“Deep breath, hands steady, and eyes on the target.” Papa Carey (Grrr)
Life’s current often drags us far and fast from our headwaters, yet that source will power us and guide us through winding turns, timber backlogs, and long droughts. Never forget your source, no matter, it will never forget you.
My family went fishing every year on the winding Snake River. We would camp for a week or two, living out of a tent and an old beige Toyota Van. There are videos floating around of my family, 5 of us stuffed into a dented van, dragging an old drift boat stuffed to the brim with faded blue coolers, fishing tackle, and an old family tent that smelt like farts and mildew. These trips claim a place in my heart, rooting me to them and them to me. Almost every year, one family member or another would join us, from cousins to uncles and quite often Papa Grrr with Grandma Jackie. We didn’t have much, but we had our family fishing trips every summer.
My sister would be tucked away in a corner of camp with a book, peering at her pages through large, brimmed reading glasses. Papa was often seen pulling her from her books. My parents would be chasing my devious little brother around camp, trying to keep him from drowning in the river or getting run over by a passing truck. He would be grinning from ear to ear, missing most of his front teeth, as he caused mayhem. Sometimes, Papa Grrr and I would be sitting on riverbank nearby, having a conversation about anything and everything under blue sky. His unadulterated love for nature and family was so obvious that at 5 years old, I could feel it. His love for God’s Creation is what started this obsession in my family. First, he infected my mother and in turn my father caught the bug. From there on, this pathogen burned throughout my family, consuming, and invigorating us all to the core.
Fishing was only one part of our outdoor adventures. During the Spring, Grammy and Mom would take us out mushroom hunting for morels in the Blue Mountains. I can still smell those pine forests and that campfire smell wafting in the warm breeze from recent forest fires. We would see flocks of turkey, deer, and a menagerie of other wildlife. One of our fondest memories is from watching a fox and a deer playing in a field full of wildflowers.
As my brother and I grew, Dad and Papa introduced us to shooting rifles and practicing archery. There is nothing like taking a 30.06 punch to your 10-year-old shoulder or getting slapped on the wrist by a bow string. We hadn’t started hunting yet, but those skills were adding up.
Dad started us on archery hunting, must likely because he was nervous letting my little brother loose, running around in the woods with a rifle. He may have grown his front teeth in, but he had yet to grow out of his high energy antics. I still have that first bow that my dad bought me. He took my brother and I to a Big 5 going out of business. The entire store looked like it was hit by a hurricane, but there were 2 cheap identical Bear bows hanging in the corner with two trigger releases. Dad bought them on the spot. I felt on top of the world. I was going to be Robin Hood and shoot apples off people’s heads. That weekend, dad took us to a local Archery Pro shop. A gnarled old man helped us get our draw length set and hooked us up with an array of needed gear, along with uncut arrows. We were off to range. To the intelligent and amazing reader (yes this is pandering), Please Do Not follow this process. This process is filled with dusty unused bows and loads of frustrations. You will lose hundreds of arrows, countless hours of trying to sight in your bow, hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars of rebuying the right archery gear to shoot accurately.
Those first months at the range were frustrating. We missed a lot. I mean, we missed so much that we put Wayne Gretzky’s quote to test. We missed a 100% of the shots that we did take. Eventually, we got dialed in and were able to go from the flat range to the courses at our local Archery Club. Those days on the course were fantastic. As a young teen, I felt like I could compete professionally. As a ”Grown Man” looking back, I didn’t have a shot. We spent many weekends, getting ready to hunt.
Before I go further, I want to give my dad credit. He was raised as a city boy in the suburbs of Seattle. He was/is an excellent golfer. To the best of my knowledge, he didn’t do a great deal of hunting as a kid, but as an adult he developed an intense and genuine love for being in the outdoors (especially fishing).
Those first hunts he took us on were trips that were near our home. He’d wake us up around 3 am and drive us out to the woods. We spend hours traveling forests roads looking for deer. Once in a while, we get out of the truck and look over a clear cut with a pair of old binoculars. My brother and I would argue consistently over who would get to use them next. We’d also argue about who gets to sit in the front seat, amongst a plethora of other trivial items. My dad was extremely patient on these trips. In general, my dad had a strong temper. It was never abusive, but it simmered near the surface. This temper is a disease that runs rampant in my family, and to this day I struggle with it. There was something about the outdoors that soothed dad’s nature and mine as well.
He demonstrated the same patience while fishing with us. He could sit there, with my brother on one side and me on the other. He’d be fixing a rat’s nest caused by me in one moment. In the next he’d be dealing with a snag my brother caused because he reeled in after he was told not to. Dad spent more time fixing our lines then actually fishing. Meanwhile, my mother would move down the shoreline to get away from our ruckus. Who’d blame her? I would have done the same. I digress. Those early days of hunting were filled with road hunting and lack of deer sightings.
On one of these road hunts, we saw a deer about 40 yards off the road. Dad drove the truck about 60 yards down the road and instructed me to get out and stalk up to the deer. I was over the moon. My hands were shaking, and my heart was beating so hard, I could hear it. There is no doubt that deer could hear it to. Dad told my brother to stay in the truck because he was in the backseat. Now that front seat made a high-pitched squeal whenever you lifted it to get out, and we all were aware of it. I quietly got out and snuck 80 yards to where the deer was feeding. I quietly got to spot that was about 20 or so yards away. Everything was perfect. The deer didn’t know I was there. Dad was back at the truck glassing my approach. I remember thinking I was going to make him proud as I drew back on my bow. I got to my anchor point, the pins settled perfectly on the deer’s vitals, and just as I get ready to trigger the release, I hear a loud “ SQUEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL” coming from the truck. The deer bounds off before I could shoot. Looking back, I see my brother climbing out of the truck.
I was furious! I ground tuned my bow so hard it bounced off the ground. Running back to the truck, I began screaming at my brother. He was about to earn a black eye. It was certain. As the sun rises and sets, he was going to get it. My voice was hoarse and my eyes were bloodshot, and before I could cover the distance, Dad intercepted me. He calmed me down from a raging storm to a simmering inferno. I don’t know if I talked to my brother the rest of the trip or even the week.
I still give him grief about that deer. Over our teens, we were never able to close the deal. There were many hunting adventures over those years. My brother got hypothermia in snowstorm, we got lost a time or too in the age before OnX, and we had many blisters from chasing deer up and down hills through thick timber. As we grew up and started our own hunting adventures, my brother was the first to kill a deer. To this day it burns, but as I write this, it occurs to me, that maybe he just wanted to be a part of the hunt. Maybe he just wanted to watch his older brother get his first deer. For the first time, I feel a little sorry that I screamed at him. Just a little. After a bit of self-reflection, this intensity for the hunt has been a large part of who I am as a hunter. The willingness to endure years of not seeing an animal, to sit quietly on a hillside and glass for untold hours, and to endure harsh heat and biting cold has all stemmed for this intense focus and tenacity for hunting. That perseverance has led more to my recent years of success then any other factor, outside of mentors and friends who are willing to put up with me. I love hunting, but often it hasn’t loved me back.
The first time that I killed a deer disabused me of how I thought the hunt should play out. It was supposed to be this glorious hunt, like one from the annals of Native American History. Bow in hand, I would be stalking a massive Black Tail buck deep in the big timbered forests. He would evade me in the morning as the mist burned off from the morning sun. I would patiently follow his tracks in the dark soil to find him bedded under a great mossy pine tree. After digging in and waiting patiently, I’d catch him getting up to feed and place a brilliant shot into his Golden Triangle. I’d run up to him full of joy and pride to find that he had quietly and quickly passed away within 10 yards of where I shot him. He’d be this big dark horned buck with a rack so wide I could sit on it. Unfortunately and fortunately, hunting hardly goes the way you plan.
The first time I killed a deer, I was wearing a dress shirt; slacks, and dress shoes. The one thing I had learned from years of hunting was to always have your weapon nearby during season. The wife and I were getting back from a nice night out on the town. We were pulling into my parent’s driveway of their 13 acre property, last light was moments away. Underneath a young pear tree 60 yards away, was a forked horn Black Tail. I turned off the car and pulled my 30.30 Marlin lever action out of the trunk. The whole time my wife with tears streaming down her face is screaming, “Don’t shoot it. Don’t shoot it.” Heart pounding and with my Papa’s words in my ears “Deep Breath, hands steady, and eyes on the target”, I put the rifle on the hood of my car, settled the sights on its lungs, and pulled the trigger. The moment was finally here. A decade of hunting, and I was going to kill my first deer.
The cowboy gun kicked, and the deer jumped. It ran 30 yards towards me and toppled over in my parent’s garden. It flopped and heaved, trying desperately to breath to stand to run away. My heart sank and my gut started tumbling. I felt so guilty, so disheartened, and ashamed. My heart broke over the pain the animal was going through. After multiple failed attempts, I was able to put the animal out of its misery. The wife and I went inside the house to change. She helped me drag the carcass to the barn where we spent a good deal of time of watching YouTube videos on how to dress a deer. She was in Medical School that year. Her curiosity from working with cadavers spilled over and she became very involved with dressing the animal. We spent 6 hours dressing, hanging, and skinning the deer. A lot of lessons were learned that night. By the end of the ordeal, a sense of gratitude and timid joy had replaced those horrible emotions I first felt when I took that deer’s life. Later the pride would come, as I watched my family cook and eat the meat.
There are detractors that would say that the new age hunters talk about “Field to Table” too much. We should talk about that feeling that comes with processing and providing for your loved ones. Hunters should tell the story of providing and sustaining lives from their hard work. This is a story most can relate to, empathize with, or at the least sympathize with. A story that began with our creation as a species. Hunters should never neglect to tell their early stories. Social Media often shows the success that comes from years of hunting, while neglecting the early experiences.
A superb hunter is only made by a litany of failures in the field. Watching YouTube, listening to podcasts, and reading articles can only teach you so much. Those lessons disappear as soon as an animal steps out in front of you. The permanent skills are earned from experience. They are visible in the crow’s feet on your eyes from peering into a glare. You can feel those skills engrained in the roughness on the back of your heels. These skills will not flee when a big buck steps out at 20 yards. They will guide your instincts, settle your hands, and connect you closer to your family.
By Travis Tweet
The American Bowman Chronicles 