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Ever dream of a distant hunting adventure where thegame is plentiful and the land pristine? Where the guides give 110%? All day? Every day? Look no further.

You have come to the right spot. Our job is to ensure you pick the right outfitter for your hunt. We have compliled a small (and growing) proven list of outfitters who go the extra mile for you. Picking an outfitter for a guided hunt can be mind boggling, nerve racking and frustrating. You can rest easy with Bea's Outdoor Adventures. Unlike many booking agents, we only have outfitter clients who we have hunted with. We simple just dont take advertising dollars from outfitters and plug their operation. All our information comes first hand, by actually being a client first. And we pass that information onto you. We take the guesswork out of booking a hunt. That is our pledge to you.

07/09/2026

The last week before any much-anticipated hunting season is always a strange mix of time dragging by like molasses while somehow speeding past at the same time. I’m not sure how those two things can be true together, but it sure feels that way.

By now, I’m assuming everyone is ready. Ri**es, sh****ns, crossbows, and other gear have been tested, sighted in, and checked to make sure they’re working properly. Most tree stands are in place for those who venture above the ground, and ground blinds have been brushed in and made to blend with the surroundings. Days off work have been requested, approved, and carefully counted down.

The old hunting truck has received its annual once-over. Wheelers are fueled up, with ropes, ratchet straps, saws, and other necessities loaded or close at hand. Hunting clothes have been washed—perhaps in baking soda or some fancy scent-control product we saw advertised somewhere. Knives have been sharpened, although I suspect many of us have simply tucked a few extra replacement blades into our packs.

Rangefinders are charged or fitted with fresh batteries. Boots have been oiled, rubber boots have been patched—or replaced—and everything has been taken out for a few test walks. We think we’re ready, though there always seems to be one more thing to check.

The crisp autumn air drifting through a cracked bedroom window each morning is a reminder that the seasons are changing. The leaves are beginning to turn, painting the hillsides in shades of gold, orange, and red. On quiet mornings, a thin mist may hover over the water, rising slowly from the surface before the sun burns it away. It’s the kind of scenery that makes you pause, even when your mind is already focused on the hunt ahead.

If you’re lucky enough to have bucks showing up on your early-season trail cameras, you may notice the velvet beginning to look baggy or hang loosely. You can finally see the end of those expensive gas bills from baiting runs as bear season draws near. All the preparation, driving, checking, packing, and repacking is finally coming together.

These last few days before the season opens are truly a hunter’s time. They’re frantic, exciting, and sometimes eve

17/08/2026

Lately, I’ve found myself reading things far beyond my level of understanding. I’m not always sure why—I just do. Every now and then, though, something breaks through: an idea, a perspective, or a small roadmap that stays with me.
With that as a backdrop, I was sitting in my chair before dawn this morning, thinking about the meeting I had missed, the important thing I had forgotten to send, and the crowded schedule waiting for me this fall. It struck me that, for a retired man living on a pension, my calendar was remarkably full.
Perhaps it was the influence of the great philosophers I’ve been reading—though I can hardly believe I just wrote that—but I found myself speaking to my younger self.
I told him about the trips I had planned: some nearby, others to distant lands. I told him about hunting big game in some of the finest places imaginable. I almost seemed to be saying, Remember when spending a week at deer camp felt like the greatest adventure in the world? Look at you now. You’ve come a long way over the decades. Just look at that fall schedule.
My younger self listened quietly.
Then he said, “I’m going trout fishing up the tracks with Dad tomorrow.”
And just like that, he won. - knowing that moment held everything that mattered.

14/08/2026

Another cam added to the stable ! It's been way over a year now since my first hit the woods. Not a single glitch. No recharges needed. These cams have crazy ( good crazy tho ) low rate of return for defect . They pull a signal better than any others I've tried. I'm a nobody lol , and I'm fine with that - but I've quit a couple pretty well known companies just cuz I couldn't , in good faith , keep promoting them , or whatever I do here is . I have 0 issues recommending these cameras to not only strangers ... But my buds as well. And that is not something I ( in my own twisted mind ) can do easily. Friends are number 1 priority . And I'm def comfortable recommending these cams to them if asked. I've got a deer spot in mind for these DC 2 No Glow - can't wait to get it out there ! Thanks to Young Guns Hunting Shop for giving me this opportunity to spread the word in Canada about these cams !

30/07/2026

In one conversation this morning ( and I talk daily to few people really - but I talk to that small circle often ) and he suggested it was a good day for writing.......
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One autumn morning, maybe twenty-five years ago, I heard the single, clean report of a r***e a kilometer away. My 80 something year old father was hunting alone over there. I booked toward the sound without thinking.
We met on a ridge, and the grin on his face told me everything before he did. He’d done the hard part and he’d field dressed the deer and tried to drag it out himself, but struggled some with it - so he came looking for me - years of hunting together - he knew I'd be on my way, especially the last few years.
The woods on this morning in this harvest season were grey and utterly perfect: the fog lifting, leaving every branch and blade of grass beaded with moisture, the air thick with that pungent, honest smell of fall and rotting leaves. I insisted on taking pictures because I wanted to hold that moment — his steady hands, the tired pride in his eyes, the way the light softened the whole scene.
We worked together, slow and quiet, sharing small jokes and the easy companionable silences of people who know each other well - no need for constant chatter to polish the moment.
It felt simple and complete, an ordinary day made sacred by the smallness of the tasks and the largeness of what they meant. If I had to pick ten of my most favorite hunting moments, it would be one. In a world of ultra-hype and media-driven clicks, this one ranks near the top. It was a good day.
PS - I glad I took a few pics and sucked in the entirety of the moment - as things unfold - this was my dad's last deer season.

22/07/2026

Hunting is our DNA — or, more precisely, hardwired in our brains and hearts. There’s no acceptable neat explanation. Those who choose to harvest their own food and willingly give up other comforts — extra sleep, family time, leisurely hikes — and still rush for the woods with bow or gun.
We could be doing something else on these days, but most of us don’t if at all possible. Maybe we simply can’t. We know we’ll be playing catch-up the next day for this outing to the woods, working twice as hard to get caught up, but the reason doesn’t matter: it’s just who we are - and we go despite early departure times, a long list of chores, and all of the other things that we love, and are asked of us, in our less wild endeavours .
Some approach hunting as a means to an end - a way to climb hunting's social hiarcal ladder; something that I have less and less sympathy with - for I don't believe it's the genuine hunter's spirit. Perhaps a person can possess both traits I don't know - and to debate that here only strays from my point I'm trying to make - Most of us hunt the same way a hound chases a rabbit a setter points a bird or a duck flies south. They just do — instinctively .
That’s why a hunter with a wall full of trophies can feel the same electric thrill aiming at a rabbit as at a buck. In most hobbies, the excitement for beginner challenges fades as skill and achievement grow. Not so for hunters.
Which reminds me exactly of a quote I read many years ago....going on memory but I think it was Sitting Bull and it went something like this " I will remain what I am until I die, a hunter, and when there are no buffalo or other game I will teach my children to hunt and live on prairie mice......"
The rush is the same whether it’s upland birds or an enormous bear, a meat buck or a trophy. Every kill is humbling and respected, every meal is enjoyed and valued, every memory rich and treasured, and every hunt — big or small — brings the same deep satisfaction that helps tame the hunter's desire and destiny.

12/07/2026

So , no hard sell, but....yesterday I put a cam out. No bait . Just on a trail I've been meaning to cam up for a while. On the way out after putting up camI sprayed some of this rookum juice every few steps as I walked out. Due to tick numbers I took the bibs off in the garage next to my archery gear. Today I decided to fling a few arrows from the widow. While grabbing it....I couldn't believe how strong the odor was coming from the bibs. After nothing more than walking through the grass/trail I sprayed some on while walking out. I dunno what that means but I do know I've sprayed alot more on the past and the next day I couldn't smell a thing. These bibs can't have much on them....but I had to take them out to air out a bit. Kinda made me think about this spray's effectiveness!

11/07/2026

I’ve had plenty of late-season outings and a few last-weekend kills over the years, but this moose was the closest I ever came to eating tag soup. In the end, though, we tagged out. It felt like day 14 or 15 of hunting in Newfoundland last fall. In those two weeks we put our hands on a dozen or so moose — I forget the exact number now — but it was a busy, busy week. After a week of guiding, the second week rolled around and it was time for some of the crew to hunt. We swapped between guiding and hunting, and by the following Friday six moose were down. We had to leave for the ferry around 4 p.m. Saturday. There were stands to take down, gear to pack, machines to retrieve to the lodge — a mountain of work.

When darkness fell Friday evening I figured I was going home without a moose, which wasn’t the end of the world — just a missed meat reward for the winter. I was staring at a pile of wet, dirty gear wondering where to begin when I went downstairs for a cup of tea after dinner. Terry was on his phone, scrolling the ONx app. He looked up and said, “I know where we’re going tomorrow morning.” I told him I didn’t think we’d have time, but Terry’s not the kind to give up. Before light the next morning we were pounding along in the SxS toward a place I didn’t know.

Dawn was waking the bogs in a way you only get that late in fall — the sky a thin smear of orange and rose, a crisp clarity to the air that made every breath taste cold and clean. Low fog lay like a blanket over the hummocks, and the first light picked out droplets on moss and the silvered backs of puddles. Geese were honking overhead in ragged strings. A lone caribou stag picked his way across the tundra, deliberate and unhurried, every step measured as if he owned that wide, wild place. He wasn’t in a hurry, and watching him moved something in me — a mix of gratitude, nostalgia, and a quiet ache: I’ve hunted a few of them before, but with prices rising each year they’re slipping further from reach. Still, seeing him in that light felt like a small benediction.

About 45 minutes into our sit a cow called, thin and frantic, far off. Ten minutes later I thought I heard

24/05/2026

I woke up today feeling pretty good — still riding the high from helping BBANS at the Middleton show yesterday. Great company in the booth, met folks I’d never run into at other shows, and came home smiling. I’ve got a bit of work today, but I’m looking forward to a slow afternoon in the yard.

There’s an odd little thread running through the morning. Partly because I wanted to burn the last pellets in the stove, and partly because it was a chilly 4 degrees at dawn, I found myself with my first cup of coffee in front of the fire as the sun edged over the distant hills.

The pond lay still, the yard waking up, and in that hush my fingers drifted to the keys - as they often do in front of a fire. I meant to write about the fall of 2025 — but somehow my hands insisted on 1980.

Maybe it was the fire’s glow, or the glow on the eastern skyline, or that small, old fear that I’ll never enjoy hunting like I did in the seventies and eighties. I can’t quite explain it, and I don’t try. As the younger folks might say, it is what it is - so I surrender and just go with it these days.

A paragraph or two into my initial story - my attention wandered and I started scrolling through a rag-tag collection of photos that somehow now span five or six decades.

I probably have better gear and more opportunities now than I did back then, but with my coffee gone I found myself mulling over hunts from the seventies and eighties instead of the story from last fall.

The tale I intended to write from 2025 will wait. - perhaps it needs to slow cook a decade or so.

For now I’m content to sit by the fire and let those older seasons compliment this glorious morning.......

14/03/2026

Long story. Shot looked way high and I had serious doubts tbh. But thank God for good sharp bhs , the snow certainly helped. Starting on trail I was kicking my butt. I actually didnt even send out bbd texts. I was afraid what the track would tell. But i had dog on speed dial if needed. But I needed to see for myself first. It's one thing to lose your own deer....but to do it on an invited stand...well I was sick. However tho! . it was pretty short track, 100 yards maybe, and the snow was a blessing. Recovered in 10 minutes. I did give it 30 minutes tho. The buck was dead quick. It never bedded. Never stopped
Just ran 100 yards and expired.
This guy we called the new 8, he made the kill list, but one of the smaller of the top 4.
But I'm thrilled. Long version later. Work to do. And a visit to Butch Collins in short order.

09/03/2026

That morning in the woods has stayed with me like a small, glowing ember. I’d just taken my first — and only — bull moose by bow: undoubtedly the smallest moose I ever tagged, but it didn’t matter. I’d earned it with patience and a steady hand, and that sense of quiet triumph filled me more than any antler size could.
After field-dressing the animal and setting the heart and liver aside to cool, I spread my sweat-soaked gear over nearby branches to dry and settled into a makeshift resting spot. The carcass was cooling from chin to rump, the air smelled of dank earth and spruce, and there was no cell signal — just the simple company of the forest. I pulled a steaming cup of tea and some oatcakes brought from home - from my pack, took a slow breath, and let the sun warm my face.
I took a few pictures, but mostly I just sat and soaked it in: the stillness, the satisfaction, the uncomplicated joy of a hard-earned morning. It was one of those moments you tuck into the heart — a small, perfect memory I can ( and do often_ return to on a sunny pleasant March afternoon such as today.
I was great full for the events and people who lead me to be that on that particular morning.

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