks before a string of fire will teach you more about your shooting than a thousand benchrest groups. Your heart is pumping, your hands are shaking, and suddenly that trigger squeeze isn’t so smooth anymore. This is the closest you’ll get to buck fever without a buck.
Fourth: I learned to use what’s around me. Tree trunk? Rest on it. Backpack? Rest on it. Shooting rail on the stand? Adjust it so it actually works instead of leaving it at whatever height the manufacturer thought was “standard.” I also started carrying one of those lightweight collapsible shooting sticks — the kind that weigh 12 ounces and strap to your pack. I used to think they were for old guys with bad backs. Turns out they’re for people who want to hit what they’re shooting at.
Fifth, and this one hurt my pride the most: I shortened my comfortable range by 40%. On a bench, I was confident to 300 yards. In field positions — standing, kneeling, off a tree — I limited myself to 180, maybe 200 on a good day with a solid rest. That meant passing on shots I “knew” I could make. First time I watched a buck walk at 250 yards because I was honest with myself, I almost threw up. But I’d rather be sick than wound an animal.
The Part Nobody Posts on Instagram
Look, I get it. Benchrest shooting is fun. It’s satisfying. You get to post tight groups online and feel like Carlos Hathcock. But benchrest shooting and hunting are about as similar as golf and hockey. They both involve a stick, and that’s where the resemblance ends.
The range is controlled. The field is chaos. The range has a flat surface and perfect lighting. The field has wind that gusts at the wrong second, branches you didn’t see in your scope picture, and a deer that decides to take one step forward right as you break the trigger.
I’m not saying don’t shoot from a bench. Zero your rifle from a bench. Test your loads from a bench. But if that’s all you do, you’re not a hunter who shoots. You’re a bench shooter who occasionally climbs a tree and hopes for the best.
Last season I killed a doe at 110 yards from a stand. Freehand. Heart shot. She went 30 yards and piled up. It wasn’t a monster buck and it won’t make any magazine covers, but I’m prouder of that shot than any benchrest group I ever fired. Because I was standing on two feet in 20-degree weather, heart hammering, and the rifle went where it was supposed to go.
That felt real. The benchrest targets? Those were just practice for a game I wasn’t actually playing.
So here’s my advice, and it’s worth exactly what you paid for it: next time you go to the range, skip the chair. Stand up. Get your heart rate up. Shoot from positions that suck. Look like an idiot if you have to. Because come November, none of that benchrest comfort is coming with you. It’s just you, a rifle, and a deer that doesn’t care how pretty your groups looked in August.