To hunt pono is to hunt with balance. Pono, in its root, means "righteousness" — to do what is right, to restore and maintain balance. Applied to hunting, that means:

Taking only your share.

A pono hunter doesn't take more than they need, and doesn't waste what they take.

Leaving no trace.

No wrappers, no water bottles, no torn clothing on the trail — you walk out having left the mountain exactly as you found it, or better.

Respecting the animal.

A clean, ethical shot. No suffering, no wasted meat.

Understanding your place in the system.

Axis deer on Molokai are not native — left unmanaged, their numbers threaten the very land and native species that make this island what it is. A pono hunter understands that harvesting deer here isn’t just sport; it’s active land stewardship, keeping the ʻāina in balance the way pono asks of all of us.

This is the same philosophy woven through everything we do — from how we harvest deer, to how we pick fruit, to how we farm the land. Pono isn't a rule. It's a way of paying attention.

A Family of Hunters

Some of the best hunters I know went to medical school. That's not a coincidence — knowing anatomy makes you a better skinner, a better shot, someone who takes care of the meat the way it deserves to be taken care of. I learned that from my family: Ames Chow, Bart Chow, Kaimana Chow, Joey Masui, Kainoa, and a handful of uncles who all had a hand in raising me as a hunter before I ever guided anyone else.

They taught me patience — but they also taught me that sometimes patience is wrong, and you just have to run like hell before that deer drops over the next ridge and disappears for good.

More than technique, they taught me a lifestyle. Hunting became the excuse to get a pilot's license so I could fly into Alaska backcountry. The excuse to run a boat onto a sea cliff on the Kenai Peninsula. The excuse to ride a quad to the top of a mountain, and to stay fit enough to pack a caribou or a moose off that mountain on my own back. Patience and discretion. Peripheral vision. Reading the wind. Learning to see the world through the eyes of whatever you're after — bear, mountain goat, caribou, pigeon, fish, eel, shark, mahi-mahi, axis deer, feral goat, pig — and eventually, through the eyes of people, too.

They taught me to predict a reaction before it happens — how an animal responds to a bowstring's snap, a twig cracking underfoot, scent drifting the wrong way. How to draw a deer in close with water, feed plots, or scent. How to read a track by its shape, its depth, how fresh the mud around it is — piecing together a story from almost nothing, until it becomes instinct. How to hold a mental map of every buck and doe on a piece of ground — which one you're after, whether to press now or let him rest a week.

I've stood on mountains here on Molokai and thought back to climbs in Alaska that were bigger, steeper, heavier on my back, more dangerous by far. That perspective is a gift my family gave me — a student of nature, from breath control and trigger discipline all the way down to tender venison steaks over a wood fire, shared with the people who taught you how to get there.

That's what hunting pono means to me. It was never just about the harvest.

Our Kapu — Rules of This Land

Axis deer aren't native to Molokai. That means as hunters, we carry a responsibility the deer themselves can't — to help keep the land in balance, taking what's needed rather than what's wanted. That's the modern kapu we hunt under here, and it comes with a few unbending rules:

Private land is private land. Every hunt happens with real permission from real landowners — family land and land belonging to people who've trusted us with access. That trust isn't something we treat lightly, and it isn't something a guest gets to test.
No harvesting out of season, and no excess. Whether it's deer, fish, or anything else — take your share, not more.
Nothing leaves a property without permission. Not a flower, not a fruit, not anything that isn't yours — ask first, always.
Respect the animal, always. My mentors used to joke that the first shot just "slows them down" — and there's truth buried in the joke, because it's not about a perfect shot every time. It's about finishing what you start, taking care of the meat once it's down, and being content with whatever you harvest, big or small. That part is never a joke.

This is our kapu. Not a law written down anywhere — just the understanding every hunter agrees to the moment they step onto this land with us.