There is no comparison in satisfaction level to the one experienced by the true traditional bowhunter when a big game animal is finally killed. This is so because so very few put through the huge effort and commitment that traditionalists do to get things to finally roll our way.   We are talking about hundreds of hours and sometimes several years spent in the field trying to kill a deer; doe or buck. Some rifle hunters may spend a few mornings out there and be done. We may have seen 120 deer by the time we finally get an arrow in the air and still, a lot of the time, not be able to make a kill. We practice year round, two or sometimes three or more times per week, because shooting a lot of arrows with your longbow or recurve gives you confidence and nothing could be more important than that out there. You may get one or two shots at a deer the whole season and that was it, and you had better make it count. We have to pass far more shot opportunities than other hunters, knowing

It was a nice sunny Sunday afternoon. I had been to church, then had a good, filling lunch. After lounging around the house for a couple of hours I decided it would be a great afternoon to take my longbow and head out to my buddy's place (Earl Steffan) just to relax in the woods

A topic in the forums about working up to heavy bows prompted us to repost this article Don Thomas wrote in the Apr/May 2003 issue.

My 11-year-old son, Drew, and I hustled to make it into our two-person tree stand along the edge of a cut soybean field. We had gotten started later than I had hoped, and the pinks and oranges of daybreak were already cracking through the clouds

I sat in the cool morning, thinking back to the twenty-plus years ago when in this very spot there had been fifteen hens and three gobblers released to start re-stocking in our area. It had been a struggle at first, protecting and encouraging their population growth, but now they were well populated in our county. My mind wandered to the Indians who lived in the river bottoms at the mouth of Turkey Creek and how it received its' name many years ago. The story went that an early settler was about to shoot a white turkey when a Native American Indian shot it first. The settler was able to ease away and thus it was referred to as Turkey Creek thereafter. I was focusing on all the early morning sounds, listening intently for the first boss gobbler to announce his presence to an awakening world. My ears strained, and in the distance I could hear the rumble of hooves pounding, coming towards my set-up. At first, I thought my mind had wandered a bit much (thundering hooves--buffalo?). I

In discussing or even thinking about the value of anything new--a movie, an automobile, a book, a longbow, a lover--the typical approach is to compare the new item to the established norm. While judging new against old has always worked for me, it failed miserably when I attempted to review, some five years ago, the DVD Primal Dreams, a strikingly professional yet homespun production from Wensel/Mitten Productions. Primal Dreams was and remains radically different in tone and presentation from any bowhunting video or DVD I've ever seen, before or since. And the same must be said, in spades, for the Wensel/Mitten team's follow-up DVD, Essential Encounters: Primal Dreams II. Since both these films are incomparable beyond themselves, that leaves me to tell you what I think about Primal Dreams II by comparing it to the original Primal Dreams, which I assume most readers here have either seen or at least heard of. To wit: While Primal Dreams was far-flung in the areas where its hunts too

A lighthearted look at why arrows don't fly properly.

Bowhunting never becomes mundane. Even after nearly three decades of climbing trees and chasing deer I'm still amazed at how the thrill never goes away. Each encounter is its own story because no two are exactly alike. That's one of the many things that make bowhunting so special. A hunt from this past season is proof that once lit the fire rarely dies. It was late December--New Year's eve in fact--and I was hunting a friend's farm not far from my home. Because of excessive deer numbers we had made an arrangement that I would be limited to a doe only, and preferably a large, mature one. That was fine by me. With two archery tags to start each season my usual modus operandi is to put a doe in the freezer early and hold out for a good buck with my remaining tag until after gun season. If I don't kill a good buck, which is usually the case, then anything is fair game during the waning weeks of the season. As I hooked my climbing stand around a large red oak where a narrow strip of w

Jack had been in this position before. Fading light, a cool Colorado fall evening, and just a hint on the breeze of what he had come looking for. He had come to this spot, this corner of God's country, at precisely the bewitching hour. That hour when dusk is creeping up on daylight and the shadows start to announce their presence with more authority. On this fine mountain afternoon the great white bull had called his name and the sweet pungent smell that was wafting to him told Jack they were near. He had stumbled upon this place 40 years ago after missing a switchback that he normally took to the canyon below. He had no idea then where he was in regards to a map but knew when he first laid eyes on this place, that it was special. It contained the very habitat that wapiti dream of. Cool wallows, grazing flats high on the mountain full of pockets of aspens, and some of the darkest timber in the Rio Grande National Forest brought the biggest of bulls into its fold. If one could stan

The time is 5:00 PM on a cool, windy Ohio afternoon, sitting in a stand enjoying another day afield bow hunting for deer. As the shadows start elongating with the setting sun, I hear a grunt coming from the end of the corn field that I am overlooking. As I wait for the deer to come into view, a whole host of things are running through my mind. Will I get a shot at this deer? Will I be able to make a perfect shot with the arrow finding the mark? Will I be able to judge the distance properly to deliver a killing shot? All of the things that were mentioned above had become second nature to me since 1993, the year I started hunting with a compound bow. However, now 16 years later, I find myself questioning my ability to pull off this seemingly simple chip shot. As the buck comes into view, I see that he is going to come right past me and offer me a good quartering away shot that should result in a good clean kill! The wind is in my face and I have good cover between the deer and me. The