WELCOME TO THE HUNT LODGE
WHERE STORIES ARE SHARED, FRIENDSHIPS ARE FORGED, AND THE THRILL OF THE HUNT LIVES ON
The Hunt Lodge is more than a page—it’s a celebration of the camaraderie and spirit of the outdoors. This is where hunters unite, sharing the moments that make the journey unforgettable.
JOIN US
Wear your Trekin gear proudly, and let the world see your adventures. Submit your photos wearing Trekin Merch alongside the animals you’ve hunted. Your story could inspire others and earn you a featured spot in the Hunt Lodge gallery. Check out some recent member photos below.
Welcome, everyone, to the Hunt Lodge page! We now enabled the ability for users to leave photo comments to help us grow the community on this page. Here’s the buck that I harvested last fall!
A Mountain Top Giant: My Adirondack Big Woods Buck
As I reflect on the hunt that brought down my majestic Adirondack Big Woods buck, I’m filled with a mix of emotions – excitement, gratitude, and a hint of sadness. This buck’s story is deeply personal, intertwined with the loss of my grandfather and the birth of our scent company, Big Woods Scent Co.
The journey began with careful planning, using our Scrape N Lick and Hot Estrus scents to lure him in. The mountain top presented its challenges, with unpredictable wind patterns and steep terrain. But I was determined to bring him down.
After two days of careful maneuvering, I finally caught a glimpse of him with a doe. The third day brought the breakthrough I was hoping for – he walked 40 yards in front of me, heading straight for the scrape.
The drag was tough, but the sense of accomplishment was overwhelming. He dressed out to 196lbs, a true mountain giant.
This buck’s significance extends far beyond the hunt itself. He’s been featured in Whitetails Unlimited Magazine, NY Big Buck Club, and other publications, serving as a testament to the effectiveness of our scents.
But more importantly, he represents the memories I’ve made in the Big Woods, and the passion that drives our company to provide top-notch products for fellow outdoorsmen.
As I look back on this incredible journey, I’m reminded of the importance of perseverance, respect for the natural world, and the bonds that tie us to the great outdoors.
This is the biggest one I have gotten. The best part was sharing it with my brother’s and friends. Had him on camera all year and finally connected on Halloween. 13 points scored 163.
Watched the show about deer hunt on B-Tex Ranch. BrettingTexasRanch.com does not come up in search. Do you have a phone number to contact them? Thanks
yes! 214-869-0567
1st Buck
Okemos, MI
10 yards with a cross bow
Didn’t take up deer hunting until my 30s
All in slaying now!
Put a good friend on his first longbeard. Came up for the Georgia season opener and it was raining that eveing, with no luck to hear where a Gobbler was roosted for the morning hunt. Knowing the property from years of experience I took a gamble in an area where the oak tree fell over from the hurricane that came through during the fall. We wanted to film his first longbeard and I figured if we setup near where the oak trees had fallen we would be covered and would be able to get great footage of our hunt tucked in the oak hammock near the planted pines. As the sun rises we knew we were blessed by the man upstairs from the sounds of the close gobble. We couldn’t have been more than 50 yards away from him. As he flew down into the open area of the oak head I knew it was gonna be a morning to remember for my friend and I. God is Great and the game he lets us play with the amazing bird we call the king of spring is a Masterpiece.
“Morning Majesty: The Hunt for Jack”
I woke up that morning with a mix of excitement and anticipation. The rut was in full swing, and I knew the chances of seeing Jack, the giant whitetail buck I’d been chasing all season, were higher than ever. My cousin Terry had been more than generous, letting me hunt his farm, and I felt a deep sense of gratitude as I made my way to the elevated box blind we affectionately called “The Hilton.” From that perch, I could see a large swath of the farm, including the overgrown hay field that always seemed to be a hotspot for deer activity.
As the first light of dawn began to spread across the horizon, the farm came alive. I watched as bucks started to chase does across the field, their energy almost tangible in the crisp morning air. It wasn’t long before I noticed several bucks focusing their attention on “Busy Corner,” a section of the field that always seemed to draw in the action. I could see a few of the smaller bucks sparring, their antlers clashing as they tested each other’s strength. Their attention, though, was drawn to something just inside the wood line.
And then, from the shadows of the woods, he appeared—Jack. The buck I’d been after for what felt like an eternity. He stepped out of the woods with an air of dominance, his massive rack towering over the other bucks. He was a sight to behold, a monarch of the forest, and every other buck in the field seemed to recognize it. They scattered as Jack came charging out of the wood line, asserting his dominance and protecting the doe he was tending to just inside the trees.
I watched, spellbound, as Jack moved back and forth from the woods into the field, chasing off any buck that dared approach. He was focused, relentless, and completely in control. The morning seemed to stretch on as I sat there, watching the drama unfold before me. I had multiple chances to see other bucks close enough for a shot, but none of them were Jack. None of them commanded my attention like he did.
Despite the hours passing, I never felt frustrated. There’s a certain satisfaction in the hunt, in witnessing nature play out in front of you, that goes beyond the harvest. Watching Jack, knowing that I was in the presence of a truly magnificent animal, was enough. I didn’t get a shot at him that day, but the memory of seeing him, of finally laying eyes on the buck I’d been chasing all season, is something I’ll carry with me forever.
As the sun climbed higher, I knew my time in the stand was coming to an end for the morning, but I wasn’t disappointed. The hunt isn’t just about the kill; it’s about moments like this, when all the preparation, all the early mornings, and all the patience pay off in a way that’s more fulfilling than I could have imagined. As I climbed down from The Hilton, I smiled, knowing I’d be back, chasing that memory again and again.
Crocodile Hunt in Mozambique
By Victor Bretting
We were deep in the Cora Basa region of Mozambique—untamed country where the Zambezi flows wide and the banks whisper stories of monsters. The locals had spoken of a giant croc—sixteen feet if he was an inch—that had been taking goats, dogs, even a cow. My PH and I didn’t need convincing. This wasn’t just a hunt—it was a necessary one.
No bait. No ambush. Just us, a boat, and a long stretch of river to glass. We eased down the banks, eyes scanning for that telltale ripple or a log that looked a little too alive. It took days. Each sunrise came with new information on where this monster could be. But we stayed patient. You don’t rush a crocodile.
Late one afternoon, we spotted him. Sunning himself on a muddy bend, jaws wide and motionless like he was dead—except for the glint in his eye. I set up in the PH’s sticks, lining up my shot from the land to the sandbar about 80 yards out. One breath. One squeeze. The shot cracked, echoing through the bush, and the river exploded.
The fight wasn’t over—nothing dies easy in Africa. But when it was done, we stood over a true relic of the wild. Sixteen feet of raw, armored power. A beast who ruled that river for decades. And now, a memory etched in the mud, blood, and silence of Mozambique.
That croc wasn’t just a trophy. He was a legend—and for one moment, we crossed paths in the wild world he ruled.
You can watch the video on our YouTube Channel:https://youtu.be/IRNOSnUieiU?si=1eq_Bcq2JE57HqPI
Follow along with us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/btexranch
“The Rogue Hippo”
By Victor Bretting
A few years back, I was in Mozambique on a plains game hunt when things took an unexpected turn. My PH pulled me aside one morning with a serious look in his eyes. A rogue hippo had attacked a village upstream. It had killed a six-year-old girl just days before while she was near the water with her mother.
The authorities gave the green light to take the animal out. My PH looked at me and said, “Most hunters never get this kind of responsibility. This one’s different.” He wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t about a trophy or a record book. This was about doing what had to be done.
We headed out at first light, cruising the riverbanks quietly. Most hippos stay in pods, but this one was unpredictable, and not afraid of humans anymore. That’s when they become dangerous.
After a couple of hours, we spotted him half-submerged in a shallow channel with 2 other Hippos.
My PH gave the nod. I raised the .375 and took a shot just behind the eye. His head tilted up and then submerged into the murky waters. My PH shouted “You got Him” with a joyful tone in his voice. It is now a waiting game to ensure that he was dead. You have to wait 30 to 45 minutes to see if he floats to the surface.
After around 35 minutes, which seemed like an eternity, we saw a gray rounded dome surface to the top of the water. The shot was a success and the Rough Hippo was down!
The villagers proceeded to pull the hippo out of the water and starting processing the meat for the village. Nothing goes to waste in bush. All the villagers need protein to survive.
It wasn’t a hunt I expected. But I was trusted with it. Some things out in the wild aren’t about sport—they’re about responsibility. That day was one of them.
See the Video on our YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDRVEUMwxKs
Follow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/btexranch
I forgot to attach the picture
Picture
“Seven Days for One Bull”
By Victor Bretting
It took seven days to get on that Cape buffalo. Seven days of tracking him through the heat, brush, and dust of Mozambique. Fifty-two miles on foot. No blinds. No shortcuts. Just hard-earned miles and boot leather.
Each morning started the same—at water before daylight. That’s where you read the night. Cape buffalo hit the water under cover of darkness, and the tracks don’t lie. You study them, pick out the bulls from the cows, see which direction the herd moved, and get moving before the sun’s fully up.
This bull wasn’t alone—he stayed tight with the herd, buried in the middle like he knew what we were after. That made things tougher. We couldn’t push too hard or scatter the group, and you never knew which way they’d break if you got too close. Patience mattered. So did grit.
For six days, we followed—fresh tracks every morning, long hikes through mopane thickets and sand, constantly circling to keep the wind right. We’d get close, sometimes within 100 yards, but never had a clean shot. Either brush was too thick or the bull was tucked in behind too many cows.
Day seven, it all came together.
We found fresh tracks again at the waterhole—big, round, heavy prints from the bull mixed with the herd. We followed them for hours before catching movement in the tall grass. The herd was feeding slowly, and this time, the bull stepped out wide to the edge.
My PH set the sticks. I got behind the .375 and settled in. He was walking towards some dense cover . I only had a few seconds before he disappeared into the trees. My PH yelled “SHOOT”, I had anticipated his permission to shot this Big Bull and let the bullet fly. The bull hunched, ran, and disappeared into the bush. We waited, then followed—slow, methodical. Found him 60 yards in, still standing but wounded. He turned toward us, ready to fight. I put a second round through his chest, and he dropped for good.
That moment didn’t come easy. It came from time in the field, learning the land, respecting the animal, and not rushing the process.
Seven days. Fifty-two miles. One old warrior.
Not the hardest shot I’ve ever taken—but one of the most earned.
See the video on our YouTube Chanell: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8HA7Dlwnyzo
Following us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/btexranch
“A Day to Remember: Ronda Bretting’s Sable and Roan Hunts”
By Victor Bretting
Some hunts take a week. Some take a lifetime. And every now and then, a day comes along that you’ll talk about for the rest of your life. For my wife, Ronda, that day happened in South Africa.
We were hunting on a well-managed property known for its strong genetics and mature bulls. Ronda had her sights set on a Sable—something she’d wanted for a long time. That morning, we got out early, worked the wind, and glassed a distant ridge where a bachelor group had been feeding. One bull stood out. Heavy horns, sweeping curves, deep black sheen. The kind of bull you know is special the moment you see him.
We moved into position. Ronda got on the sticks, calm as ever. One clean shot, and the sable was down. Textbook. We took a few moments, took it in. For most, that would’ve been a hunt in itself.
But Africa wasn’t done writing her story yet.
Less than three hours later, while driving to another part of the property, we glassed another group of bulls—and one of them stood out like a sore thumb. A massive roan. Thick-bodied, heavy-necked, horns flared wide with deep bases. It wasn’t just a good bull—it was the kind you hope to see once in a lifetime.
The PH didn’t say much. He just turned and said, “That’s a giant. If you want him, we need to move now.”
Ronda didn’t hesitate.
We closed the gap and set the sticks. The bull turned broadside, and she made another perfect shot. It was over before it started.
Later, after the tape went around the horns and the measurements were sent off, we got the news: her roan ranks #8 in the world in the Safari Club International Record Book. Not just a once-in-a-lifetime hunt—but one of the biggest ever recorded.
Ronda didn’t just have a good day in Africa—she had the day. Two world-class animals, hours apart, both taken clean and ethically. That’s not luck. That’s poise, skill, and doing things the right way.
And I couldn’t be prouder.
Following us on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/btexranch
Picture of Sable. Add to story about Sable and Roan
“On Top of the World: Hunting Alpine Chamois in New Zealand”
By Victor Bretting
Some hunts are about the animal. Others are about the ground you cover to get there. This one was both.
We flew by helicopter straight into the Southern Alps of New Zealand—ice-covered peaks, razor-thin ridgelines, and air so clean it stung your lungs. When the blades settled and the chopper lifted away, it felt like we were standing on the roof of the world. No noise. No trail. Just us, the wind, and the mountain.
The terrain was no joke—slick rock, frozen snow, and steep drop-offs in every direction. One misstep and you weren’t getting up again. Every move had to be deliberate. No cowboy stuff. Just slow, careful progress across the face.
We glassed ridges and shadow lines for hours, watching for a flick of movement or the shine of a horn in the sun. Chamois are built for this country—light on their feet, sharp-eyed, and always uphill from where you want them to be. It’s their house, and they know every inch of it.
Late afternoon, we spotted a lone buck skylined on a ridge across the basin. Heavy horns, classic hook, and standing proud. He was exactly what we’d come for.
We looped around, cutting elevation and closing distance. The footing was sketchy—ice in patches, loose shale underfoot, nothing to stop a slide if you lost your balance. Took us over an hour to get within range.
At 220 yards, I got steady. Wind was cutting hard, and the angle was steep downhill. I settled the crosshairs and squeezed.
The buck dropped instantly.
The climb down to him was slow and cautious, but worth every step. That chamois was everything I respect in a mountain animal—tough, wild, and earned the hard way.
New Zealand didn’t give up that trophy easy, but it gave me something more: a reminder of just how small you are when you’re standing above the clouds, chasing game built for the heights.
Follow us on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/btexranch
“Three Days in the Balkans: Chasing Chamois in Serbia”
By Victor Bretting
Serbia doesn’t give up its mountain game easily. You earn every step, every glance, every shot—and that’s exactly how I like it.
We were three days into the hunt, glassing rugged slopes in the Balkan mountains. Chamois country. Steep rock faces, cold winds, and long distances between chances. Each day we moved ridge to ridge, picking apart distant cliffs and valleys, looking for the one mature buck that stood out. A dozen sightings, plenty of young ones—but nothing that made us put the rifle on the sticks.
Then came the third morning. A fresh coat of snow had settled overnight, and the mountains were quiet. The wind was good. Conditions were right.
Not long after sun-up, we glassed across a wide valley and spotted him—dark body, heavy curl in the horns, moving with purpose through the snow far below. A mature Balkan chamois. No doubt about it.
He was already starting to drop down into the valley. If we didn’t move fast, we’d lose him in the timber. We got to the edge of a steep rock shelf and set up quickly. He was nearly 275 yards away, and almost straight downhill. It wasn’t a textbook shot. It was steep, cold, and unforgiving.
I took my time, got steady, and focused through the scope. The buck paused just long enough. I adjusted for the angle, breathed deep, and squeezed.
The bullet hit true. He dropped where he stood.
That hike down was no easy task—icy footing, sharp drops—but it was one of the most rewarding walks I’ve ever taken. Up close, the chamois was everything I’d hoped for: old, thick-necked, and with worn, weathered horns that told the story of a life lived in the hardest country.
Hunting the Balkans isn’t about comfort or convenience. It’s about patience, glassing, and waiting for the right opportunity to line up—then making it count.
And on that cold Serbian morning, it all came together.
“Three Days in the Balkans: Chasing Chamois in Serbia”
By Victor Bretting
Serbia doesn’t give up its mountain game easily. You earn every step, every glance, every shot—and that’s exactly how I like it.
We were three days into the hunt, glassing rugged slopes in the Balkan mountains. Chamois country. Steep rock faces, cold winds, and long distances between chances. Each day we moved ridge to ridge, picking apart distant cliffs and valleys, looking for the one mature buck that stood out. A dozen sightings, plenty of young ones—but nothing that made us put the rifle on the sticks.
Then came the third morning. A fresh coat of snow had settled overnight, and the mountains were quiet. The wind was good. Conditions were right.
Not long after sun-up, we glassed across a wide valley and spotted him—dark body, heavy curl in the horns, moving with purpose through the snow far below. A mature Balkan chamois. No doubt about it.
He was already starting to drop down into the valley. If we didn’t move fast, we’d lose him in the timber. We got to the edge of a steep rock shelf and set up quickly. He was nearly 275 yards away, and almost straight downhill. It wasn’t a textbook shot. It was steep, cold, and unforgiving.
I took my time, got steady, and focused through the scope. The buck paused just long enough. I adjusted for the angle, breathed deep, and squeezed.
The bullet hit true. He dropped where he stood.
That hike down was no easy task—icy footing, sharp drops—but it was one of the most rewarding walks I’ve ever taken. Up close, the chamois was everything I’d hoped for: old, thick-necked, and with worn, weathered horns that told the story of a life lived in the hardest country.
Hunting the Balkans isn’t about comfort or convenience. It’s about patience, glassing, and waiting for the right opportunity to line up—then making it count.
And on that cold Serbian morning, it all came together.
Follow us on Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/btexranch