2003-01-10T07:05:00.000-08:00

Back to Chuck's Tales

Surgeon General’s Warning
May be hazardous ….

Tuesday is the start of bow season for deer in Alabama. When I was fourteen, Mikie and I looked forward to the start of the hunting season the same way that most kids looked forward to Christmas. We read everything we could find by the Godfather of bow hunting, Fred Bear. We practiced with our bows for months ahead of opening day. I became so good shooting at cigarette packs pinned to bales of hay, that my first arrow would be dead center and I could shave the fletching off it with my second.

My first bow and arrow set was “hand crafted” from the limb of a china berry tree when I was about five. I carefully peeled the bark using a purloined paring knife from my mother’s kitchen. As I remember, it only took three stitches to close the wound. It would be the first of many trips to the Emergency Room to stop the leaks.

The next day I carefully fashioned my arrows from some metal rods I found in the basement that also doubled as the laundry room. Since my mother had confiscated the knife I was using, she had only herself to blame for spending the next three days looking for where she had put the curtain rods while she washed the kitchen curtains. Fortunately, she asked me if I had seen them before I showed off my latest project.

I carefully made the arrow heads by bending soft drink bottle caps over the end of the rods. Using a hammer to fold the metal caps, I stopped only long enough to practice a few words that I had heard our new neighbor, Officer Grubby Jackson, use in similar situations while holding his own thumb between his knees. I would hear similar words from Grubby quite often as years and learning experiences went by. We had become close friends. He called me, affectionately, that “little $&!# and I got to call him by his first name… “Sir”

That first bow and arrows left a lot to be desired in all areas of testing from accuracy to penetration, although distance checked out well. I checked distance by lobbing a few arrows into the holler from a hill near the house. Although I did lose a couple of arrows, at least no bodies turned up with a curtain rod sticking thru them. Darn good thing to, cause I think that Grubby would have immediately had a suspect in the case.

By the time I was fourteen, I had my first for real hunting bow. A fifty pound, fifty two inch recurve that served all my hunting needs over the next quarter century or so. Mainly by giving me more stories than deer.

Mikie and I had practiced for months and were deadly accurate from distances of 10 to 35 yards. So it was a dream come true on opening day, thirty six years ago this Tuesday when a spindly fork horn stepped out and bent to get a drink from the water hole I was hunting over, only thirty yards away. I confidently drew the arrow, anchored at the corner of my mouth and relaxed my three finger grip. The arrow flew straight into the water in front of the deer showering him with mud and water. He ran into the woods, stopped and came back, 20 yards from me. Probably to see what kind of long skinny bird had landed in the pond. After hurriedly stringing a new arrow, I promptly snap shot over his back. He bounced closer and stood looking at the second arrow sticking up in the mud. I now had a 15 yard shot. I pulled my third arrow from the quiver. Not believing what was happening, I pulled back and jerkily let go. The arrow hit with a solid thunk…. into the trunk of a pine tree about 10 feet off the ground. The young buck bounced toward me and stood less than 10 yards away while gazing back with, I suppose, mutual disbelief in the direction of the pine tree. I pulled my last arrow and strung it. My breath was coming in gasps and the arrow was tapping against the bow as I tried to haul back on the string. My fingers slipped and the arrow flew with all the grace of a wounded duck and as much effect as it rattled away through the brush. The four pointer still didn’t leave till my bow hit the pond with a loud splash.
I couldn’t even hit him when I threw the bow. Now maybe if someone had pinned a Marlboro pack on his side..

Gone Hunting Back…………….

Arrows of Misfortune