Passing the torch.

     The longbow makes a graceful arch as the boy draws back her weight. Barely making a sound, the worn, leather tips of his shooting glove release the bowstring sending the arrow towards its mark. The distinctive solid thud of the shaft striking the target plays out over and over on today's range...

      The woods are wide and open. Mature white oaks, pignut hickories, ash and tall pine trees are scattered throughout the property. The deep valleys and steep hills leave no doubt that we're in the Appalachian foothills. Far enough East in the Buckeye state that we might as well be in West Virginia. Either way, a long way from home.

      We hike our way through the archery range under the August sun. Last week's coolness has given way to a bout of high humidity and the muggy air can be wrung out of my shirt and wiped from my forehead...The shade of the trees is welcome relief. Each one in our group takes his turn and steps up to the stake. The shooters focus, take aim and launch an arrow, hoping for a good hit. I try not to stare ,try not to critique as my son sends an arrow from his longbow...but he knows I'm watching.

     His arrow hits pay dirt as the scores are called out and the shafts pulled. Solidly in the 8 and 10 rings for the most part. An occasional stray arrow, but few and far between for couple of the boys in our little group. On to the next target and much of the same...My 16 year old's arrows hitting where they are supposed to be while mine are smacking a tree or skidding through the dirt under the target, a clean miss...

     My frustration mounts and finally, I give in...at this point, I'm just happy to hit the target and not destroy or lose any more of my precious arrows. Target archery is as much of a mental game as it is physical, but today, my mental side isn't cooperating...The boy and I aren't in an “official” competition, but I know that he's watching my poor performance as much as I am keeping track of his hits. I can almost sense his sympathy for me with a hint of a smile at knowing what's coming...

      Almost to the end of the course and he hits a rough patch, but is able to shake it off and tighten back up. His lean frame pulls back the string one more time, the longbow shoots with just a whisper and the bright orange feathers of his arrow mark the spot on the target. Just behind the foam deer's shoulder, exactly where it should be. We gather the arrows and make our way off the range...

      The scores are tallied, but I already knew the result. I had given up keeping my score half way through the course...part out of frustration, partly to save myself from embarrassment. Regardless, it was bound to happen and somewhere deep in the woods of Guernsey County, Ohio, it did. The boy didn't just best his old man, he humbled him. No caveats, no excuses. No asterisks of shooting from the youth stakes, this was fair and square, all things equal. A good old fashion tail whipping...

      But rather than pouting or feeling sorry for myself, I was proud of the kid. Years of shooting traditional bows has paid off, not only in the field and hunting, but on the range as well. No sights, no releases, no mechanical aids. Just the boy's instinct and muscle memory. If I'm going to lose on the archery course, I can't think of anyone I'd rather lose too...Besides, I can still beat him at arm wrestling...for now.

End of Season Gobbler...

The season is drawing to a close. Not quite the 11^th hour, but it's getting near. We've spent the better part of our weekends calling and guiding for other hunters, but this last weekend of the season will be ours to hunt.

The spring woods has thickened and changed over the past month. The hillside to my front is now covered in green. Every hue and shade on a color wheel, lime, mint, olive and emerald. The leaves, grass and foliage have all now matured and the blooms have burst. A few ivory pedals on the dogwoods hang on, but this afternoon's downpour is sure to send them to the ground.

The clouds have come and gone all day, bringing with them steady showers and rumbles of thunder and distant lightning. In most cases, foul weather sends us indoors, but spring rain storms bring the birds to the fields. Turkeys by nature are the perfect prey for every carnivore in the woods and the heavy rains take away their sense of hearing. In my observations over the years, the big birds feel safer in the open fields in this damp, gray weather.

We get a break between showers and the boy and I head out. He's opted to tote his 12 gauge since the clock is ticking. Stubborn, I'll still clutch my old recurve bow hoping to get an arrow into a Tom. I know my chances are slim, but at this point in my hunting life, I'm more interested in the process and the “how it's done” rather than the end result. I smile at the kid's enthusiasm as he hikes off up the steep, muddy hill, gun over his shoulder.

The rains have made it steamy, muggy and damp. Feels more like mid July than early May. I settle back in my blind overlooking the wet field and wait. Cow birds make their dripping water sounds just outside of my shooting window and blue jays and crows sound off at each other. An hour into my sit and there, on the hillside a distant gobble. I cut and purr back at the bird and he responds. I yelp and call, doing my best hen imitation and the old boy answers me regularly. We talk back and forth for over 45 minutes, sometimes he sounds closer, other times I can hear he's marching further up the hill. My best guess is that he's still a few hundred yards away and not much hope that he's going to step in front of one of my arrows. I try to lure him down the hill and into my field, but he's hung up for some reason. I continue to call at him and he continues to answer on cue, but I'm certain now that he's making for higher ground as he's heading towards his roosting spot for the night.

He's gobbling less frequently now, several minutes in between his calls. He belts out one final gobble, angry at a noisy crow somewhere up on the hill and then all is quiet. My thoughts turn to my son and I wander where he might be on the hillside and if he's heard the Tom's gobbling. A few moments later, the loud report of a shotgun answers my question...Just one shot, no follow ups can only mean one of two things; A clear hit or complete miss. Unless someone else has sneaked in, I'm sure it was the kid that fired.

The steep hillsides and deep valley keep me from calling or texting him, so I'll just have to wait. I'm anxious to hear and see if he was the shooter and to listen to his story. Five minutes turn to ten and ten to twenty. Just when I don't think I can wait any longer, I catch movement to my right a couple hundred yards down the field edge. The tall, lean figure of my son emerges from the woods and the bouncing, black wings and tail fan of a turkey thrown over his shoulder leave no doubt to my curiosity. I shout out to him, but he's too far to hear my voice. I gather my gear and double time it to try and catch up to the kid, but one of his steps is like two of mine.

We finally meet back up at the truck. A smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the back and then I listen to a story from the young man who proves every time we step into the woods, that this is where he belongs.

Drew's 2014 Indiana Eastern Wild Turkey. 21lbs, 31mm spurs, 10" beard, 4-5 year old bird.

The same old hunter's question, different answer...

“Alone far in the wilds and mountains, I hunt, wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee. In the late afternoon, choosing a safe spot to pass the night, kindling a fire, broiling fresh killed game. Falling asleep on gathered leaves with my dog and gun at my side”...Walt Whitman

The above quote has always rung true for me. It makes my senses stir, paints a picture in my mind. It makes me wish I were in the scene and describes perfectly how I feel about hunting. I can almost see the stars in the sky and smell the blue smoke from the campfire as meat sizzles on a spit...

The extreme cold, snow and ice of recent have me thinking too much as cabin fever is setting in. I've passed some time fiddling around outside when I can, but short of ice fishing, the polar weather isn't welcoming to many outdoor activities. It is, however, just the kind of weather to hunker down, read a book or a few magazines and while away the long nights...It's a good time to think, to ask yourself questions and to look for answers. Of course for me, hunting isn't far from my mind and it always gets back to that old question, “Why do I hunt?”...I've been asked and answered many times, some right here in “Along the Trail”, but each time I ask myself that same question, a new or different answer, another reason reveals itself...

I hunt because I love it in the simplest of terms. It's an inherited instinct rooted deeply in human history. In nearly all cultures across the world, there is an undeniable urge to hunt that awakens in boys. A boy will throw rocks, sharpen sticks, make a weapon. Studies have shown that the predatory instinct will appear spontaneously in boys, even without any prior experience or coaching. Sadly, many in today's society want to take the “boy” out of boyhood and eliminate that predatory instinct from our so called “civilized” society. But, somehow even in all of our political correctness, hunting manages to hang on...

For myself, hunting is an almost spiritual experience. It is when and where I feel close to God. Hunting is how I fell in love with nature and the outdoors. It's something that can't be experienced on a golf course or soccer field or in front of a television. Hunting and fishing connect us  profoundly with nature and wildlife. Hunting teaches woodsmanship and skills lost on many of today's youth. It teaches the power and beauty of nature. Hunting teaches us at a deep, emotional level about a hunter's inseparable relationship to nature and his responsibility to defend it. It teaches us that we are participants in something far greater than ourselves and our own selfish ways. It teaches us extreme alertness and we feel alive and connected to the environment.

From an outsiders view, a hunter might appear to control nature, but the truth is, it's the exact opposite. The hunter identifies with the animals, with the game he pursues and feels tied to it. It is, and should be deliberately humbling for the hunter as failure far outnumbers our success in the field.

No true hunter revels in the death of his prey or any animal for that matter. A hunter knows that “life lives on lives” and hunters participate directly, much like farmers, in the fundamental process of life. And that, my friends, is without question, why hunters have been and still are, the premiere  conservationists of wildlife and wilderness to all of our benefit.

Now, to throw another log on the fire and wait for the thaw and the green of March and the booming gobbles of turkey season...