At Last
After all these years, I always thought that arrowing my first big game animal would be more...epic.
For many years, every September has brought pictures to my mind of the screaming bull tearing apart trees even as the arrow speeds toward his ribs. I imagined multi-hour stalks on big muley bucks. I sort of figured I would have to fend off grizzly bears as I quartered my animal in the deep wilderness.
As it happened, the big event took far longer than I ever imagined it would. And when it finally happened, it was surprisingly straight-forward.
I've had a rather tumultuous relationship with archery for around three decades. My first bow cost me $15 at a garage sale: a 70 pound, osage longbow backed with a strip of fiberglass that was starting to delaminate. I mildly startled a few rabbits with it, but that was about as far as I got. I never could really get the thing to full draw without my bow arm shaking. I never quite understood why I missed some shots and was close on others. That developed into a pattern, through several bows and many years of haphazard practicing. I absolutely loved archery: The beauty of the wood, the arc of the arrow, the feel of the bow in my hand, the satisfaction of the occasional really good shot. And I hated archery: The elusiveness of that addictive feeling, never knowing exactly what was going to happen when I loosed an arrow.
My arrows put some rabbits in the pot over the years, but despite some skill at stalking and calling, I never was able to score on a deer or elk. I'm a reasonably accomplished rifle hunter, but the Holy Grail of an archery kill kept eluding me. Truth be told, I never had the courage to try a shot at big game until a three years ago, when I called in a raghorn bull. He stood there 20 yards away, broadside, looking at me as I drew my longbow...and slammed an arrow into a tree branch. I doubt I would have hit him anyway: I had so much adrenaline in my system, it never even occurred to me to pick a spot.
The following year, the same scenario repeated with a spike at 15 yards. As I drew on him, a little voice in my head said, "Something's going to go wrong. Something always goes wrong." My body was listening, and the arrow sailed over his back. That same year, I missed shots at three mule deer does. My athletic friends like to say you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. I was missing 100% of the shots I DID take.
Well, phooey on that. The first thing I did was get a lighter draw bow. (I've since gotten stronger and settled comfortably into my 60 pounder) I had a couple of books on archery, and I ordered a couple more. I learned about blind-bale shooting, and began to develop a consistent form. I tried my hand at gap shooting, which didn't stick for very long but had the benefit of forcing me to focus more on the shot as a process, on being totally in control of every step. I studied my way through "Instinctive Archery Insights" by R. J. Kidwell, and began to deliberately work on the mental side of the game. I put in hours and hours (and hours and hours) of practicing, on the hay bales in the yard and shooting twigs and pinecones wherever I happened to be. And lo and behold, I started hitting stuff pretty regularly. When archery season opened this year, I was pretty confident that, if a critter came within 30 yards, it was coming home with me.
That, unfortunately, was the big "if." Throughout a season of hard wilderness hunting, swirling winds tipped the odds in favor of the elk, and I never got a shot. But in the encounters I had, I felt a new level-headedness, a steadiness of thought (even as my heart threatened to explode out of my chest), a gratitude to God for the experience, come what may.
None of which puts any meat on the table.
September 29th. Two days until the end of archery season, and the prospect of eating my tags again was putting a slight strain on my grateful attitude. Early Sunday morning found me out at my in-laws' place east of town, trying to ambush a decent muley buck that had been passing through every other morning or so. Long story short, I saw him just before he saw me. And that was it. Back to work Monday, so I was done.
I got home about 8:30 a.m. to find my wife and daughter in bed reading books. I told them I hadn't scored. They were disappointed but hardly surprised. I went in the bathroom and changed out of my camos for the last time, into some nice jeans and a nice flannel shirt for church. Opening up the blinds in the living room, I saw two small bucks feeding on the wild plumb bushes in the back field. And as suddenly as that, hunting season was on again.
I pulled my boots back on and walked out the front door, in my church clothes, in full view of the deer. I live in a ranching subdivision, and the deer are fairly used to seeing people working outside, but if they see anyone approaching they turn into wild deer again. So, I walked very casually around the front of the house to my truck, where I strung up my bow, put my hat back on, and grabbed my arrows. A quick prayer of gratitude: God, thank you for this crazy chance. Give me the grace to use it well.
Once I stepped out of the driveway, the stalk was on. I snuck along the front porch, crept across a small open space and along the garden fence, moving when the deer were eating, freezing when they looked up. That old, heart-pounding, near-panic feeling was happening; I noted it and then set it aside as irrelevant. I had forgotten to put on my glove and arm guard. If I took a shot, it was going to sting. This information was also discarded as irrelevant.
What was relevant was that the bigger of the two bucks was neck-high in the bushes, totally unreachable, but the smaller one was feeding enthusiastically just over a little, foot-high rise behind the pond. This rise is covered in waist-high grass. A month ago, I had mowed a path across that rise, and my only hope for a shot was to get that swath in between me and the deer. So I kept sneaking along, my face to the mountains and my back to the sunrise. And suddenly I was there.
The deer was facing away. I could see his chest, and I pondered whether to take a shot, but no, it wasn't a good angle. So I waited. Within a few minutes, he turned broadside. There, just behind the point of his elbow, was a little dark patch of fur. I zeroed in on it.
The kyudo masters of Japan, who seek enlightenment through the practice of archery, say that the focus on the spot, the desired point of impact, is so intense that the spot becomes the entire universe. Thus the arrow cannot possibly miss, because nowhere else exists, and there is nowhere else for it to go. I always thought that was an admirable but rather hokey sentiment. But that Sunday morning, for one transcendent moment, I became a Zen master. Nothing existed--not me, not my bow, not my arrow, not even the deer. Just that little spot of fur.
Then, with no further conscious effort from me: Swish-thump. The arrow existed again! Whack. The deer existed again. He was running out into the back pasture, with a limping, stumbling gait. He had blood running down his far leg, and my rational side knew this was a dead deer, but why was he still moving? The old doubts crowded back into my mind--What if I gut-shot him?--but they were too late, powerless to affect the outcome. The deer's buddy was across the field, looking puzzled. Neither of them had any idea what had just happened. My deer stopped around 20 yards from the bush he had been feeding on. There he stood, head down, slightly hunched up. I watched him, willing him to go down. Maybe 30 seconds, maybe a couple minutes, and he flopped to the ground. And that was that.
I went back to the house, in a bit of a daze, and walked into the bedroom. "Guess what I just did. I just killed a deer." My daughter, accustomed to my habit saying silly and absurd things, cocked an eyebrow and said "Are you serious, dad?" And then something in the look on my face told them the truth, and suddenly the inner pressure valve released, and all three of us were laughing our heads off at what I had just accomplished, after all these years of trying, in my own back yard. Then I changed back into my grubby camos, grabbed my knife and saw, and headed back out to get to work.
The value of a trophy is determined, not by the size of the antlers or the number of points, but by the work that goes into winning it. That little forky deer's skull will hang in the place of honor next to the stovepipe, and the hide will proudly serve as a new arrow quiver. The hunt itself was surprisingly uneventful: An ideal opportunity, flawless weather, a remarkably business-like stalk, and an effortless heart-shot, all within a hundred yards of my house. I still think it's pretty funny that it went down that way, after a couple decades of chasing game up and down the mountains.
But when I think of all that lead up to that kill--all the years of learning to stalk deer and talk to elk, the close calls and misses, the doubts to overcome, the many hours of mental and physical practice, the growing confidence, and that beautiful moment when it all came together--I figure it was sufficiently epic after all.
2019 Mule deer
28 yard heart shot with a 60 pound, black locust longbow; home-made spruce and wild turkey arrow tipped with a Zwickey Eskimo broadhead
For many years, every September has brought pictures to my mind of the screaming bull tearing apart trees even as the arrow speeds toward his ribs. I imagined multi-hour stalks on big muley bucks. I sort of figured I would have to fend off grizzly bears as I quartered my animal in the deep wilderness.
As it happened, the big event took far longer than I ever imagined it would. And when it finally happened, it was surprisingly straight-forward.
I've had a rather tumultuous relationship with archery for around three decades. My first bow cost me $15 at a garage sale: a 70 pound, osage longbow backed with a strip of fiberglass that was starting to delaminate. I mildly startled a few rabbits with it, but that was about as far as I got. I never could really get the thing to full draw without my bow arm shaking. I never quite understood why I missed some shots and was close on others. That developed into a pattern, through several bows and many years of haphazard practicing. I absolutely loved archery: The beauty of the wood, the arc of the arrow, the feel of the bow in my hand, the satisfaction of the occasional really good shot. And I hated archery: The elusiveness of that addictive feeling, never knowing exactly what was going to happen when I loosed an arrow.
My arrows put some rabbits in the pot over the years, but despite some skill at stalking and calling, I never was able to score on a deer or elk. I'm a reasonably accomplished rifle hunter, but the Holy Grail of an archery kill kept eluding me. Truth be told, I never had the courage to try a shot at big game until a three years ago, when I called in a raghorn bull. He stood there 20 yards away, broadside, looking at me as I drew my longbow...and slammed an arrow into a tree branch. I doubt I would have hit him anyway: I had so much adrenaline in my system, it never even occurred to me to pick a spot.
The following year, the same scenario repeated with a spike at 15 yards. As I drew on him, a little voice in my head said, "Something's going to go wrong. Something always goes wrong." My body was listening, and the arrow sailed over his back. That same year, I missed shots at three mule deer does. My athletic friends like to say you miss 100% of the shots you don't take. I was missing 100% of the shots I DID take.
Well, phooey on that. The first thing I did was get a lighter draw bow. (I've since gotten stronger and settled comfortably into my 60 pounder) I had a couple of books on archery, and I ordered a couple more. I learned about blind-bale shooting, and began to develop a consistent form. I tried my hand at gap shooting, which didn't stick for very long but had the benefit of forcing me to focus more on the shot as a process, on being totally in control of every step. I studied my way through "Instinctive Archery Insights" by R. J. Kidwell, and began to deliberately work on the mental side of the game. I put in hours and hours (and hours and hours) of practicing, on the hay bales in the yard and shooting twigs and pinecones wherever I happened to be. And lo and behold, I started hitting stuff pretty regularly. When archery season opened this year, I was pretty confident that, if a critter came within 30 yards, it was coming home with me.
That, unfortunately, was the big "if." Throughout a season of hard wilderness hunting, swirling winds tipped the odds in favor of the elk, and I never got a shot. But in the encounters I had, I felt a new level-headedness, a steadiness of thought (even as my heart threatened to explode out of my chest), a gratitude to God for the experience, come what may.
None of which puts any meat on the table.
September 29th. Two days until the end of archery season, and the prospect of eating my tags again was putting a slight strain on my grateful attitude. Early Sunday morning found me out at my in-laws' place east of town, trying to ambush a decent muley buck that had been passing through every other morning or so. Long story short, I saw him just before he saw me. And that was it. Back to work Monday, so I was done.
I got home about 8:30 a.m. to find my wife and daughter in bed reading books. I told them I hadn't scored. They were disappointed but hardly surprised. I went in the bathroom and changed out of my camos for the last time, into some nice jeans and a nice flannel shirt for church. Opening up the blinds in the living room, I saw two small bucks feeding on the wild plumb bushes in the back field. And as suddenly as that, hunting season was on again.
I pulled my boots back on and walked out the front door, in my church clothes, in full view of the deer. I live in a ranching subdivision, and the deer are fairly used to seeing people working outside, but if they see anyone approaching they turn into wild deer again. So, I walked very casually around the front of the house to my truck, where I strung up my bow, put my hat back on, and grabbed my arrows. A quick prayer of gratitude: God, thank you for this crazy chance. Give me the grace to use it well.
Once I stepped out of the driveway, the stalk was on. I snuck along the front porch, crept across a small open space and along the garden fence, moving when the deer were eating, freezing when they looked up. That old, heart-pounding, near-panic feeling was happening; I noted it and then set it aside as irrelevant. I had forgotten to put on my glove and arm guard. If I took a shot, it was going to sting. This information was also discarded as irrelevant.
What was relevant was that the bigger of the two bucks was neck-high in the bushes, totally unreachable, but the smaller one was feeding enthusiastically just over a little, foot-high rise behind the pond. This rise is covered in waist-high grass. A month ago, I had mowed a path across that rise, and my only hope for a shot was to get that swath in between me and the deer. So I kept sneaking along, my face to the mountains and my back to the sunrise. And suddenly I was there.
The deer was facing away. I could see his chest, and I pondered whether to take a shot, but no, it wasn't a good angle. So I waited. Within a few minutes, he turned broadside. There, just behind the point of his elbow, was a little dark patch of fur. I zeroed in on it.
The kyudo masters of Japan, who seek enlightenment through the practice of archery, say that the focus on the spot, the desired point of impact, is so intense that the spot becomes the entire universe. Thus the arrow cannot possibly miss, because nowhere else exists, and there is nowhere else for it to go. I always thought that was an admirable but rather hokey sentiment. But that Sunday morning, for one transcendent moment, I became a Zen master. Nothing existed--not me, not my bow, not my arrow, not even the deer. Just that little spot of fur.
Then, with no further conscious effort from me: Swish-thump. The arrow existed again! Whack. The deer existed again. He was running out into the back pasture, with a limping, stumbling gait. He had blood running down his far leg, and my rational side knew this was a dead deer, but why was he still moving? The old doubts crowded back into my mind--What if I gut-shot him?--but they were too late, powerless to affect the outcome. The deer's buddy was across the field, looking puzzled. Neither of them had any idea what had just happened. My deer stopped around 20 yards from the bush he had been feeding on. There he stood, head down, slightly hunched up. I watched him, willing him to go down. Maybe 30 seconds, maybe a couple minutes, and he flopped to the ground. And that was that.
I went back to the house, in a bit of a daze, and walked into the bedroom. "Guess what I just did. I just killed a deer." My daughter, accustomed to my habit saying silly and absurd things, cocked an eyebrow and said "Are you serious, dad?" And then something in the look on my face told them the truth, and suddenly the inner pressure valve released, and all three of us were laughing our heads off at what I had just accomplished, after all these years of trying, in my own back yard. Then I changed back into my grubby camos, grabbed my knife and saw, and headed back out to get to work.
The value of a trophy is determined, not by the size of the antlers or the number of points, but by the work that goes into winning it. That little forky deer's skull will hang in the place of honor next to the stovepipe, and the hide will proudly serve as a new arrow quiver. The hunt itself was surprisingly uneventful: An ideal opportunity, flawless weather, a remarkably business-like stalk, and an effortless heart-shot, all within a hundred yards of my house. I still think it's pretty funny that it went down that way, after a couple decades of chasing game up and down the mountains.
But when I think of all that lead up to that kill--all the years of learning to stalk deer and talk to elk, the close calls and misses, the doubts to overcome, the many hours of mental and physical practice, the growing confidence, and that beautiful moment when it all came together--I figure it was sufficiently epic after all.
2019 Mule deer
28 yard heart shot with a 60 pound, black locust longbow; home-made spruce and wild turkey arrow tipped with a Zwickey Eskimo broadhead
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