This year has been one of many unprecedented experiences for everyone. Our work, social, and personal lives have greatly changed in one way or another. For those of us who bowhunt, it seemed to be rather uneventful however. The rising concern over a meat shortage in mainstream society was hardly on our radar, unlike the other 95% of the country, yes you read that correctly. Only FIVE PERCENT of Americans hunt. This past year we saw a surge in hunter participation, due to all of the nuances of 2020. In this article I am going to do the best I can to articulate why we love hunting so much, so if you are new to our cherished tradition, welcome, and enjoy. If you already know why we love bowhunting so much, sit back and cherish the memories I am sure to awaken as you read this article.
“What do you love? What do you work hard for every single day? What is it that you’re passionate about? What if that one thing only came around once a year? Every waking moment through the preceding months was spent dreaming, preparing, yearning for that one spectacular time when you get to become fully immersed in that one thing. For some of us, that thing is bowhunting.” That excerpt from a video published on my personal YouTube channel paints a vivid picture. The pursuit of something so elusive and for such a short period of time is part of the allure that comes with bowhunting.
Going back to my beginning years in the high country of western Colorado chasing elk in September I recall how small I felt, while at the same time, feeling so connected to the vast wilderness that surrounded me. The dirt beneath my feet, the trees towering over my head, the morning air filling my starved lungs all made me feel unmistakably alive. Placing yourself within an environment where you have no control, no power, yet by truly paying attention, and respecting the great force of the wild, you will feel an overwhelming sense of home. I remember the very first morning I stepped into the woods with a bow in my hand, I was intensely excited, nervous, and overwhelmed by the vast amount of stimulus I was asking my mind to process. Rays of sunlight illuminated the emerald-green vegetation, starkly contrasted against the dark, nutrient-dense soil, we hiked into the void. Any thought of civilization, school, drama, stress, gone just as we were to the modern world. Throughout the years I have struggled to articulate just why this occurs, however I believe it is in great part to the fact that for the entire duration of your time hunting, you are faced with a single goal. With the amount of time management, multi-tasking, and demand for efficiency, this lack of pace brings us solace, and reminds us that our daily life is simply ridiculous in comparison. For the time you have allotted for your hunt, your only objective is to find success, be it a filled tag, a newly solidified memory, or a grand adventure. There is nothing more.
One glaring aspect radiates into the minds of those who do not partake in hunting, and that is of course, the taking of a life. Killing is perceived to be at the forefront of the hunting culture, which is an impassable obstacle to the possibility of mainstream acceptance. It takes time spent hunting, sometimes years, to fully comprehend why we enjoy the pursuit so much. For those of us (likely those who are reading this) who obsess day after day, nitpick our equipment, and practice tirelessly, the aspect of taking the life of the game animals we pursue is solely a necessary and inevitable result of the hard work we pour into our passion. I would be lying if I said I hunted solely for the adventure however, as a solid majority of my daily meals are composed of meat from animals I have killed with my bow. Every hunt is comprised of a series of events, an escalating timeline of moments leading up to the climax, a split second in time where everything stops. For me, it is this single moment that drives me and forces me to become more obsessed with every moment like it that I experience: the shot.
My feet are tired, breathing labored, my bow grows heavier in my left hand with each passing minute. The light is slipping away through the trees, creating an ambience that commands my senses to be on high alert. As I walk through a sparsely timbered aspen plateau, my eyes scan quickly, ears absorb all the sound available, I can feel the light evening breeze against the hot and sweaty skin on my forehead under my damp hat. As I approach the edge of a meadow, there they are, I freeze. Two cow elk and a bull feed out in front of my father and I. My feet settle in amongst the mountain, my brain sends signals to my muscles prompting an autonomous series of actions to prepare myself to shoot. After shooting countless arrows all year, it takes no thought to get from arrow in the quiver to release on the string. “44.”, my father whispers. At this moment I can feel my heart beating, my bow sets in that familiar spot in the palm of my left hand, release settles into my right hand, my weapon is now an extension of my physical being. Reaching full draw, I settle into my anchor point, nothing feels out of place, I feel the small nub on the back of my jaw bone between my knuckles, the string brushes the corner of my mouth along with the “groove” on the tip of my nose. Looking through my peep, I see the bull standing broadside, completely unaware that I even exist, unaware that my father and I have been hunting tirelessly for seven days, unaware that I had driven six hours, lost sleep, missed work, haven’t talked to anyone at home, all in hopes of experiencing this exact moment. He simply feeds in the gray twilight of a late September evening. Everything else in the entire world, the entire universe, is inconsequential at this moment, there is only the bull and me. The shot breaks and my arrow is on its way, the feeling of a perfect arrow hitting exactly where you wanted to put it is something beyond compare. All of the effort, the pain, the sore muscles, the countless arrows in practice, the hours of sleep lost, are for this very moment. Once that arrow leaves your bow, there is no getting it back, that animal is alive, with a heartbeat, and if you do your part, you will provide a merciful end to the life that would otherwise end on far less humane circumstances. Watching the bull run 50 yards before lying down to release his final breath brings a feeling of relief. To me, the death of an animal is not a moment of celebration, but rather a moment of reverence, respect, and gratitude. You truly poured your heart and soul into providing an ethical end to that animal’s life, and to me that fact is paramount.
Walking up to the bull, now lying motionless, nothing but emptiness reflecting from his eyes, I set my bow down and stand there. Looking over the forest, then down at the bull, it feels surreal. Facing a reality that archery elk hunting on public land harbors a minuscule 7% success rate, I have defied the odds. My effort has yielded the ultimate accomplishment. Dropping to one knee, I remove my hat and place my hand on the bull, his coarse hair still warm. Peering up to the sky I give thanks, for this animal will provide me with meat that will last several months. Personally, until I am in this very position I feel uneasy, no matter how perfect the shot may have been. These animals are so tough, having to etch their existence into a vastly unforgiving world, void of comfort, humility, and sympathy. I look to my father as a smile appears without prompt. The concept of smiling over an animal that you have killed is quite alien from the outside looking in, and without experiencing the true struggle that is required to get there, one cannot comprehend why it happens. The joy that overcomes you in this moment is not for the death of a living creature, but rather the accomplishment of an arduously difficult task.
Once the euphoria subsides, you are faced with a realization: there is an immense animal that needs to be broken down and carried back to civilization. Elk are huge when you find yourself on the ground next to them, and the task of processing and packing one out seems impossible. However, cut by cut, load by load you will do it. This is your trophy, your bounty, and your ultimate prize. This past season, it all came together for my father and he was able to arrow an awesome 5x5 bull (pictured above). It took the two of us nearly 8 hours to get the bull cut up and back to camp. The final trip I found myself nearly two miles from camp with four full bags of boned out meat strapped to my pack frame. My father’s hips were exhausted so he remained at camp as I ventured out to get as much of the remaining meat as I could. Each step seemed more difficult than the last as I trudged along, under the overwhelming weight. In the back of my mind however, I was smiling. That very feeling, exhausted, in pain, far from any modern comfort, surrounded by the raw beauty of the wild, and knowing that the meat on my back is worth more than any amount of money could buy. There is almost a spiritual connection with meat you procure from a game animal that surpasses anything else. The struggle, the memory, the feeling of anguish during the pack out, it all comes flooding back to you as you sit at the dinner table and eat that meat. That trip back to camp was one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life. I know my pack weighed more than 130 pounds, but the moment I got back to camp, slung the pack onto the carpet outside of the camper, and saw the look in my father’s eyes as I told him I had gotten all of the remaining meat was all worth it. It is from experiences like that, when you must tell yourself to go forward, that hardship is worth it, that pain is temporary, those experiences transcend throughout your life. As we sat together, eating steaks from the bull he had killed earlier that day, we exude gratitude, we share the connection of a mission accomplished, and we savor the fruits of our effort.
Hunting is something I will never be able to abandon, at this point of my life, it is who I am, and if I have one goal, it is to transpose that fact into this company. Whether you find yourself with a bow in your hand and a tag in your pocket every year, or are considering heading out on your first hunt this coming season, my hat is off to you. Bowhunting is a gift, and the memories we make afield are those that can never be taken from us, can never be duplicated, and can never be devalued. As we embark into another year, I can only think that autumn is only eight short months away, and that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.