Oct 14, 2017 5 min read

Few, if any, sporting endeavors have seen as much improvement in equipment as archery. As I write this, I realize there are many archers out there who have never seen or used some of the bows, or for that matter, arrows we used to bag deer. Is it any wonder that the success rate in the early years was around 8 percent? And that number might be a little high. Bows were little more than a bent piece of wood and the arrows were wood that was barely close to straight. Arrow heads were either Bodkin, Hilbre or the revolutionary Razor head by Bear.

The hunter listened in disbelief when someone said they hit a deer at 35 yards. Today’s archer makes shots of 60 to 100 yards possible. As any intelligent reader can tell, I am a rifleman. I have friends who lean to quality shotguns and others who like hand guns. For me, it is the rifle. A good piece of walnut turned into a rifle stock gets my attention but I must say to each his or her own.

On the other side, have you ever seen a person, or had one invite you to his house to see his fine bow? Many rifle owners do so because of the pride in possessing a fine rifle. Not so the archer. I have never been invited to see the collector’s bows. So with that in mind, I look back to my early years of archery hunting and understand why things went wrong during the hunt.

It was at least 30 years ago and I was in the tree stand clutching the old Bear bow in my hand. It was a re-curve, for the compound was still on the drawing board. Being the sneaky character that I am, I knew my son-in-law was in the same woodlot hunting grouse. I was hoping he would stir something up and it would come along the nearby trail I was watching. I hadn’t been there five minutes when I saw a buck standing, watching its back trail, unconcerned with the danger in the tree. I knew what he would do if the grouse hunter came closer and that would put him right near me. I also knew it would twitch its tail before departing so I watched. When that tail moved, I would start my draw.

There were no wheel sights or release gadgets on the bow, just me, a bent stick and the buck. His tail swished and he started my way, not running but moving at a fast walk. This should have been a sure thing. Then trouble reared its ugly head, for right at the completion of my draw a small unseen vine caught the arrow and pulled it off the bowstring. So on it went landing on the platform, then bouncing off a step or two. Deer and arrow met right under the stand and the arrow landed on the deer back. Did he run like the wind? No, he actually looked at the arrow now on the ground, snorted and walked away.

Oh, well, because of the difficulty associated with archery it was a long season and there were other deer. Incidentally, the grouse hunter had flushes but got the same amount of game I did.

It seems like yesterday but it was 1973 and I was hunting with Eileen. Actually, I was driving for Eileen and jumped a large buck. I heard the boom of her .270 but found her looking for blood not the deer. I kept telling her she must have missed but I had my doubts as I couldn’t find any place that bullet hit any sapling or any sign at all.

My father was hospitalized right after deer season and never returned home after this day. Black lung finally took him and we had spent many hours at the hospital over Thanksgiving and Christmas vacation. So when my brother-in-law, Jack, stopped at the house and asked me if I wanted to go rabbit hunting I said yes. I needed outside activity. I asked Eileen if she wanted to come along. She said sure but she would like to take the bow and we could meet up at the farm.

When it was time to quit, for the sun was getting low and creating strange shadows on the snow, Jack and I went to look for Eileen where she had shot and missed this buck in rifle season. As we approached her stand I could look down the hillside and see her walking around. I called out to her that I had a mighty fine rabbit. She answered who cares about your rabbit I just shot my buck.

Sure enough, she did have a buck but it had lost its antlers. Further investigation turned up a broken shoulder from a rifle bullet lodged in him. It was the same buck she had shot at earlier in rifle season. Now this kind of thing doesn’t happen very often but my wife always swore it was because she was wearing my father’s boots and his jacket.

There you have it, strange-but-true tales, one of bow season and one of rifle, both of them interesting. I hope you enjoyed reading them.

George Block writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter.