3 Days in Oklahoma

I didn’t know what I was in for when I landed in Oklahoma City, rented a car, and drove two hours southeast to Venator USA. I’d heard stories, sure, but stories don’t tell you much until you’re there, standing under that sky. The land rolled and dipped, wide open spaces broken by pockets of woods, a tapestry of range and timber. I had been invited by Chris Dorsey to Venator-USA for an Elk hunt. We would be filming for an episode of Sporting Classics.

At the lodge, I met the guides and the crew, all of them good men, the kind you sit around a fire with and feel you’ve known forever.

Venator is the premier hunting lodge in New Zealand and have just opened Venator USA. They provide an un paralleled hunting and lodge experience.

People go hunting for different reasons. Some for meat, others for the horns, some for the pure thrill of the chase. For me, it’s the whole thing, the ritual of it, the work that ties you to the land and to an ancient need to provide. When you’re hunting big game, you aren’t just watching nature. You become part of it. I’ve come back empty-handed more times than I can count, but I never come back without something. Sitting in a high stand, watching the world wake up, a young doe passing through, two bucks clashing out of sight, that’s worth every mile.

This hunt, though, was one for the books.

The next morning, we set out early. We hiked for miles, passing from open land to dense woods, the light changing with the landscape. We saw a giant stag, a beast of a thing, but our eyes were set on elk.

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There’s a quiet thrill in stalking through trees and brush, feeling your pulse match the land’s rhythm, carrying the rifle as you comb the shadows. Every twig snap, every whisper of leaves, and you’re glassing again, stretching your eyes as far as they’ll go, straining to see through that curtain of green.

By lunch, my guide was growing restless. We hadn’t spotted any elk, and I could feel him trying to manage his expectations for my sake. But for me, it was enough just to be there. The noise of daily life—the grind of business, the endless talking—was all gone. It was just us, the land, and the possibility of something wild out there.

Back at the lodge, we had a lunch of beef and elk, with a side of salad I skipped. I have been on the carnivore diet for 3 years so it was on water and meat, lots of water, mostly because the hunt had already left me parched. Hydration would be my afternoon correction.

When we set out again, we changed our approach, moving to the high ground, where we could see for miles. I’ll admit, my guide, Sean, had the sharper eyes. “Bull elk, two o’clock, about 400 yards in the trees,” he murmured. I squinted, searching, but saw nothing. Sean quietly guided me until—there he was. I’d looked past him, through him, expecting something smaller, like the whitetail I was used to. But this was a dark, hulking mass, tucked into the shadows. “Holy hell,” I muttered.

We moved slowly, taking cover in a cluster of trees. At 130 yards, I set up with my Remington on a shooting stick, waiting. It’s funny how stillness can turn on you. You think you’re set, and then 15 minutes in, your muscles start to ache. We stayed there for 30 minutes. The bull had picked us up, glaring, stamping his hoof, angry but uncertain. He stood his ground, but eventually, he lost interest and turned.

“Wait for my call,” Sean said quietly. I held steady, felt the rifle solid under my cheek. The bull took two steps out of cover. “Shoot him,” Sean said.

The shot rang out, and the elk crumpled, a clean hit. There’s nothing quite like that moment when the guide mutters, “Good shot.” We approached, and it was only then, standing over him, that I understood the size of him. This wasn’t a game animal. This was a mountain.

Back at the barn, the lodge team made quick work of hanging him, and they were surprised when I stepped in to help with the skinning. To me, hunting is a full circle—from planning to the shot to the hard work of processing. Every part should be used. This bull would have a European mount, and we would tan the hide so I could mount it later if I chose.

That night, with Woodford Reserve in hand, we gathered at the lodge. There’s a shift in a group after a successful hunt, a sense of purpose fulfilled. We shared stories, some exaggerated, some understated. Aaron Davidson of Gunwerks had taken a big stag, and his story blended into mine, the bourbon smoothing out any rough edges. For those few days, we were a band of hunters, sharing a moment far removed from daily life. By tomorrow, we’d scatter to our own lives, but for a while, we shared something only the woods can give.

Special thanks to John MacGillivray for the incredible photography.

Tom is the founder and President of SecureIt . An avid hunter and outdoorsman.