In the crisp fall air of western North Dakota, where the golden prairies stretch out like an old friend's handshake, deer season has always been more than just a hunt. It's a ritual—a chance to slip away from the daily grind, shoulder a rifle, and reconnect with the land that shaped generations of outdoorsmen. But this year, something's gnawing at that tradition. Reports of sick and dying whitetails have trickled in, turning what should be a pursuit of bucks into a sobering reminder of nature's unpredictability. The North Dakota Game and Fish Department, ever the steady hand in these matters, has stepped up with a practical olive branch: refunds for certain deer licenses in five hard-hit units. It's a move that's got hunters talking, weighing the thrill of the chase against the harsh reality on the ground.
Picture this: You've drawn your tag after months of scouting maps and swapping stories at the local diner. The lottery bonus points you banked feel like hard-earned currency. Then, whispers start—deer stumbling in the fields, too weak to bolt from a truck's headlights. That's epizootic hemorrhagic disease, or EHD, rearing its ugly head again. It's not new; it's the kind of trouble that flares up like a bad knee on a rainy day. But for those holding licenses in units 3E1, 3F1, 3F2, 4E, and 4F, the department's offering a way out. If you've got an antlered whitetail, antlerless whitetail, any antlered, or any antlerless deer gun license for those areas, you can turn it in for a full refund. And here's the kicker: those precious bonus points? They'll snap right back to where they were before the 2025 draw, no penalties, no fuss.
The call comes from solid ground, not panic. Mason Ryckman, the department's wildlife health biologist, laid it out plain during a recent update. Scattered reports of white-tailed deer turning up dead started popping up in early September, enough to warrant a closer look. “This outbreak appears mild,” Ryckman said. “We see a low level of EHD most years. It typically stays fairly localized, but every so often it can intensify into a significant die-off. The combined outbreak in 2020 and 2021 was probably the worst in memory, with extensive mortality across much of western North Dakota. Similar to 2024, we’re nowhere close to that level, but we have received around 20 reports, primarily focused across Bowman and Adams counties. We’re hopeful that the few nights with temperatures in the 20s this past week helped slow things down, but it typically takes a series of hard frosts to kill the gnats and completely end an outbreak.”
Ryckman's words carry the weight of someone who's seen this cycle before. EHD isn't some exotic plague; it's a viral hitchhiker spread by those pesky biting gnats that swarm in late summer. It hits white-tailed deer hardest, leaving them feverish, swollen-tongued, and listless—easy pickings for coyotes or just the slow fade of exhaustion. Other big game, like mule deer or even pronghorn, can catch it too, though whitetails bear the brunt. The good news? It's got zero bite for humans. No risk at the dinner table from venison, as long as you steer clear of the sick ones. The department's crystal clear on that: If a deer's acting off—lethargic, drooling, or heaving—leave it be. Don't pull the trigger, and sure as heck don't field dress it.
But mild or not, those 20 reports aren't nothing. They're clustered in Bowman and Adams counties, where the gnats found just the right mix of warmth and moisture to thrive before the chill set in. Ryckman and his team are keeping a sharp eye, sifting through tips from hunters and landowners alike. They're not ruling out expanding the refund window if the die-off spreads its wings. That's where you come in, if you're out there walking the draws or checking trail cams. Spot a downed deer? Don't just drive by. Fire up the department's online wildlife mortality reporting system at gf.nd.gov/mortality-report. Snap a few photos if you can—close-ups of the carcass, wide shots of the spot. Pin the location on a map, tally up how many you're seeing. “It is important to make note of the location and the approximate number of animals found,” Ryckman said. “In some cases, we may need to collect samples off fresh carcasses, so it is important to notify the department as soon as possible.”
Those details aren't busywork. They're the threads that help biologists stitch together the outbreak's story—how far it's crept, what's fueling it, and when the freeze might finally snuff it out. Last week's dip into the 20s brought some relief, a taste of the hard frosts that act like nature's reset button on the gnat population. But one cold snap isn't a cure-all; it's the sustained deep freeze that does the trick, turning those bloodsuckers to ice before they can ferry the virus any further.
Now, before you stuff that license in an envelope, the department's got some straight talk: Pump the brakes and dig local. Most spots in those five units—3E1 through 4F—are still holding steady, with mortality confined to pockets rather than blanketing the countryside. Hit up buddies who've been glassing ridges lately, or chat with ranchers who've got eyes on the herds from their fence lines. A quick call to the local Game and Fish office might save you from bailing on a hunt that's still got legs. Because let's face it, refund or no, nothing beats the crack of a .30-06 echoing off the buttes when a legal buck steps out at dawn. It's the kind of morning that sticks with you, fuel for winter tales around the woodstove.
If you do decide it's not worth the gamble, the process is straightforward, no red tape to snarl your boots. Grab your tag—that physical license with the state's stamp—and jot a simple note: "Refund request due to EHD." Seal it in an envelope addressed to the Game and Fish Department's Bismarck office. Drop it in the mail by November 7, and as long as it's postmarked by then, you're golden. They'll handle the rest, cutting the check and rebooting your bonus points so you're primed for next year's draw. It's a small mercy in a season that's already testing tempers, but it speaks volumes about an agency that gets it—hunters aren't just customers; they're stewards of the same wild places that keep the soul fed.
This EHD flare-up isn't rewriting the book on North Dakota deer hunting, but it's a chapter worth reading closely. It reminds us that out there, beyond the truck's tailgate and the scent of coffee on the breeze, wildlife doesn't punch a clock. Outbreaks like this ebb and flow with the weather, the bugs, and the luck of the draw. The 2020-2021 double whammy scarred the landscape, thinning herds in ways that still echo in harvest stats. Last year's brush was a shadow of that, and 2025's looking even tamer by comparison. Yet every report filed, every tag weighed and maybe returned, chips away at the uncertainty. It's how the department stays ahead, tweaking seasons and tags to keep the balance—enough deer to hunt, enough pressure to manage.
For the guy who's chased whitetails from the Missouri breaks to the badlands' edge, this refund option feels like common sense wrapped in compassion. It's not about dodging the hunt; it's about respecting the odds. If your unit's in the clear, lace up those boots and make the most of the November rut—the grunts, the scrapes, the electric tension of a trail gone hot. If it's dicey, take the out, bank those points, and eye the calendar for a makeup shot come spring turkey or fall '26. Either way, it's a nod to the long game, the one where the land wins if we play it smart.
As the frosts deepen and the gnats fade, North Dakota's whitetails will rebound, tough as the cowboys who named the counties. The department's watching, the reports are rolling in, and hunters like you are the front line. Keep an eye peeled, a phone handy, and that old optimism burning. Deer season's got its curveballs, but it's the swings that make the stories worth telling.
