Hi - I’m a filmmaker that loves archery. I made a new “Learn Archery In 8 Minutes” video. You can check it out at Learn Archery In 8 Minutes

Let me know what you think!

Thanks,

Dave Huber

Learn Archery In 8 Minutes

http://www.revver.com/video/886608/learn-archery-in-8-minutes/

The late afternoon sun scattered down on the rust-red slick rock of southeastern Utah, splitting into thousands of tiny facets as it reflected off the cool, blue waters of Moab’s Ken’s Lake. Chuck’s 28 foot Tracker bass boat, the only thing making ripples on the water that day, slid smoothly towards the weeded shallow haunts of the lake’s largemouth bass.

My 8 year old son, Jorden, eagerly thrusts the bare end of twelve pound test monofilament at me with excitement and the hopeful expression that I would fit it’s tagged end with hook, sinker, and his favorite color tube he knew would be the magic combinations to pry open the lips of his wary green adversaries. I promptly pulled the knot tight on the hook eye and turned to repeat the process for my son’s hunting and fishing partner that day, his cousin Clayton. Clayton, having never felt the pull of a bucket-mouth on his fishing line before, prompted Jorden to unload upon him the vast fishing knowledge young brain carried, which mostly consisted of an 8 year old boy’s revised outtakes of old Bill Dance and Roland Martin fishing shows he had watched with me on Sunday mornings when it was to cold to be outside.

As the two boys eagerly slipped into fishing mode, Chuck, my Uncle and our guide for the days many activities, gave off a half laugh and smiled as he turned away from the two boys and directed the boat towards an area sure to give the two young anglers the greatest chance to cure their itch. This fishing itch has been building in them for days leading up to this moment and after a full day like we had they was both ready to set the hook.

As the boat pulled along, KC, my girlfriend, sat “quietly” working on a bag of sunflower seeds and enjoying the full force of the sun warming her out of the cold winter that had been locked onto our home State of Utah for way to long. Feeling content, I set to fishing myself. And as so often happens in this serine environment, I find myself drifting peacefully along not only on the water I’m fishing, but soon it moves into the depths of my soul and my mind finds this to be a perfect opportunity to rewind for me the great moments of the day.

This trip started months before as the computer screen blinked to life when I flipped the switch on the front of the tower that stood to the side of my desk. As is my normal routine, email is the first thing to be opened to start my day. A handful of updates and FYI’s about young men and women that fill our small juvenile detention facility inundate my inbox, most of which are quickly deleted and forgotten about. But one catches my eye, an email sent from the State of Utah’s Division of Wildlife Resources Office. I have been chasing one of the states elusive Turkey permits for almost seven years now and my heart begin skipping beats as I click the message. My excitement is quickly ended as I read the ever so typical “UNSUCCESSFUL”, mockingly written larger then needed.

 “Oh well”, I tell myself, as I have so many times, “Maybe next year!” As I continue looking thru my electronic stack of correspondence, I come upon another message from the Wildlife Division. Thinking it only a duplicate copy as so often happens with State agencies, I open it and allow my eyes to focus on one word, “SUCESSFUL” Now having never seen this grand word come to me in this format before, I forced my eyes to read it again and to my elation the word hadn’t changed!

But now, confusion sets in, slowing my thought process and forcing me to scratch at my forehead. How could one email read unsuccessful and yet another completely to the contrary? Then it dawns on me, my son!  For the first time in Jorden’s young life, he was eligible to be included in the draw and so I placed him in with the intention of building up “bonus points” the State offers these points as a consolation prize to those of us unable to draw permits. I carefully inspected the letter again, my hopes confirmed. Jorden had drawn one of the rare permits! 

As a father, my heart swelled the vision of my son and his first turkey hunt danced joyful jigs as fan fair and music played in my head. There are few moments in a father’s life that bring such joy and excitement, the opportunity to build memories in any fashion are one of those great moments that top the list.

 I remember my first big game hunt with my dad like it was yesterday. We hunted Dall sheep on the Wrangle Mountains of Alaska, where my dad lived since my parents had divorced years before. The full curl plus sheep, proudly hangs from my front room wall today as a constant reminder of that great first hunt with my dad and now the door stood open, heavenly music played, and a warm bright light forced its way thru the open door frame offering me and my son the chance for the same great trophy!

The rap tap tap of a small one pound bass pulls me from my thoughts. Jorden and Clayton rush to my side, eager to get the first look at the fish.

“Want me to get the net for ya dad?” Jorden asks.

I laugh, and reply, “No need, just a dink.”

With no less excitement, they watch me pull the fish over the edge and carefully remove the hook. I hand the fish to Clayton to give him his first up close look at what he had only seen on TV. He lowered the fish gently back into its watery home and the two boys return to their endeavors with new found hope and I return to my daydreams.

The bed side alarm clock sounded its dredged chirp as I force my hand to shut it off. Sleepily I add up the hours of slumber I had accumulated over night, three was all I could account for and those where hard fought. The Turkey hunt had fallen in the middle of my graveyard rotation at work. Being so, makes it hard to force yourself to sleep when you have been trained to stay awake then force yourself awake when you would normally be going to bed. I fight off the tired feelings promising myself a nap in the woods around mid-day as Chuck knocks on my bedroom door to ensure I’m on my feet.

3:30 AM never seems as grand as when it’s the start of a day in the field. I work Jorden and Clayton awake and return to my room to find KC in her camo hunting cloths tying up her boots. What a sport, I think to myself, as I dress myself to do battle with the weary Merriam turkeys. KC is not only a girly girl, but a hunting girly girl. My favorite kind of girl!

Thirty minutes later two men, two young boys and one girly girl close the doors on the four wheel drive Dodge to make our way to the small mountain meadow where Chuck had seem a Tom and his hens feeding earlier on in the week. The headlights soon reveal the small two tracker dirt road that we had walked on our scouting trip just days before. The engine died and the sounds of a soft wind dancing between the tall ponderosa pines filled the air. The five pairs of camo clad boots hit the hard packed roadway in a silent single file assault. I think to myself, it’s hard enough to fool a scared Tom and his harem with one or two people in the woods. It would be a true miracle getting five people to pass the turkeys high standards of perfection. But, I pushed it out of my mind not wanting to jinks the whole hunt, not today, not for my boy. I exchanged the feeling of setting my son up for failure by inviting so many people alone on this trip with the hope and excitement that I knew he was feeling for the chance to hunt.  

We found the meadow that feed the wild turkeys days before, a slow moving stream had forced its way cutting the field in half as a handful of deadfall logs lay tossed about in the grass awaiting the warmth of the soon to come morning sun. We placed the two hen decoys and then the small Jake decoy along side the stream bank and quietly took our positions scattered along the end of the paddock. I cleared out a hole in a low hanging cedar tree and forced my way back to it’s trunk to lean on as I sat on the ground. Jorden worked his way into position between my knees and using my chest as his backrest he quickly settled in. I quietly loaded the Charles Daily youth 20 gauge and placed it on safety as I handed it to him. I reminded him again, as I had almost daily, about the process he had to go thru to make the shot.

 “Slowly move the gun towards the tom, make sure you’re looking down the rail to the bead, place the bead over the turkey’s eye, quietly push off the safety, and softly squeeze the trigger.”

The look he gave me said it all without even opening his mouth. “I know dad, I know!”

We pulled our face masks over our heads and settled in as the skies began to reveal that we were in for a beautiful sunny day. Chuck, KC, and Clayton sat to our right and slightly behind us. Each blending in with the background as they started to play the symphony of Turkey. Chuck offered the soft box call replicating the lonely wants of a turkey hen, KC duplicated the feeding cluck to a tee and would throw in a forceful gobble at just the right times to round out the melody. I think to myself, she’s cute and can call in a turkey, how lucky am I?  

An hour passed as we listened to hens clucking and purring all around us, yet never revealing themselves. Now, as any father of a young boy knows, the good lord only supplied 8 year olds with a minuscule sized bladder and an hour was all it took to fill that little gland to its breaking point. And I’ll tell you it’s hard to keep a young boy still when the pressure had built up to emergency status. It’s amazing to me the dances a young man can create when he’s force to hold still and has to make. As Jorden’s wide eyes told me, the time had come and there was no waiting any longer. Unknown to me the good lord had only equipped Chuck with the same size holding tank as Jorden. So as the two of them quietly made off into the bushes I took the time to rub some blood flow back into my cold sore cheeks. When the two bladder brothers returned we quietly made the choice to head up to a larger meadow we had walked thru on our rout this morning.

As we made our way there, Chuck spotted a hen feeding in the larger field, His mime like hand signals directed us to set up out mock turkey herd in a lower section of the large grass covered opening, not a word being uttered. As we sat up our display, I spotted a downed log that still had some branches on it laid just in front of a cedar tree. The fallen tree would provide the perfect place to conceal a small boy and his large father.

We took our positions, doing out best to become a silent part of the forest. Time passed and butt cheeks grew numb as Chuck played his box call. KC had laid down on her side and was taking the mountain nap she had promised herself at 3:30 this morning too. Clayton also come victim to the warming sun and soft mountain breeze as it played off the trees we sat in. Soon I noticed him laid to the side, sound asleep as well. It wasn’t long before I could feel the deep breathing of Jorden, his back on my chest, as he too had fell to the sandman’s call.

Chuck’s calling had slowed and my eye lids became noticeably heavy. I think if I would have had a good head rest, I’m sure I would have been sound sleep myself. But as it was, I was only allowed to drift in a comfortable place, halfway between sleep and wake. The soft sound of a far off gobble slapped me back to reality. Finally, I thought to myself, something to get excited about, even if it was miles away.

I looked back at Chuck who gave me a confirming head shake as he softly kicks KC foot. She slowly picked her head up and wiped the drool from her cheek as Chuck whispered to her, “Their gobbling down the canyon!”

     As KC sat herself upright, Chuck played soft clucks on his slate. Then it came again, another gobble! This time it seemed to be miles closer, coming from the field we where in at daybreak. I felt Jorden’s body tense up as he turned his eyes to meet mine. I whispered in his ear, “That’s him Buddy, that’s the Tom we have been waiting for!” Jorden just shock his head in agreement, the young man was on a mission! I helped Jorden position his shotgun to greet the bearded Merriam when it made its long awaited appearance. Chuck called again, this time the Tom’s thunderous reply caused my heart to skip a beat that big boy’s report had come from less then twenty feet behind us. This Turkey was lonely and wanted a girlfriend right now!

This is where the whole think could should been blown. You see in the excitement of talking turkey no one thought to wake Clayton up from his slumber and as the Tom delivered his last gobble the bird was only 8 feet away from Clayton. Now not being used to having wild turkeys yelling in his ear while he sleeps, Clayton sat bolt upright and started throwing his head around like he had ants on his nose and his hands where tied behind his back. As soon as Chuck seen this and blasted a look at the young man that froze him in place like a statue, Clayton turned his eyes without moving his head just to catch the up close Tom as a strutted pass. I’m really not even sure that poor boy even took a breath for the next ten minutes. Chuck’s look had done that good of a job.      

At the close sound of the Turkey behind us I could feel my knees start to shake, the more I fought to hold them still the more violent they reacted. Jorden turned and whispered, “You’re shaking my gun!” I shifted my eyes down to the 20 gauge barrel and indeed I was! The barrel was dancing around like water droplets in a hot frying pan. Then in the corner of my eye he appeared!  

Slowly he walking into the field from the wrong direction, I had positioned Jorden for the Tom to appear on our left, but the bird had his own plan and showed up on the right. My knees stopped shaking instantly. I could feel Jorden start to swing the shotgun. I whispered, “Not yet.” And he stopped his motion. The Tom stepped into the clearing and blew up to twice his original size His tail fanned out, his wing tips racked the ground as he seemed to vibrate and emit drumming sounds from deep inside his chest. The Tom cut a bee line to the foam Jake that sat just ten feet from us the whole time in full feather expansion.

As the Tom passed between us and the thickest part of the dead tree we where hiding behind, Jorden instinctively moved the barrel to encounter the Tom as it reappeared, the kids a natural I think to myself. I could see Jorden lower his check onto the stock and I could feel his breathing slow to a steady rate. The Tom danced up to within a couple of feet of the Jake and that’s when the hand of god stepped in to help my son. A small breeze picked up at that moment turning the Jake decoy to face the approaching tom. This reaction from the foam decoy did nothing but fuel the fire already burning inside the mass of feathers. The Tom closed the distance to the decoy and without warning struck out and pecked the decoy right on the head then stood there looking the Jake up and down waiting for a reaction that never came.

I whispered to Jorden, “Now! Shoot now!” I could feel him tense up and pull the gun up closer to his shoulder. The small index finder gently pushed the safety button and retuned to the trigger.

“Shoot son, shoot!” I whispered as the Toms feathers laid back down as he walked around the back side of the decoy further inspecting it.

“He’s behind the decoy I can’t shoot.” Jorden replied.

“Shoot thru the decoy, I’ll buy a new decoy for next year, shoot him!” I said.

I could see Jorden’s finger pull on the trigger from inside his camo gloves. I watched and waited for the report of the round as the Tom stood only ten feet in front of us. Nothing happened. I could hear Chuck and KC behind us whispering shoot, shoot, shoot! I looked down to see Jorden’s finger pulling on the trigger for all it was worth. What the hell, I thought! Then it hit me, the safety! He hadn’t pushed it all the way off. I reached up to the button as the Tom started walking away from the decoys and pushed it the rest of the way clear.

 No sooner did I feel the click the gun fired pushing Jorden’s shoulder into my chest! The Tom started flopping around on the ground in an attempt to fly away from the number five copper coated shot but he only stirred up dust. Jorden jumped to his feet, threw both fists into the air and started dancing and yelling, “I did it dad, I did it, I did it!” The shouts came from behind us in a chorus of congratulations. Jorden reached down to the shotgun that lay on the grass and placed it back on safety giving me the thumbs up and took off on a run towards his newly bagged trophy. I meet up with Chuck and KC as Clayton came running past towards Jorden who was kneeling down in front of the still flopping Tom. “Thanks Chuck!” I offered, “Thanks for all your help.” and sealed it with a firm hand shake. I put a big hug around KC and thanked her as well. We all walked up to the kicking Tom and stood around it as the last of the nerves faded and the turkey begin to lay still on the ground and the memories firmly mounted on the wall of my soul.

 I turned my eyes to the sky and offered up a brief word of thanks, not just for the trophy Tom but for all the miracles we witnessed this great day. As I turned my eyes back to my son and his first ever trophy, he pointed his finger and slowly touched the tom on the top of the bald head as if to say tag, then looked up at me and said, “Now can we go fishing?”

I smiled as the memory played over and over while the waves gently rapped the side of the boat. Jorden set the hook on a bass as we drifted past a bush. He reeled it up to the boat then turned and gave me the thumbs up with his toe head blond hair all a mess and what looked to be the leftovers of a chocolate bar on his chin still wearing the turkey hunting camo from this morning. I thought to my self, you know as a father I think I’m doing pretty well.  

The act itself is simple enough, anyone can pull back a string and let go. But it is oftentimes the simple things in our lives that give us the greatest pleasure. There’s no better feeling than standing with a bow in my hands and taking aim at anything. It is almost as if another world waits for me beyond the draw and once I have that string pulled back this world slips away, melts into something that exists around but not within me. I have achieved what the Buddhist monks would call complete consciousness, where I am free of worldly cares and possessions. Nothing moves in my peripheral as I take aim at the target. There are droves of people behind me and all around me and I can feel them there, but I do not see them and I do not hear them. I can feel every breath I take as I have never felt a breath before, the air is cool as it reaches my lungs and I hold it there for a moment as it grows warm inside me and upon its release I can feel the warmth sweep through my nostrils and over my fingertips which are white with the pain against the stress of the string, but this isn’t a terrible pain, instead it is a welcome one. The type of pain that reminds us of pain and pleasure and to take them together as one entity, one that cannot exist without the other and knowing that the ecstasy of release is imminent. My only thoughts lie on the task at hand, I have for the first time ever found total control of my body “Your left arm is shaking, stop it.” And it stops. “You must stand straighter” and I do. Upon the release I feel the force of the vibration through the string and the energy exerted upon the arrow and I can stand for just a second and feel absolutely at ease with the world. And then snap back to reality upon hearing the most glorious sound of arrow tearing paper.

by Aryn Corley

Last year, I almost walked away from the sport of archery.

I sat on a hunting stool in the middle of the woods near a food plot with my bow in hand. I was cold, hungry, and dejected while trying to decide the fate of my archery career. The whole time, I didn’t care that ticks were feasting on me.

I had only been “throwing sticks” for a couple of months up to this point. I’d shot at hay bales, foam blocks, old tires, and the occasional lawn gnome. In my mind, I was as lethal as a rattler’s bite if anything had gotten close. Yet, several opportunities materialized and I got nothing in return. The only thing I had to show for my effort were the receipts for the gear I’d purchased.

Maybe I should’ve taken up quilting?

I feel compelled to mention at this point that I’m a “Squirrel Sheriff”, a “Minnow Marshall”, a “Turtle Trooper”, a “Raccoon Constable”, a “Possum Cop”, or more commonly, a Game Warden.

As a Game Warden, I’m expected to have a certain level of expertise when it pertains to hunting and fishing. However, I always found myself limiting contact with archery hunters for fear of being engaged in a conversation. I knew absolutely nothing about archery hunting and worried about not being able to communicate with archers.

My co-worker, Game Warden Brian Scott, changed all that for me when he took me bow fishing one day.

During that fishing trip I was amazed that I could actually shoot fish. For someone who can’t even catch a cold, let alone a fish, it was exciting! Brian was surprised that I had some natural ability for someone who’d never picked up a bow before. His accolades instantly caused me to have delusions of grandeur. I envisioned myself shooting with the best archers to ever nock an arrow: William Tell, Robin Hood, and Cupid.

It wasn’t long after our bow fishing trip, I got Brian to help me pick out a bow from a local pawnshop run by a Lebanese man. Since I was his “cousin”, I got a great deal on an “almost new” Golden Eagle Predator bow. This was going to be my first deer-hunting bow. I figured that shooting deer was probably just as easy as shooting lethargic buffalo fish.

The first time I hit the woods I was sitting in a freshly logged area amongst some downed pine trees. My bow had been rigged out with some extra stuff Brian had laying around his kit. I felt like the little brother who’d gotten to wear his older brother’s letter jacket after he went off to college. I was also happy that my foray into a new hobby wasn’t going to show up as a blip on my wife’s financial radar.

A yearling deer and its mother emerged from a clump of trees only tens of yards away from where I was sitting. Being the ethical hunter, I opted to take the doe and leave the yearling orphaned. Rather than take the yearling and deny it a chance to someday wander into oncoming traffic. I launched my first arrow with my first bow for the first time at a deer.

Sadly, the old arrow I’d gotten from Mr. Scott lost most of its fletching. I was so focused on shooting the doe I didn’t even realize I was shooting an arrow that was barely fit to pick boogers. It flew sideways and skittered off into the brush. The two deer, totally unimpressed by what happened, ran off into the woods. I shrugged it off. I was undaunted in my determination to make archery history.

Strike one.

My next mission involved watching two mature deer bedded down in some tall grass on a fire lane. I was sneaking in to get a closer shot using top-secret methods taught by the United States Army. Basically, I was being really quiet.

As I approached, the two deer decided they wanted to move. So, they got up and started off down the road in my direction on the other side of a line of pine saplings. Both deer were oblivious to my presence and they loped into my “kill sac”. This time, I had brand new arrows. I launched my first store bought arrow with my first bow for the first time at a moving deer.

THWUCK!

That was the sound of both the arrow impacting and the word I said as I saw my arrow embedded in a small pine sapling. How could I have missed? I was disappointed.

Strike Two.

After having suffered two humiliating defeats the score was Deer: 2 and Overconfident Novice Archer: 0. I felt that Karma had to swing in my direction and my time to shine would be just around the corner.

My third situation was in the top of a downed oak tree using it as concealment.

A small herd of antlerless deer came along the trail lined up end to end. When the lead deer stopped to investigate a clearing, the whole caravan stopped and was lined up sideways in front of me like a carnival shooting gallery. My adrenaline spiked. This was the opportunity I had been wanting. Lady luck finally had her gaze upon me. I line up my target, pulled back on the release, then…

BOINK!

I watched my arrow glide upwards about six feet in the air then come straight back down. Apparently, when you have your finger on the release trigger when you are drawing back you get a premature discharge. Ironically, the deer all turned and looked at the motionless arrow. I slowly tried to grab another arrow from my hip quiver but with no luck. The ends of the arrows were mingled in the branches of the downed tree, like gum in a little girl’s hair.

In the beautiful dichotomy that is the predator/prey relationship, I successfully and single-handedly interjected a third element: the dork. All of the deer playfully scampered away leaving me crestfallen and sitting in a dead sideways tree. Lady luck took her ball and went home.

Strike three.

As I sat on that stool I decided to stay married to my new passion. I felt like I couldn’t leave her after we’ve been through so much together. After all, she was my bottle and I was her bum. Those experiences she taught me showed me I was capable of being persistent as well as patient. Despite my failures, archery and I will stay a couple.

Well, at least for another year.

CHALLENGE ON TANEUM RIDGE

A True Story by

by Dick Cress (bowhunter)

Arlington, Washington

My life as a hunter began when I was ten years old, and bagged my first Indiana cottontail. Since 1963 I have been a devoted bow hunter. In the years since, there have been many exciting times hunting: In the Tarsus Mountains of Turkey for Russian Blue Boar; Texas for Rattlesnakes and Jack Rabbits; Mid Western U.S. for Whitetail; The Pacific Northwest for Blacktail, Mule Deer, Elk, and Black Bear; and Canada for Black Bear and Moose.

Many animals, large and small, have filled my larder. But the 1993 Deer and Elk Season in Washington was to be one of those years that I returned home empty handed. Although my freezer remained empty, that year like so many others was a memorable hunt, the highlight of many years afield.

My hunting then was concentrated on Taneum Ridge in Washington’s Cascade Mountains. Nearly a half-mile from the forest service road, on the backside of this ridge is an abandoned logging road about three miles long. Midway down this old road, on the western edge, is a pile of old logs about five and a half feet high; I know because I’m five-five and just miss seeing over it. What makes this area so special is at the end of this pile [to the South] is a quarter acre area, that’s a frequent bedding site for both deer and elk.

As a bow hunter, I wear camouflage clothing, grease paint, and scent pads to mask my human smell. I always stillhunt this ridge, into the wind and it takes a whole day. Experience has taught me to approach this woodpile slower than normal and to be ready for anything.

However on this day, I wasn’t prepared for the startling event that would become the crowning experience of my many years of hunting.

With a gentle breeze in my face, I could hear the raven’s raspy crow overhead and the roar of mountain bikes on a ridge two miles west. My bow, out of its sling, had a broadhead tipped aluminum arrow knocked on the string and my fingers positioned for a quick shot.

My face was only eighteen inches from the log pile, as I moved slower than ever toward the shoulder of this old, decaying timber. I was as close as I could get, to turn the element of surprise to my advantage. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the log pile and slowly turned to check it out.

At that instant, growling and snarling reverberated in my ears. A studied hunter, I instantly identified the creature as a Badger of about twenty to thirty pounds and around twenty-four inches long. His broad, low-slung body was covered in a beautiful Blue

Dun Gray fur, with vibrant white stripes that met in a “V” on his head, just above his nose. He was as surprised at my presence as I was of his.

His snarling grew more vicious with each passing second. Frozen in the heat of the moment, is the memory of his vicious grin of razor sharp teeth, gnashing at me, while the long claws of his short forefeet, raked at the decaying bark of the old fir tree on which he stood.

Less than eighteen inches from my nose that short carnivore stood his ground. I was too close to shoot . . . I could have stabbed him with the arrow, but had no desire to take that risk. I could just imagine a writhing, twenty to thirty pound, ferocious Badger impaled on a twenty-eight-inch HAND HELD arrow. It would have been exciting and dangerous, but not near the fun of the next few minutes.

Unable and unwilling to shoot, a second or two passed as I considered my options. There were none . . . but knowledge and experience of other unexpected wildlife encounters. I was too close to back off, and if I tried, part of me would have been his afternoon lunch. On a hunch, I started snarling and growling back at him. When he snarled, I snarled, when he growled, I growled, he shook his head, I shook mine, he pawed, I pawed. He stood his ground and I stood mine. He couldn’t have known who or what I was.

That ole Badger and I exchanged mock charges, growls, snarls, bad breath, and general orneriness for fifteen minutes. It was so much fun . . . challenging one of God’s creatures on his terms . . . and enjoying every minute . . . of that standoff, on Taneum Ridge.

I couldn’t help but wonder what this creature was thinking of me as we postured around that old wood pile. Though I was enjoying the battle, I was uncertain of what its outcome would be. In time . . . this majestic, gorgeous animal . . . tired of the challenge, slowly turned, and waddled off that old timber pile and out of sight.

Strangely, I hoped he would return to continue challenging this strange aberration in his territory. I waited another ten minutes in contemplation. Every fiber in my body quivered with excitement, as I stood in the sunlight on that lonely ridge. The euphoria was greater than shooting a  and Young record Elk. This encounter was greater than any kill I have ever made . . . and I’ve made my share.

Looking back on this encounter, it is the highlight of my hunting years. Nothing can ever surpass the excitement of that afternoon . . . with that Badger . . . on Taneum Ridge.

Dick Cress

Cubicle Psychology…

Joe Shuhay

I’m not sure if it’s the few good memories that I have of my dad, if it’s the chill-up-my-spine adrenaline rush when a shot presents itself, or if it’s the peace and solitude that I only get when in God’s green woods.  I do know that something draws me out there.  It’s something I just can’t put my finger on.  I can say that I almost always leave the woods feeling refreshed, and recharged.  I find myself thinking that if I could, I’d spend most of my time there, among the pines and oak, breathing in the cold fresh air of morning, awaiting a glimpse of movement, or traversing a ridge in pursuit of the elusive Hart of lore.  A good weapon in hand, me versus the unknown.  This is what I live for.

7:59 a.m., and I sit dejectedly into my padded swivel chair of my gray, artificially lit cubicle for another 9 hours of staring at a computer screen.  “How did I get here?”  I look out of the office window down the hall from me.  The bright morning sun falls on the green spring leaves of a nearby maple tree, and I feel a yearning deep within my soul to venture outside, feel the warm sun on my face, and hear the wind in the trees. 

Throughout the day my mind drifts to hiking and scouting, shed hunting, open fires and the like; but mouths need to be fed, and bills have to be paid…

There is a part of a man that no one can touch, something wild and dangerous, something that is forced to live in the gray area between the cold oppressive bars of the rat race, and the limitless wilderness.  Most boys are raised to suppress their “wild” part in favor of what is considered to be more socially amicable qualities. This goes way beyond raising our children to have respect and manners.  In these days of sexual immorality, and metrosexuals, boys are emasculated, and taught to be “nice guys”.  Then society laments the lack of “real men” in society.  No toy guns or bows, no aggressiveness.  Those boys grow up, and society then asks them to be leaders at work, on the battlefield, and in the home. 

Most men today live lives of quiet desperation in their offices and garages, watching action shows on television rather than living out the very things that we are programmed to do. They are slowly dying inside for want of less rat race, and more wilderness in their lives.  That reason alone is enough to understand why we hunt, and what is so attractive about the out of doors.  Don’t get me wrong, I love being a father. For me it’s God and family first.  But God also put this love of hunting and the outdoors in my heart, and I plan to pass this on to my kids, and anyone else that is interested. 

There is a part of a man that no one can touch, something wild and dangerous, something that is forced to live in the gray area between the cold oppressive bars of the rat race, and the limitless wilderness…

We are monitoring who is posting ratings, and what rating they are giving, so please be honest and fair with the rating system. There are some EXCELLENT articles on the site so far, and we don’t want anyone missing out on reading them if they see a dishonest poor rating by it. Blatant unfair ratings will not be tolerated.

Thank You
Kurt D.
Admin

I was probably in my late teens the first time I saw “the boys,” camped in the deer spot I had been told to check out.  They all seemed ancient to me even that first year.  The oldest one of the four was truthfully at least 80 years old then, I later came to find out.  His hair was white, and always perfectly oiled back, even when he was wearing his hunting hat.  He stood about 5’6”, and was somewhat slight of frame, but solid as a rock.  When he was hunting, he always wore a one-piece jump suit with the old duck-hunter style camouflage on it, and carried a very nice compound bow with orange aluminum arrows. Camped with him were two brothers who were “only” in their 70’s.   Bringing up the rear of their group was a stray cousin who they treated like “the kid,” presumably because he was only in his 60’s.  “The kid” carried a battered recurve, and rather than wearing camo, usually wore a blue plaid shirt and jeans to hunt in.

My hunting partner Steve and myself dismissed them without much notice the first few years we hunted that area.  We’d slow down and wave politely as we drove past their camp, but always ended up chuckling at the idea of them out hunting.  Never bothering to find out their names those first years, we simply referred to them as “the boys,” and the visibly elder octogenarian as the “extra-old boy.”  Jokes were made about beating deer to death with canes, or walkers with wheels on them that could serve double-duty as deer carts if need be.  We were teenagers in small-town southern Idaho, and being ignorant came pretty easily to us.

 After we had gained a year or two, and I suppose some degree of maturity, we did start to be sincerely concerned about the welfare of the gentlemen — though we still chuckled at the thought of these white-haired men out roaming the woods.  We never really talked to them, but we would make a point of driving past their camp after our day of hunting, even if it was a little out of our way, just to make sure the lights were on in their big wall tent, and that they were home.  Every year they had their camp set up by Labor Day, and they stayed put there for at least two weeks.  We came to respect them for their persistence, and truthfully, I think I took it for granted that they would always be there — like they were part of the mountain — despite the obviously inevitable. 

Steve and I really weren’t so great of hunters in those days.  We were young and tough though, and we thought nothing of hiking up canyons and down cliffs for ten or more miles a day. We would always see plenty of deer bounding out of their beds and we’d send arrows after them, so we thought we were great hunters — even though our arrows never came close to connecting.  We had heard archery hunting was supposed to be tough, and we figured that if we just put in enough time, one of us would get lucky sooner or later.  Wasn’t that the way everybody did it?   I can remember one particularly “tough” day when we had forgotten to bother bringing any food with us.  We’d gotten into a small herd of does and ended up chasing them hither and yon through juniper-covered coulees for several hours.  Eventually, I just up and fainted.  When I came to, Steve was standing over me laughing and calling me a pansy.  It never even occurred to us that someday our bodies might not be invincible.

One evening well after dark, the lights weren’t on in the boys’ tent when we drove by, so we took the turn-off to their camp to see if things were all right.  We were a little worried, but when we got closer we were relieved by the sound of voices and laughter.   When we got to where we could see behind the tent, there was a good campfire burning and the four men were standing around it with beer in their hands. One was tending a griddle propped over the flames in the dark night.  We stepped out of the truck, and the smell of frying liver and onions was delicious and thick in the air.

“You fellas musta’ smelt that from the road, eh?” greeted  “extra-old boy” as we walked over.  “Ya like fresh deer liver?”

I’m glad it was pretty dark, because I wouldn’t have wanted him to have seen the mixed look of shock and jealousy on my face.  We were pretty hungry after our fruitless day of hiking and wasting arrows, and we gladly accepted their offer of a hot meal.  They were happy to celebrate their kill with us, and I was happy to try my first venison liver. 

“Yep, Dale got her with his recurve behind camp this evenin’.”

Dale (the kid) told us his story:

“Well, I’s just walkin’ the little canyon like I usually do back here when I saw her.  She just stood up real slow to have a look at me, so I pulled back and let ‘er fly.  She took off down the crick an I thought I’d missed her.  Looked fer the arrow and blood and the like and didn’t find nothin’ so I went on my way abit, but when I come back, I found this here piece a’ cedar arrow a’ mine I’d shot at her.  It was just layin’ where I would a went if I were a shot deer.  I looked around a little bit and there she were- four hooves straight up in the air –hee hee!”

Steve and I were pretty excited to see that someone had been successful, but we still chuckled about how lucky Dale had been to get that deer.  How could somebody who moved as slowly through the woods as those guys did ever be lucky enough to get close to a deer?  Steve and I always spent days cruising the ridges and valleys, covering as much ground as we could. We always saw plenty of deer, but we never found the ones that were foolish enough to stay put and let us to shoot them. Besides that, how lucky did the guy have to be to just happen to find the spot where a mortally wounded deer would end up?  “Million-to-one odds,” we decided.   We laughed about it all the way back to our camp.

A year later on opening day of archery season, two deer were hanging by their hams in the boys’ camp. We had stopped by just to say hello on our way into the area.  It was late afternoon then, and Ollie (the extra-old boy) and Chris (one of the brothers) came out of the tent to greet us.  By the size of their grins, I could tell that they didn’t care that we’d disturbed their naps.

 “The doe,” Chris explained, “took a spine shot.”  “I was right up on this hill this mornin’, first thing.  I could see her butt stickin’ out of the trees, and I could tell by the way she was flickin’ her tail around that she knew somethin’ fishy was goin’ on.  I went around and waited by the fence on the other side a’ the trees and sure enough, here she come.  But instead of jumpin’ over the fence like you’d expect a big ‘ole deer to do, she tried getting’ under it all sneaky-like.  Didn’t work!   We backed the pickup right up to her.” 

Ollie’s spike was another good story.

 “Yep, I was back here behind camp aways when I saw him a eatin’.  Trouble was, all I could see of him was his head. I figured I better shoot, so I put my pin on him when he was lookin’ at somethin’ else and let loose.  He dropped right there and never made another move.  Game warden accused me a’ shootin’ with a gun when he saw there weren’t no holes in the meat, till I showed him the poor critter’s noggin and he tried yankin’ the arrow out to look at it. Wouldn’t budge!  I ain’t much fer puttin’ deer heads up on the wall and such, but I think this’n just might end up on the barn door!”

I don’t think you could find any hunters happier with or prouder of their animals than these men were, regardless of antler size or Pope and Young score.

Setting up our camp that afternoon, I think it finally dawned on Steve and I that the old boys knew what they were doing, and that he and I were complete idiots.  Thinking back now, I wonder what kind of jokes they must have made about us, watching us stampeding over the ridges, killing ourselves day in and day out, and doing nothing but herding animals into their honey-holes. 

The next day, after some hard thinking, I decided that maybe I would hunt a little more thoroughly than usual, near camp, –kind of near where our elder neighbors hunted, just by coincidence, of course.  In my head I kept trying to picture how the boys would move through the woods and tried to see if could duplicate it.  Funny as that must sound, it worked, at least to an extent.  I remember that dark, cool day well.  The fine mist of a rain that can’t decide if it really wants to fall or not was beading up on my face, finally dripping, and carrying with it the wild- amazing scent of wet sagebrush.  I remember how quiet the dampness made the soft earth of the worn deer trails under the pines, and marveling at how quiet I could be walking in it if I just tried.  I looked up the hill next to me and saw him- a nice fork horn - looking down at me unalarmed.  The first arrow hit the dirt between his hooves, and surprisingly, he didn’t budge.  The second arrow cracked into a quakie right in front of his face, and he trotted off.  I felt both ecstatic and disappointed at the same time.

After digging my arrows out of the dirt and wood, I had enough sense not to try to shoot the now dull blades at an animal again.  I quivered them and took out a nice arrow with a good, heavy broadhead on it, heavier than what I had been shooting.  I slowly stillhunted deeper into the pine filled draw. Just when I felt a real “deery” kind of spider-sense tingling come over me, I was startled by a whisper right next to me in the pines.

“Seen much?”

It was Chris, the brother who had taken the doe at the fence opening morning.  He wasn’t even wearing camo, and I hadn’t seen him.  He was just out for a walk, trying to see “a few good ones.”  I told him about my near misses, and he started grinning for me.  Then we heard a crash.

Not 30 yards away, stood a dozen deer.  They had walked right in on us.  My eyes immediately gravitated to the huge 5X5 standing in the middle.  I think it probably must have been harder to miss a deer than to hit one, with that many standing so closely together, but my mismatched heavy broadhead sure did do the trick for me.  It plowed into the pine needles underneath the big buck.  I’m sure that if anyone else had seen me blow that shot, they would have laughed or cussed or made fun of me for the next week.  Chris simply asked, “Where did it hit?”

We checked the arrow for blood, just in case, and Chris noticed my assorted broadheads.

“You might do better if these were all the same, ya’ know.”

I upgraded my equipment that next summer to arrows that all matched, and I practiced until I could hit things with them.   I guess after my harsh lesson, I had finally gotten around to thinking about how maybe Ollie’s pegging that spike in the back of the head was something more than chance. 

The following Labor Day is one of those memories that stay like a clear, beautiful, perfect photograph in the mind forever.  Steve and I had hunted together that morning, and then split up around noon.  I had sneaked around for a couple of hours by myself when on a sun-blasted hillside, there were deer just standing up from their beds.  I don’t know if they had seen or smelled me or were just getting up to stretch, but they stood there simply looking at me. The sun was shining hot on us, and black-and-red grasshoppers made their clack-click-clackity-click noise and flew away from my feet. The breeze blew some of my long hair over my face and I released the arrow.  The does ran off, the two-point fell over, and I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

When I came past their camp with my buck, I think all four of the boys were in danger of infarction.  They were honestly happier about my success than I was, and that is indeed saying something because I was beyond ecstatic.  There was a deer hanging in their camp, but I never did hear the story about it- they kept asking me about mine, and I couldn’t leave until I had gone over every detail several times.  Steve told me later that when he was coming back to camp himself a few hours afterwards, he had stopped in to see the boys, and they were still excitedly talking about my kill like it was the most remarkable thing they’d seen in ages.  I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not, but I took it as such.

That was well over 20 years ago.  The mule deer herds of southern Idaho aren’t what they used to be, and neither are Steve and I.  Between then and now, Steve suffered a spinal injury that has left him partially debilitated.  We still meet together to hunt somewhere every year, but now we hunt understandably close to camp or roads. We talk about “the boys,” and wonder what they would think of us now—now that we resemble them more closely than we do our old selves at times.  Like them, we now cover less ground and do so at a slower pace, but we end the season with more meat than those ambitious kids we once were ever did.

 I scouted the old area two summers ago and found the once deer track-pounded trails to be overgrown with cheat grass and sun burrs.   The campgrounds were all empty.   I did stop by the camp spot where their wall tent had once stood, and thought about “the boys.”  I looked at the meat pole still nailed to the trees where the spike with the terminal headache — and no telling how many other fine animals — had once hung.    I looked at the fire ring still black from countless fragrant cook-fires.   I soaked up the whole feeling of that place again, rich in memories of dawns and sunsets and laughter in between, and I prayed that when I’m 80, I could still be carrying a bow and finding animals like the beautiful deer that used to inhabit those South Hills.  I prayed that like the men that had hunted out of that camp once upon a time, I too might be able to somehow pass something on to someone who desperately needed it someday.

            I smiled.  I thought I saw a young buck trot behind the camp.  A ghost maybe?  I don’t know, and I don’t suppose it matters.  It did make me wonder though, what I might see were I to come back and spend some time again there some Labor Day…

Living and growing up in the South Eastern parts of Alberta is great, the hunting is good, the fishing is solid and the summers are hot. As you all know, Southern Alberta is know for its mule deer hunting, big bucks and lots of them, but it isn’t easy hunting. Unless you hunt from your vehicle and do the mad dash as the deer cross the roads you almost have to spot your game, and then proceed to stalk.

As a young boy I would always be in the coulees looking for animals to get close to, and as I got older I would sneak my fathers camo and rattling antlers to try and get in that comfort zone of the urbanized deer that roam the prairie of Medicine Hat, Alberta. Now, you must think that wouldn’t be a problem because they are so used to traffic and people etc. but dang it man, it was and still is tough.

The older I got the more and more I wanted to get closer to game, whether it was deer or bear, I wanted to get close and that’s all there was to it. Now, as a mature hunter, I am always so careful when it comes to the stalk because one wrong move and the hunt and possibly an entire day of hunting can and will be lost.

Here are a few basics that do work if used correctly.

The first thing is, you have to be able to spot your game from a comfortable distance; by that I mean comfortable for the game that you are not a threat to your presence. Hunting the south country, is mainly wide open terrain and most think it can be near impossible to get within the 40 yard mark, but that is where you are wrong. When you are dealing with the last forty yards, every step, breathe, and movement is of the utmost importance. But lets start from the beginning.

First things first, your preparation at home can play a big role in your stalk. Most hunters think that when they wash their gear in scent free detergents, and UV Kill their garments that they are good for scent control but they tend to forget that you still have to eat your breakfast, make your lunch and have a cup of java for the drive to the hunting spot.

I have done it before, you get dressed up and ready to make that stalk and you get within the 80 yards and need to close that next 40 and wham! your busted. The nose lifts; the animal sniffs you out and will walk away without even looking at you. Leaving you stunned, wondering what went wrong… you did everything I mentioned before, but forgot about that smoke you had on the way out and the cherry air freshner hanging off of your rear view mirror.

To minimize these problems, when you are done washing your gear, toss it into a scent free duffle bag or even a garbage bag. Invest in a good scent elimination spray and proceed to spray yourself down after you get out of the truck prior to getting dressed. It does take more time, but it will increase your odds by huge numbers. You may also want to scent eliminate your truck with sprays prior to the hunt as well.

When stalking in the open country and through the the timber or brush, camouflage patterns are critical. In open country get a good pattern like Realtrees Advantage Max-1 or Max-4, Mossy Oaks Brush or Montana’s Prairie Ghost. Utilizing patterns like these will increase your chance of getting close..matching tones and shades are the best thing to do. Remember, deer see UV coloring in clothing so with out killing the clothing with a UV killer you will glow a blue or yellow to them while you think you are invisible!

Now you are at your area of  choice and spot a couple of good bucks making their way to go bed down, sit tight and wait for them to lie before the stalk. Most times they will be bedded for at least an hour or two which should give you enough time to get close and wait for the shot. Get dressed, scent eliminate yourself, and grab your bow and binoculars and remember to wind check, then begin to move in. Always, move towards the animal down wind. The minute you slip, and get up wind of the game you can almost count the hunt as being over. If you are a fair distance off, it may not bother them but getting in close the wind is everything even if you wear scent elimination gear the wind can bust you. Also, the wind will help muffle any noises you do make on the way in.

I will use a stalk that my brother and I made last season in the Cypress Hills, Alberta area as an example. We spotted 5 bucks moving up and over a coulee, about half a mile away from the road. We watched these bucks for a good 20 minutes and decided to wait until they were up and over the hill before we went in. We had to walk across a huge flat before reaching the base which took us a good half hour to get to. From there we glassed the hillsides, and draws, that we were on the edge of to see if we could spot the group of bucks before we went any further. We noticed three bucks bedded down another mile away to the south of us. We check them out for a good five minutes before moving any further. We walked around the side of the hill being sure, not to expose our silhouette till we came to the peak, so we could again take another look.  All we saw were three does moving through the brush. Dang it, where did they go, we were baffled. They put the slip on us. We sat there for a good 45 minutes scanning every piece of brush looking for some antler, ears, a nose anything, but nothing. We looked at the bucks on the hillside that were easily a mile away from where we sat and planned a second attack on these bucks. We decided to move from the bottom to the top of the adjacent coulee and slowly start to sneak in from the backside. Even though, we were a good three quarters of a mile away we were still so so careful with every step made. It is always a good habit to develop as, it will just carry through when yo are getting close enough for that bow shot.

Once, we peaked over the edge of the grassy hill, we took a look, to make sure the bucks didn’t move or didn’t hear or see us so we could then plan the rest of the stalk from where we sat. We now had no choice but to go through the wide open space that separated us from them. We studied the terrain and contemplated which way to go. Looking at the bucks, the wind was directly at our chin, so the only obvious way to go was straight at them in the open. But we didn’t want to do this, simply because we had a long ways to go, at least 900 more yards at this point. We could go to the right of the bucks and work our way along the side of the hill and come up beside them giving us an up close and personal shot but the wind was shifting and we didn’t want to alert our prey.

We finally decided to go straight on, and sure enough about 45 minutes later we were anchored in at 60 yards of the three pope and young bucks to see them sleeping with their noises to the wind.  So there is myself and my brother and the 3 bucks.. who is shooting at what and when we thought. We decided that Tyler would shoot first and I would try to get a second shot or at least hope to at the other buck. Two of the deer were solid, one good 140 inch typical four, a 155 inch 4 and a smaller 30 inch buck… all great deer. We moved about 6 inches every few minutes watching, waiting, trying to get close enough for a good ethical shot. Sixty yards turned to 55, then to 50 and that was as close as we got. Out of nowhere the three bucks got up.. looked around and decided they didn’t want to be there any longer and walked off. *sigh* I know… all that work and we have to walk back to the truck picking our brains apart trying to figure out what it was that set these bucks off and out. It can be many things, we took to long.. maybe they smelt us or caught a glimpse of the glare from the binoculars. We will never know but at that, we taught ourselves another lesson on stalking game. Always always take your time, and think.. prepare for the worst and hope for the best.  The become a master of the stalk you have to make them and unfortunately you don’t get good at it on the first try, but don’t give up and learn from every mistake. I hope this helps you out the next time you see a deer that may be to far out of reach and in the open stuff, maybe it will give you a little boost to try and go after him.

Here are a few spot and stalk victims that were taken in the last few years by family and friends.

 
Thank you and God Bless,

Brandon Heather
Xtremely Alberta Outdoors
www.huntfishalberta.net

         I once had the opportunity to lead a young boy to the greatness of the outdoors. To this day, he is still an outdoor enthusiast. He wasn’t able to hunt because his Grandfather’s life was taken in a hunting accident, his Father was unfortunately present to witness this and from then on could not take his son, the young boy I introduced to the outdoors hunting because of this.

        I have always told myself that I would love for my Son and I to have such memories as you have read of this young man I have written of previously. My Son, Nicholas “Nick” has been interested in the outdoors since he has been able to walk. Unfortunately, he doesn’t live with me full time. He lives with his Mother and can only come to my house on alternating weekends. He has been shooting archery with me since he was 3 years old and shooting BB guns since he was 5. Last spring Nick asked me if he could attend a Hunter’s Education Class and take the test. I was kind of hesitant before I answered him because he was only 8 at the time. I knew that he was very safe and familiar in the outdoors. He was never in the woods without me. So I told him that he could take the class. Actually, my whole family took the class and passed with a 90% or better on the test. Nick scored a 95%. I was very proud of them all. I even retested and achieved another 100%.

       As the year passed we continued to spend quite a lot of time in the woods scouting. Nick had asked several times if he would be able to hunt with me last fall.

He really wanted to bow hunt but, Indiana has a law that you need to be able to pull at least 35# minimum on a bow to hunt. He couldn’t quite get to that point this past fall. I’m sure he’ll be ready for this coming bow season.

       After passing Hunter’s Education, I purchased a single shot .20 gage for him.  Nick shot this gun many times and is a very good shot with it. I tease him and tell him that he is ALMOST as good a shot as I am.

       Nick went with me on several hunts during the bow season last year. He was really excited one day when we had 4 does come within 40 yards of us while we were setting on the ground. They eventually seen us and ran away. He still talks of that day.

       Opening day of the Indiana Firearms season is drawing near and Nick asks if he can hunt the season with me. I told him that I didn’t see a problem as long as he is safe when we are in the woods. We had already placed a buddy stand in the woods so we could be together and had the entire area scouted pretty good we thought.

       Finally, opening day arrives; Nick wakes me at 1:00am, then 2:30am, then again at 4:00am. He was really excited about his first “actual hunt”. So, we have breakfast and head out to the woods. We arrive there and start to walk across the cornfield when Nick stops me. He says, “Dad, you haven’t prayed yet.” Every time I head to the great outdoors I thank God for the creation he has gave us. So, nick and I said a prayer together. Then walked across the field together towards the woods. We get to the stand and Nick climbs up first, I hook his gun to the draw line and have him to hoist it up. Then I hook mine on and climb the stand.

      We sat there in the stand all morning until around 11:00am and I could tell that Nick was getting sort of depressed because we could hear shots being fired out across the country and we had not seen a single deer. So I asked him if he wanted to climb down from the stand and we would walk around the woods to see if we might see something. He agreed.

       We walked around the woods for about an hour and strolled to the cornfield to the south of the woods where we had walked in. A friend of mine “Bob” was leaving his stand and came over to talk for a minute. As we were standing there, we looked up and seen a deer making it’s way across a bean field that connects with the cornfield we were standing in with his nose to the ground. At this point, the deer was about 500 yards away. There is a line of high grass and weeds that separates these two fields. I told Nick that if he would slowly and quietly started walking towards that grass line that he just might get there about the same time as the deer was about to cross it around 30 yards from him.

      So, he started quietly walking across the field, the deer kept walking, and not paying attention to anything around him. As Nick and the deer were drawing closer, Bob and I were watching the deer in binoculars. Noticing that this deer was a HUGE 10 point (at least) typical. I commented to Bob, “Watch, he’ll probably go out there and put that big boy down”. We just chuckled. Well Nick is drawing closer to the grass line, the deer is drawing closer as well and just as I predicted, he crossed in front of Nick at about 30 yards. We watched him pull his gun to his shoulder and carefully take aim. Then he shot. We watched the deer jump and run and seen the dirt scatter beneath him. Nick had missed. He reloaded his single shot 20 gage and started walking across the grass line to where he shot at the deer.

     He came walking back across the cornfield towards us with his head down. When he got close, he said “Dad, I missed him, but, DID YOU SEE HOW BIG HE WAS!”

He said the reason he missed is because he was shaking so hard that he couldn’t hold the barrel of the gun still. Aaahhh Buck Fever, isn’t it wonderful I told him.

He said, “That’s ok, he’ll be back”. So several times this year we sat waiting for the big boy. He was nowhere in sight after that. I told Nick that he was just there to test him, to see if he truly has his heart in the outdoors. Now all hunting seasons have come to an end here in Indiana. Although, Nick is already putting together a game plan for the “Big Boy” for next fall. This episode with that deer has definitely put a sweet spot in this young boy’s heart for the outdoors and deer hunting.

     Overall, I’m pleased that Nick missed that buck. If he had harvested that buck that day, I wonder if it might not have left an impression on him that deer hunting was easy, that a lot of planning and scouting was a waste of time. Since we had sat in the deer stand for hours and seen nothing, then we walk to the field and he is able to get within 30 yards of that massive buck. I truly believe that he missed for a reason.

Now if I can just find out the reason that I miss. Ha Ha.

     This was the first fond memory that Nick and I have together of his first hunt. I’m sure that we will have many more and he will have many more with his children and grandchildren.

      Keep the outdoors in your heart. Lead our younger generation to the outdoors and show them how wonderful this great creation God has given us is. 

     Take a Child to the woods and ensure our Sportsmanship in the Great outdoors for generations to come!!!

God Bless,

Fuzzy