A Day on the Range

      Focus behind the shoulder, 10 ring...The recurve bow holding all of the energy he puts into it. His draw is smooth as he hits anchor, holds for a split second and the cedar arrow is released. It's flight fast, but still a graceful arch as the solid thump of arrow striking foam follows 20 yards distant...He turns and the grin he wears says it all. The older fellas in the group congratulate the boy on another great shot as we make our way to the target.

      We pull the arrows and call out the scores, his reads two 10's and the smile returns to his face as more back slapping and “good shots” and accolades are tossed his direction. The kid is meek, quiet, reserved...but with his recurve in hand and arrows launched, his 6 foot frame is a little straighter, his shoulders a little more broad. His whole demeanor changes and the quiet kid in the shadows stands out, even among the more experienced archers at the competition. He is developing a reputation among the ranks of traditionalists and his Dad's pride swells as the once little boy finds his own niche.

      His skills on the target range have far surpassed the old man's and his 20/20 vision bests his Dad's by far...What used to be a kid in awe of his pop has now turned into a game of peers. The boy launching arrows down range and hitting the 8's and 10's with regularity and his Dad trying to keep up and even the score. From pats on the head and encouragement after missed shots to joking and ribbing one another as the relationship matures and changes...I knew it was bound to happen, whether on range or the basketball court where he both beats his Dad...

      The time on the range passes quickly...Time to load up and head back home. The kid wolfs down a couple of burgers on the drive and then dozes off in the passenger seat, still revealing a fragment of childhood left in him. He looks peaceful at rest...As I drop him off at his mom's house and drive away, I think about how much he has grown. I think about how I used to drag him to the 3D shoots, a kid sized longbow and shortened arrows in his hands and a Fred Bear Fedora on his head. I recall watching the tiny shafts bouncing off the targets and the smile that would come across his face when an arrow would actually stick in the side of the foam deer, elk or bear. How he would soak in the conversation from the other shooters and how he was always made to feel included by the guys at the range. I think about him now and how his shooting skills and manner has earned him the respect of that same group. I think about him being a young man and finding his own way...The time on the range has passed quickly...too quickly and I wonder where it has went and how to get it back...

     A quote from a friend of mine compared the growing up of children to arrows...both are meant to fly.

End of the Season...

    Last day of turkey season and the morning broke gray, cool and rainy...This was it, the last hoorah, now or never, do or die...It was a greasy, dark, slog along the two track trail next to the clover field. I looked forward to the relative dryness of the pop-up blind. Decoys set, I shake off the rain and settle back into my hide and wait for daylight.

     Out the front window, fresh cut clover and a view of the woods beyond, fog rolling off the hollers like smoke. Behind me, the roar of rain swollen Grant's Creek as it tumbles along towards the Ohio and points further South and West. An hour into my watch and no turkeys...I don't blame them...no one in their right mind ought to be out in weather like this. Aside from the pouring rain and the rushing water, all is quiet. The rain has found the blind's weak points as I watch water trickle down the interior walls and eventually pool under my feet. The constant "pitter, patter" of the rain against the roof of my hiding spot lulls me into a trance and I'm certain I've dozed a time or two. I flinch myself awake and a quick peek out the window reveals nothing but more of the same...

     My mind drifts away from turkey hunting and I think to myself "It's Mother's Day"...and I'm grateful to still have my mom around when so many others I know have lost theirs. I'm grateful for a mom that always encouraged my love of the outdoors, hunting and fishing and was always eager to hear my tales, even if she wasn't interested. I think about her words of wisdom and how I didn't always understand them at the time, but now as a parent of teenagers, they ring true...I daydreamed and thought and head nodded and napped...

     Snapped back awake, a distant yelp across the creek. Three hours in and still no birds...As much as I hate to admit it, it's time to pack it in and call it a season. The rain continues to pound down and the sky is still thick with no let up in sight...It's over. Time to slip and slide back to the truck and dry clothes. So, was my turkey hunting season a success? In terms of meat on the table and a tail fan and beard for the wall, it was an abject failure...But, I saw the colors of an early morning sunrise painted by my Creator, I heard the calling of barred owls in the pre-dawn morning, I was serenaded each day by songbirds, I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle as it hung thick in the air, I experienced the anticipation and excitement of hunting new spots thanks to inviting friends. I saw deer and turkeys and felt my heart race with a few close encounters. I heard Tom's thunder their calls up and down the valley, from one hilltop to another. I watched a barren field transform almost overnight into a lush green carpet of soybeans. But best of all, I shared time in the woods with a boy that is growing up all to fast. To have taken a turkey with my bow would have been the chocolate icing on top of an already sweet cake! So...Was my season a success? I'll let you decide...

The Opener...

     My internal alarm clock goes off at 5 am despite the one next to my bed being set at 5:30…my mind’s way of telling my body not to over sleep on opening day. I wipe my eyes open and force my contacts under the swollen lids, burning with saline solution as I squint my way into the kitchen. The boy is already up and moving and dressed to go…I rummage through the fridge, find a piece of cheese and grab an oatmeal cookie as I slam down a diet coke for my morning caffeine fix and we’re out the door…

     Racing out SR250 like a couple of vampires running from the break of dawn, we make it to the farm just in time as the sun barely cracks the purple sky.  We beat tracks across the no till field to the safety of our dark, hidden little blind tucked away in the shadows at the edge of the trees…Organized we’re not, but everything, including us seems to find its place as we elbow and jockey one another for position in the cramp quarters.

     Finally settled in, we wait for day time’s return and an accommodating turkey to show up within range of our arrows…We’re shoe horned in the blind and I can’t help but wonder where the time has went. Just a couple years ago, we had room to spare in our hiding spot, I thought to myself as I happen to glance down at the kid’s Frankenstein sized 14 boot dwarfing my size 9’s…I still have a difficult time remembering that there’s not much “kid” left in the 6 feet of lanky teen to my right…where has the time went?

     The woods are waking up as the sun at our back creeps its way across the open field in front of us…eating away inch by inch, minute by minute the grayness of dawn. The boy spots a doe coming across the field 200 yards straight away, heading right to us…She puts on the skids at 50 yards, head bobbing trying to figure out what we are and why we’re here…She’s safe for now and continues on her way, followed in short order by two others heading for their bedrooms after night of dining. Songbirds fill the air along with the ever present noise of crows…A gang of four of the black birds making non-stop racket. A redtail glides over and is immediately bullied by the leader of the pack…I’ve never understood why a bird as strong and graceful as a hawk puts up with a crow…one grab by the hawk’s talon would be instant death. As I watch the dive bombing, aerial dog fight, I’m quietly rooting for the crow’s demise…

     Blue jays, woodpeckers and nuthatches talk back and forth…But my son and I quiet for the most part, listening for another bird. A yelp, a “cut”, a purr…hopefully a gobble? Two hours into our vigil and nothing heard. No turkeys to be found…The hunt will be over soon as I have to be responsible and get the boy to school…I think to myself that I probably should’ve made him go on time, but tomorrows aren’t guaranteed and the way I see it, we only get to be part of so many sunrises and I’m determined to share as many of them with my kids as possible, so any guilt at missing a period or two of studies is quickly washed away…Besides, some things learned aren’t taught in the classroom.

   

   “What time is it Dad?” he whispers… “15 more minutes Bud, then we’ll have to go” I reply, wishing it was hours…We manage to hear a distant yelp from a hen and call to her, but she’s not interested in our attempt to talk and we finally concede it’s time to go…Not much conversation was had, but we didn’t need to speak…In the stillness of the morning, in the coolness of the air, lost in our own thoughts, in our facial expressions, we spoke volumes…we didn’t need words.

     The turkeys might have won this round, but my success this morning wasn’t decided by an arrow launched or measured by the length of Tom’s beard or the hook of his spurs…

Turkey Time...

     Spring in our neck of the woods…Dogwoods and redbuds in bloom, morels popping up, the scent of honeysuckle, locust trees flowering…marshmallow peeps and chocolate bunnies and my annual love/hate relationship with Eastern wild turkeys!

     Frustrating, aggravating, exhausting…Ugh! All ways to describe turkey hunting in late April! How can a semi-flightless bird with the brain the size of a pea outwit and outsmart me on a routine basis? I am after all a member of the species at the top of the food chain…Why do I even chase the fool birds? Why!

     Call, don’t call, did I “over” call? Is he coming in or not? Roost the birds here the night before, they show up over there the next morning…Set up perfectly, not a sound made, still as a statue and he walks the other way. Completely incognito, camouflaged from head to toe, blended in seamlessly only to have his x-ray vision pick you off as he “putts” and spits and tells all the other birds you’re here…busted again! You sneak in under the cover of darkness and they fly to the next ridge…You slip into your spot only to find that the birds have slipped to another. He comes in blasting gobbles one second and then sneaks in, stealthy silent the next, only to sound off ten feet from you, nearly causing cardiac arrest! He’s answering your best impression of a love sick hen, coming on a frozen rope cutting the distance only to hang up at a broken down stand of barb wired fence or a teeny, tiny ditch…Full strut, outdoor theatre at its best, with his electric blue head changing colors just to have him lock up beyond your decoys, too far to shoot and too close not to try…Then there’s snakes and spiders, ticks and mosquitoes and don’t forget the poison ivy and dew soaked webs…

     Yep, frustrating…but when the plan all comes together, that booming gobble, that thick, black rope of a beard, his fan fully displayed, moving side to side as tom makes his way in to impress all the girls and show the other guys who’s boss…that rush of adrenalin, the goose bumps and raised hairs, that quickening in your breath, the pounding of your pulse…the colors of the wild flowers, the smell of the damp dirt. The early morning sunrise…The draw of your bow or the subtle click of the safety on your shotgun at the moment of truth…challenging, exciting, thrilling…that’s why.

    

Campfire conversation

     “Are you bored, Bud?” I asked my 14 year old as he lay sprawled across the couch. “No, not really” was his reply, but his body language and demeanor told another story. “Well, I’m going outside” I shot back. “What are you going to do?” he questioned…What would I do…It was too late in the day to try and hunt mushrooms and the undergrowth taking over the woods would make it nearly impossible to tromp around and look for shed antlers. We could shoot our bows, but this late in the evening would make that short lived and there wasn’t enough time to load up the fishing gear and head out to wet a line…Then it came to me, a fire! “I’m gonna build a campfire”…Almost before I could finish the sentence, he was off the couch, boots on and out the door.

     We gathered up some tender and kindling and made our way to the make shift fire pit at the edge of the woods…In no time, the boy coaxed a good flame from a tiny flicker that would make any seasoned woodsman proud. The April air was just cool enough to make the warmth of the fire welcome. The flames popped and cracked and danced as the smell of hickory smoke, green cedar and even some old kiln dried 2x4’s filled the air…

     We fed the fire and poked at its orange and white coals and watched how they breathed…We talked about hunting and seasons past and upcoming. We talked about shots taken and hits and misses…Deer with giant antlers and gobbling turkeys. We talked bows and arrows and sharpening knives. Trucks and tree stands and survival skills…We talked about fishing and bluegill fillets and ones that got away. We talked about school and friends and classmates and grades…We talked about noises in the dark and night time in the woods.

     From him it was usually “Wouldn’t it be awesome if” or “I wish that we could” and “When I’m older, I’m going too”…and I’d sit back and listen and nod and smile. From me it started with, “When I was your age” and “I remember when” and “We used too”…and he’d sit back and listen and laugh.

     For two solid hours, we did nothing and at the same time it was everything. We leaned into our chairs, prodded the flames, bathed in the wood smoke and slugged our A&W’s from their brown bottles…We joked, we talked, we dreamed and we thought.  We were outdoors…but most of all we just “were”…We were father and son. A middle aged guy and his teenage boy just being what and who we were supposed to be. No cell phones, no notebook or laptop. No Dish or cable, just the two of us…

     The flames start to die down as the last piece of punky wood hisses and pops and sends sparks skyward…I take one last sip of my root beer and glance at the young man to my left silhouetted by the fire and wonder if he’s still bored…

The Phone Call Buck...

     

     It all started as  I rushed to grab the phone on the last ring and before I could get “hello” out of my mouth, my buddy blurted out that I needed to get over there and that the pre-rut was kicking into high gear. The bucks were up and running…That was all the encouragement I needed to hear!

     Just a few hours later found me sitting in my favorite stand on my buddy’s farm with recurve in hand.  It’s perched above the nastiest tangle of cut over woods you’ve ever seen and if it has thorns on it, it grows there.  Not a picture postcard type of woods by any stretch, but the deer are in love with this hillside and holler. It’s a prefect natural funnel from feeding to bedding areas and my spot is right in the thick of it…

     The evening’s watch was slow, but I was on pins and needles just hoping for a big one to pass under me.  I occupied myself by watching a couple of gray squirrels perform their aerial stunts from grape vine to grape vine. I’m always amazed that they don’t fall to their death. An occasional hedge apple would fall to the ground, sounding all the world like a deer running through the woods, causing my heart rate to jump ten fold! A check of my watch, 6:30pm…If it’s going to happen, it needs to happen soon. Shadows were growing long on my hillside and shooting light was fading fast. Finally, that tell tale crunch…Three does slowly feeding their way towards me. If one comes close, I’ll let an arrow fly. A few minutes passed and the girls hit a trail that took them out of my comfort zone. I watched as they nibbled their way into a field at the top of the hill.

     Light was now leaving and that gray darkness was pouring in…those last few minutes when it seems like the world is on a dimmer switch. I pulled my facemask down to gain those precious few moments of daylight. I leaned back against the trunk and just as I thought about calling it quits, movement out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t see all of him, but parts of a buck, slowly, cautiously moving my way…Glimpses of brown, white and antler in the brush. I willed him my direction and pled for him to pick up the pace. 25 yards away, but no chance at an arrow reaching him through the nightmare of briars and thorns. He vanished behind a tangle of locust and cedar and then reappeared on the hillside above me, 15 yards away…Pick your spot, lift the bow, pull back, let go…I hit anchor, pause, exhale. Everything turns to slow motion and the arrow arched towards the old boy. Thump!!! The arrow buried into the buck’s side and in an instant, crimson stained the crease behind his shoulder. He tucked low and raced for safety. As he covered ground through the woods, I could hear the clanging of my aluminum shafted arrow as it smacked the trees and I prayed the old Bear Razor did its job. A few seconds later and all was still…not a breath of noise.

  

       Now the shakes began. I had to sit down and catch my breath as I felt for my seat. What just happened? The buck was large, but I couldn’t say how big. Tall tines, but I didn’t notice much else. I went over the shot and tried to concentrate on the last spot I saw him as he peeled away. I caught my breath and tried to compose myself before I climbed down and slipped out of the woods. I made my way to my friend’s house where I recounted my story.

     We gathered our lights and made a couple of phone calls. Once our help was there, we took up the track. To say I was nervous was an understatement! Every bowhunter knows that “what if” feeling… We found the shot location in the darkness and headed to where I thought he traveled. A few yards into the trail and there was our first sign, a smear of blood, high up on some foliage. It was obvious that it wasn’t a pass through, but the frothiness of the sign gave me reason to be optimistic. The further we tracked, the heavier the trail became and it was obvious that the buck’s lungs had been compromised. As we entered a power line cut about 100 yards from where the shot was made, my buddy asked me if I wanted “my deer” and then shined the light on the largest buck I had ever taken. I literally ran up to the deer and was beside myself with joy! Hugs and back slapping all around and a heartfelt thank you to my pal for allowing me to hunt his place. 

     As I ran my hands over the old boy’s antlers and his gray coat, I could hear my buddies’ voices growing fainter in the background. Even though they were still there, my mind was blocking them out. This moment was between the buck and I. One to be treasured for a lifetime as I whispered my thank you Above and to the buck…

You can catch more than fish...

     The breeze is warm...a little too warm for late March, but I'm not complaining...Green everywhere as Spring has matured early this year. Not to distant, a hen turkey cuts and yelps, immediately a tom thunders a gobble back at her and I can imagine the display he's putting on as he tries to woo her affections and I'm wishing the season was in...The weeds have already grown shin high and I cuss myself for forgetting my boots...no doubt that the ticks and chiggers won't be far behind as we make our way across the field and down to the water's edge...

     The pond's water is dark from autumn's fallen leaves, but clear and cool...the cattails are shooting up and mats of camouflaged moss float to the surface and drift too and fro in the gentle wind...the water ripples and dances in the breeze and glints of diamond in the late afternoon sun. Fish boil away from the shore as we hike to the opposite bank. The sound of spring peepers and songbirds mingle with the turkeys and crows on the hill above us...

     A soft plastic jig, chartreuse and white, silently enters the water at the end of a little flip cast. Rod tip up as the eighth ounce weight sinks towards the bottom. There it is on the fall...The bite is delicate, almost undetectable save for the sudden hesitation of my fishing line and the slightest of pressure on my index finger...a faint tug and the hook is set! The fight is hard as the white and green flash of the crappie on the end of my line cuts through the water. He's quickly brought to the shore and his vibrant colors fluoresce in the sunlight. Into the basket and his fate is sealed...I check the line's knot and then it's right back into the water for a repeat performance, over and over...I'm caught up in my moment and as I glance at my son standing in the sun, he hooks his own slab and I notice how much larger his shadow is than mine and I quickly forget about the here and now and I'm transported back to a time when I was baiting his hook and taking fish off his line and a smile crosses my face and things stand still..."Dad...Dad!!! You have a fish on your line!" and I'm snapped back and am grateful...