Featured Articles Flustered by Pheasants by Jeff Stonehouse Success Through Failure by Rollie Johnson The Rogue by Bob Steiner The White Pages by E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. Surviving the Crisis by G. Fred Asbell Persistence Pays Off by A. Preston Taylor Big Red by Mark Nelson A Brain-Tanned Knife Sheath by [...]
The poll is closed. Thanks for all the great comments. The results will be posted in the Feb/Mar 2018 issue. The Dec/Jan 2018 issue has an article, Food Plots: Should We or Shouldn't We? with Ryan Theiler and Ron Rohrbaugh giving opposing views. We decided to also get your point of view. Results [...]
Featured Articles A Few Bucks for My Soul by Lucas Strommen Rock Bottom by Kirby Kohler A Tale of Two Seasons by Sam Beuschel November Encounter by E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. Two-Shot Turkey by Matt Schuster Port Orford Cedar by Wayne van Zwoll Supernatural September by Nate Bailey Cliff Hanger by [...]
Featured Articles What’s Your Nemesis? by Brent Watson The Caribou at the End of the Rainbow by George W. Calef Bear Heaven by Matt Schuster Turkey Fooling Whitetails by Marv Clyncke Longbeards East and West by Clay Hayes Consolation Prize by Jeff Stonehouse Isabelle: My Outdoor Girl by Robb Sager Gone [...]
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My mind wandered recently on a late-season hunt, a late-season freezing hunt. I was concerned with the odd decision to hunt with a recurve, not only on such a brutally cold day, but all season in general. A few hundred yards away a buck was browsing his way toward me on the frozen ridge we happened to share. I didn't know he was there yet though, nor was he aware of me, but he soon would be. I sat patiently and confidently, having read the woods and signs, and felt the wind, sure that if something were to move that day it would use the cluster of pine trees in front of me on the otherwise exposed ridge as potential safety from the cold and wind and ghosts of last week's rifle hunters. When I released an arrow at that buck, a few hours after sunrise, very little had to do with luck. Yet, as I sat in the early darkness, I was mostly wondering about the old bow propped against my pack. "A recurved bow, that's what that is." Those are the words of my grandfather after I pulled a
Traditional bowhunting can provide many of the skills necessary to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.
Not all good things start at the beginning, sometimes they start at the end. Though you could argue that it isn't possible, that it doesn't make sense, in this case it's precisely what happened. For the past few years I've bounced back and forth between traditional equipment and modern, always hoping to make the full conversion but needing to see that it was possible to be effective with a longbow, for myself. This year was no different. It was late January and the weather in the Northeast was frigid and in the single digits with winds topping 25 mph. It was cold, and I was hunting public land, and nobody would be out on a day like this, but it was my next to last day to be in the woods and I didn't want to squander the waning season opportunity. Though we are no stranger to these temperatures in New Jersey, it seems that more and more often I find myself hunting late season in temperatures touching the 50s and even sometimes the 60s. The cold was uncomfortable, but actually a welcome
The deer came with the night, riding the crest of darkness like a surfer in a pipeline, as the wave of evening swept down upon the woods drowning the landscape in ever diminishing sepia. It came as a ghost in the wake of the last shaft of light
When I was a young man, back in the late 1970s, I was renting a little house with a large back yard that had gone to seed. My best friend, Paul (now gone from us) showed up at the house one day running on about the end of civilization.
