Sometime in the nineteen seventies, I decided to give a compound bow a try... (I know, I know). Although it felt much different for me, I decided to embrace the idea and took one hunting one morning. It was my first morning hunt for the week that I would be staying in the beautiful mountains of Highland County, Virginia. Although I usually had a friend or two to hunt with me, this would be one of my many solo trips. It was much more than a hunting trip… this was a much-needed getaway from the rigorous corporate insane asylum that I called my office.
It was a beautiful morning. Early October, and the sugar maples were in their full glory. I Saw a few deer that morning, but nothing close enough for a shot. By eleven AM I was walking back to the cabin on a path covered in sugar maple leaves when I caught movement in the distance, to my left. It was five or six does grazing on acorns in a patch of white oaks, more than a hundred yards away. Curious as to how close I could stalk, I eased forward, taking one careful step at a time, looking for small sections of bare ground to step in. I was really surprising myself at how quickly I was closing the distance; 80 yards, 50 yards, 30 yards, and still undetected.
I had no intentions at that point of actually shooting, but was rather
enjoying the rewards of my stealth. Looking ahead for the next clear
stepping place, I had the breath knocked out of me as surely as being
punched in the chest. There, before me, on the ground two feet away, laid
the most beautiful and complete Indian arrowhead you can imagine. I don't
know how long I stood there before actually touching it, and I don't have a
clue what happened to the deer I had been stalking, but I reverently picked
up my newfound treasure, and instantly stepped into a time warp. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago, an Indian had been here... doing much the same as I was. Or was he? I looked at the hideous contraption I held in my left hand, and for some unexplainable reason, felt ashamed that I had abandoned the more primitive aspects of bowhunting in favor of this heavy, mechanical monster.
I went back to the cabin and temporarily closed things up. I drove 3 1/2 hours to my home, grabbed my recurve bow from the wall, and drove 3 1/2 hours back to spend a glorious 4 more days. Crazy? Maybe. But if you
can't be true to yourself, no one else stands a chance.
I don't think I've ever shared that story with anyone until now, but somehow I feel compelled to share it now. The arrowhead? I've still got it and will treasure it forever. I know without a doubt in my mind that it was left there for me, and me alone. No question. The compound bow? I gave it to a guy in Leesburg, Virginia the following week and have had no regrets
whatsoever.
I harbor no ill feelings in regard to the compound bow. Instead, I seem to consider compound archery an entirely different sport than traditional archery. Perhaps it’s the youngster inside of me, longing to return to a time when archery, and especially bowhunting, was an adventure into the realm of basics. It was a time when boys gathered in tool sheds to mend arrows, wax strings, and boast about their latest forays into neighboring woodlots. Woodlots that transformed into the Alaskan Frontier, or the African Congo, each time we stepped foot into their mysterious shadows. And when we emerged with squirrels or rabbits, we were the heroes of the day… if only in our minds.
Traditional tackle is my connection with those bygone days that I remember so well. It’s where I came from… and, it’s who I am.
Thanks for letting me vent!
Tom
It was a beautiful morning. Early October, and the sugar maples were in their full glory. I Saw a few deer that morning, but nothing close enough for a shot. By eleven AM I was walking back to the cabin on a path covered in sugar maple leaves when I caught movement in the distance, to my left. It was five or six does grazing on acorns in a patch of white oaks, more than a hundred yards away. Curious as to how close I could stalk, I eased forward, taking one careful step at a time, looking for small sections of bare ground to step in. I was really surprising myself at how quickly I was closing the distance; 80 yards, 50 yards, 30 yards, and still undetected.
I had no intentions at that point of actually shooting, but was rather
enjoying the rewards of my stealth. Looking ahead for the next clear
stepping place, I had the breath knocked out of me as surely as being
punched in the chest. There, before me, on the ground two feet away, laid
the most beautiful and complete Indian arrowhead you can imagine. I don't
know how long I stood there before actually touching it, and I don't have a
clue what happened to the deer I had been stalking, but I reverently picked
up my newfound treasure, and instantly stepped into a time warp. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago, an Indian had been here... doing much the same as I was. Or was he? I looked at the hideous contraption I held in my left hand, and for some unexplainable reason, felt ashamed that I had abandoned the more primitive aspects of bowhunting in favor of this heavy, mechanical monster.
I went back to the cabin and temporarily closed things up. I drove 3 1/2 hours to my home, grabbed my recurve bow from the wall, and drove 3 1/2 hours back to spend a glorious 4 more days. Crazy? Maybe. But if you
can't be true to yourself, no one else stands a chance.
I don't think I've ever shared that story with anyone until now, but somehow I feel compelled to share it now. The arrowhead? I've still got it and will treasure it forever. I know without a doubt in my mind that it was left there for me, and me alone. No question. The compound bow? I gave it to a guy in Leesburg, Virginia the following week and have had no regrets
whatsoever.
I harbor no ill feelings in regard to the compound bow. Instead, I seem to consider compound archery an entirely different sport than traditional archery. Perhaps it’s the youngster inside of me, longing to return to a time when archery, and especially bowhunting, was an adventure into the realm of basics. It was a time when boys gathered in tool sheds to mend arrows, wax strings, and boast about their latest forays into neighboring woodlots. Woodlots that transformed into the Alaskan Frontier, or the African Congo, each time we stepped foot into their mysterious shadows. And when we emerged with squirrels or rabbits, we were the heroes of the day… if only in our minds.
Traditional tackle is my connection with those bygone days that I remember so well. It’s where I came from… and, it’s who I am.
Thanks for letting me vent!
Tom
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