Archive for the 'Hunting Stories' Category

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Published by admin on 15 Feb 2010

Hi Spirit: New Brunswick Bruins By Ted Nugent

Hi Spirit: New Brunswick Bruins
For a rockin’ good time, try for a far-North spring blackie.
By Ted Nugent

http://www.bowandarrowhunting.com/

 The impenetrably thick dark spruce forests appeared to flow on forever in the Canadian North Country.  Cruising up Highway 1 out of Saint John, New Brunswick, into yet another beautiful valley of green spring fields and rolling dairy farms, I see small, quaint white farmhouses that dot the wilderness landscape here and there.  Yellow diamond-shaped moose crossing signs appear every few miles to remind us we’re not in West Virginia, and the stunning scenery has a calming effect on me as we wind our way deeper into what we know is serious black bear country.  If it’s black bear habitat, baby, you know you’re in God’s country, and we take it all in appreciatively every mile of our Maritime Province journey.

 Just last night, my band rocked the house royal with Lynayrd Skynyrd in Barrie, Ontario, outside Toronto, Canada’s number one cosmopolitan megacity.  Amazingly, within a short drive of Toronto, just 100 miles northeast near the town of Bobcaygeon, some of the world’s densest populations of bear can be found.

 Unfortunately, and in fact, quite sadly, all our bear hunting party again this spring would not, and legally could not, pay to hunt here because the Ontario government officials were caught taking bribes from a rich antihunting fanatic named Bob Shadd.  They had the audacity to ban the spring bear hunt on a mindless, dishonest whim in direct defiance of their own Ministry of Natural Resources proven policy.

 Thousands of bear hunters, including the customs officers we met crossing the border from Michigan, would not spend our tens of millions of dollars on this scientifically supported spring bear hunt in Ontario, and would instead take these precious revenues to New Brunswick, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, British Columbia, Alaska, Idaho and elsewhere to buy licenses, permits, guides, outfitters, food, lodging, groceries, meals, supplies, sporting goods, bait, rental cars, souvenirs and assorted other goods and services that are essential for average bear hunting needs and desires.  So be it.

 Pathetically and indecently, Ontario will continue to charge the good citizens of that province to kill more sows and cubs than ever in recorded history, and then bury their wasted, desecrated carcasses in a pit somewhere like so much worthless trash.  Good call Ontario.  That’s how to respect black bears.  Carry on.

 Since 1983, Ron Slipp and his family have operated the Slipp Brothers Ltd. Hunting and Outfitting operation near the small village of Hoyt, New Brunswick.  Specializing in spring and fall bear hunts, as well as other traditional fall hunting for moose, deer and small game like grouse and rabbits, they run a tip-top camp with mostly repeat customers from all over the world.  It’s easy to see why as we inspect the well-built, comfortable cabins complete with bunks and clean linens, hot showers, refrigerators and wood stoves.  At the bustling kitchen and mess hall, we put away a delicious hot meal of fresh salad, scrumptious au gratin potatoes and baked ham with ice cream for dessert.  It turns out that every meal is like this.

 There will be no roughing it at this far away hunting camp, that’s for sure.  As a proud board member of the great Canadian Outdoor Heritage Alliance (COHA), I joined dedicated COHA directors Andy Kowalczewski and Ray Gosselin for a three-day bear hunt in between my Canadian concert dates.  I cannot imagine sitting in a hotel room when hear good bear county with an open season underway.  No way! 

 Ron has a perfect replica of his bear-set treestand right at camp, and after our hearty, rib-sticking dinner, we took some practice shots at the Delta and McKenzie bear targets to limber up our travel muscles and get our minds right for the Monday hunt.

 Joined in camp by a good group of New York hunters, spirits ran high as they always do in such settings.  The guys were hunting with rifles, shotguns and an assortment of archery gear.  Videos and photos of past critter encounters were shared with growing anticipation for the afternoon hunt, and the camaraderie was thick and uppity.  The Bear Spirit was in camp.

 Our first afternoon and stand was like the majority of bear stand vigils—cold, wet and long.  After six rugged, very wet and cold hours, a hot shower and wood stove heat felt nothing short of miraculous, and sound sleep came easily again.

 Day two dawned colder yet with the icy rain still coming down hard.  But later in the day, with slightly clearing skies, we headed into our stands with solid enthusiasm and hope.  As the rain slowly subsided and the wind died down, the dark of night slowly consumed the day.  Local hunter and trapper Randy Mercercou was able to videotape over my shoulder a pair of handsome black bears marauding in and out of the dense brush around tour treestand.  With too little light to shoot, we nonetheless took great quantities of bear medicine into our hearts and souls.

 Day three was the charm.  Even as we enjoyed a fine day of leisurely camp life, clearing skies brought with them new hopes of increased bear activity.  All hunters geared up and headed for their stands early, knowing that this dramatic upgrade in weather spelled bear all over it.  Randy and I too were settled 22 feet up in our jackpine platform 90 minutes earlier, cocked, locked and more than ready to rock, doc! Patience is job-one when hunting anything, but absolutely essential for quality and effective bear hunting with the bow and arrow.  Add to these nearly insurmountable odds the burden of videotaping, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a gonzo task on hand.  Now in our 11th hour maneuver, nerves and tension were on a tightrope.

 Nothing but birds for four hours, then, with but 45 minutes of shooting light left, a distant crack of a twig snapped us to attention.  Right then a big black blob appeared 60 yards out in the dense boreal scrub.  My heart pounded like a double live gonzo big bass drum gone Motor City Mad Man full-tilt boogie.  I love when that happens.  This first bear took his time peaking in and out of the thick vegetation.  As it slowly tip-toed toward us, its head jerked up, looking behind, then dashed wildly off, galloping and splashing through the deep water to out left.  We both knew why.  The arrival of a larger, more dominant bear always scares off a smaller bruin, so our intensity accelerated further yet.  And thar she blows!  A larger black blob now poked its brown-muzzled head through the green foliage, and cautiously moved our way.  My adrenaline glands had full liftoff!  I forced myself to breathe easy.  Here he comes!  Imminent full bluntal Nugity or bust.

A typical move pulled by bears coming to bait is to snatch and run.  As I came to full draw, that’s exactly what he did.  Before I could hope to steady my hold, he was lurching back into the underbrush, beef shankbone clutched in his jaws.  No shot.  The bear was gone just long enough to devour his succulent hibernation wake up breakfast before he slowly sauntered in for more.  This time I figured I was ready for his quickie maneuver.  This time, as I thought I had properly anticipated his grab and run tactic, I released my arrow to a flash of fur and my 500 grains of razor-sharp Nugent Blade feathered deathray zipped harmlessly where there had been vitals and a ribcage a mere nanosecond before.  Rats!

 But I am here to hell you , my Pearson bow, equipped with a full compliment of Sims Vibration Laboratory silencing products was so quiet, the bear only leapt a few feat and looked back, confused.  I was already loading another all-white carbon arrow onto my string when he ambled back for another crack at the free chow.  This time I let fly a second faster and the arrow smacked hard with a loud, KRAK!  My Magnus broadhead had penetrated deep into the bear’s neck completely severing the spinal column, bringing the beast crashing down hard like a pole axed polecat.  An immediate second arrow slammed right through the beast’s head, penetrating the brain, bringing all movement to an abrupt end.  All rejoice! The rug has landed!

 Randy and I breathed a sigh of relief in unison, I scrambled down the ladder right away and the bear was dead.  We celebrated the Great Spirit of the Bear and took many photos and video footage for the “Spirit of the Wild” TV show that will appear on the Outdoor Channel and numerous network affiliates nationwide.  More than a little honor and respect were given the beast in its death and we dragged our prize from the depths of the Canadian forest with a prayer for the wild things on our lips.

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Published by admin on 11 Feb 2010

Open Season Starts off 2010 with a Bang!!!!

Well we are starting off 2010 with a Bang. I made a trip down to South Texas for a Management Deer hunt. I could only kill a mature 8 pt so that was kind of a challenge we were looking for a certain deer. I was down there with customers so I wanted to make sure they got one first then I would be up to bat. Well the first night my customer missed a heck of an 8 pt that had a broken G3 he said he was so nerves he closed his eyes at the shot. The deer was only 100yds from us & I got killer footage of the miss. Then he decided a that he wanted to go shoot some hogs & I could go the last night to see if I could get one. Well we were sitting in the blind with a few deer around & it was getting about that time when they should start coming out & two shots rang out above us & all the deer cleared so I was talking to my guide & he asked if I wanted to go check a couple fields & we would spot & stalk I said heck yes so he went to get the Jeep & I loaded all the camera stuff up & put it outside the blind. We took off & had about 30 min of light left we went to the field where my customer had missed the first night & there was nothing in the field so we checked another field & there was the big 8 pointer with the broken G3 I ranged him with my Leopold RX1000 at 304 yards & I was getting ready to make the shot when the guide said hold up I see a nice 8 pt on the opposite end of the field so I got up & ran about 500 yds down a fence line & got into position. The deer was at 250 yds & I got the Bog Pod setup & I help him set the camera up then we got ready. I got him thru the scope took a deep breath & then squeezed it off he went down. Then all of a sudden he got back up and just stood there so without an hesitation I moved out to the edge of the field & sat on my butt with the bog pod in front of me & squeezed another round off this time he took off running & ran about 80 yds & went down what a hunt it was dark thirty so to speak when I killed that buck it was a blast. That was the longest shot I have ever taken on an animal & the .300 win mag did the job thanks for CVA & Leopold they have amazing equipment.

Next Stop Turkey Hunting in Florida & Bear Hunting in Canada northern Alberta for giant Black Bears in May.

 

Charles Paddock

Open Season TV

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Published by admin on 08 Feb 2010

The Bear That Wouldn’t Stop By Randy Templeton

The Bear That Wouldn’t Stop
A seemingly well hit bruin turns a
recovery mission into a total nightmare.
By Randy Templeton

http://www.bowandarrowhunting.com/

 It was September 1986 and we were along on our second Ontario black bear hunt.  Our hunt in the spring had been a total bust for my hunting pal Craig Owens and me.  It didn’t take long to realize swatting skeeters and no-see-ums wasn’t exactly our idea of hunting.  Even after dousing ourselves with bug dope—and our ankles and shirt cuffs duck-taped shut—the biting, blood-sucking phantoms always seemed to find a clear pathway to bare flesh. Plus we didn’t have a crack at any bears on that trip.

 Bud Dickson, one of Ontario’s leading authorities on problem bears and certainly a top-shelf outfitter based out of Atikokan, invited Craig and me on a return trip, this time during the upcoming fall.  I was very reluctant to the invite at first, considering our previous journey.  Not to mention, the dates conflicted with when Craig and I usually go elk hunting.  But Bud explained during the fall it’s too cold for bugs, and bears would be feeding rigorously before hibernation.  Bud also explained that boars would be roaming the woods for the last receptive sows.  After hearing all this, the temptation was too high, and we moved our elk hunt out a week and headed for Ontario!

 Upon arrival, we were greeted by our guide Garth Stromberg who told us the bears had been quite active and visiting the baits at nearly the precision of a Swiss timepiece.  In fact, just days before our arrival they filmed five large boars over one bait site.  Garth said one would tip the scales at 400 pounds or better and another would be pushing 600 pounds.  We were excited.
 
 Our accommodations were better than most, a log cabin on the bank of a pristine lake.  The first afternoon was spent fishing for walleye and northern pike, both or which we enjoyed for dinner.  That evening, Craig and I experienced a spectacular show of northern lights, neither or which we’d ever seen.  An assortment of bright beams of light shot from between the clouds and danced on the lake.

 The first morning we walked to our stand sites under the cover of darkness, each of us carrying a bait bucket in one hand and a bow in the other.  A layer of frost covered the ground, and the smell of autumn was in the air.  Without warning, a cool breeze hit and I was overcome with an eerie feeling we weren’t alone.  A sudden “woof” coming from the darkness and the sound of rattling brush sent chills up my spine.  A bear hadn’t been more than 25 yards from where we stood.  The remaining distance to our stands seemed like eternity.  An occasional snap of twigs and rustling of leaves had my wits on end.

 Craig and I split up and moments later I was settling in my stand.  That is when I spotted a bulky figure beginning to materialize.  Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished back into the shadows.  I wasn’t sure what it was.

 That afternoon found us carrying bait in plastic grocery bags filled with fruitcake, peanut butter, sweet rolls and bread smothered with pancake syrup.  As I approached my bait I could hear twigs snap nearby.  I thought I’d be lucky to reach the stand before a bear comes charging in for dinner.  Rather than bury the bag under the pile, I simply laid it on top and tiptoed to the stand.

 

 Suddenly, I heard a rustle then saw some small poplar trees whipping back and forth.  Two giant bodies towered on the skyline.  Slowly, two moose moseyed down the slope and passed within 40 yards, but neither paid any attention.

 I was caught off-guard some time later when a large bear ever so quietly stepped out from beneath an umbrella of brilliant colored foliage.  He stopped at less than 10 yards and balanced on two legs.  His jet-black eyes met mine in a blank but cold and chilling stare.  At that point, I wasn’t quite certain the goodies lying on the log pile were his primary objective.

 Remembering what Bud Dickson told me about shot placement I wasn’t about to take the shot until the old boar settled in for the smorgasbord.  Those thoughts had no more than passed when he made a beeline for the bait, grabbed the entire bait bag and ran for cover!  One small piece of bread fell in the opening marking his escape route.  At less than 30 yards the bear ate all the contents, including the bag from behind a cluster of berry bushes.

 Thinking the bear would return for the last scrap, I stood ready with an arrow knocked.  He came close, but much to my surprise the temptation wasn’t great enough.  Instead, out came another bear, but one that didn’t compare to the big bear’s size.  I passed on the shot.

 The following morning we spent baiting various sites getting ready for the afternoon hunt.  Craig elected to hunt elsewhere  and I chose to stay put hoping for a second opportunity at my bait site.

 Upon arrival a dozen clattering gray jays were scavenging the bait station.  To ensure there wasn’t a repeat performance of the afternoon before, I buried the bait deep beneath a pile of logs and then poured raw molasses on the logs to sweeten the deal.

 Only minutes had passed when the woods grew silent, and I sensed something was amiss.  Looking over my shoulder, I spotted two black silhouettes.   After nearly an hour the smallest outline cautiously inched toward the opening licking its chops.  Within a few yards he stopped long enough to take a brief but sneering glance, then woofed before running for cover.

 Overcome by temptation, just minutes later the old bore walked directly beneath the stand spanning two trees and stopped.  Sniffing the ladder, he put one paw on the first step and stared upward as if he were going to join me.  Let me tell you, I was about to jump out of my pants.   Fortunately, he must have decided the aerial perch wouldn’t support both our weight and climbed back down.  Slowly but surely, he slumbered to the pile and began peeling off logs, tossing them aside like toothpicks.

 Giving the skittish critter plenty of time to settle in, I slowly drew my bow and anchored for a quartering away shot.  Milliseconds later the 160-grain Snuffer broadhead sank out of sight and reappeared while exiting the front shoulder on the opposite side, sending the bear charging.

 About an hour later, it was nearly dark.  Figuring the bear had plenty of time to expire, I climbed down with flashlight in hand and soon picked up a good blood trail.  I remember thinking at the time how ludicrous it was trailing a bear in the dark.  These thoughts had no more than passed when a growl and popping jaw sent me hightailing for higher ground.

 Returning to camp, we collectively agreed to wait until morning before taking after the bear, giving it plenty of time to expire.  Craig hunted the following morning, but unfortunately it was another no-show.
 Garth arrived sometime around 10 a.m. with his tracking dog.  The blood trail petered out at the edge of a swamp, at which time he turned his hound loose.  No more than 10 minutes had passed when the dog began baying.  Garth turned toward me and said, “There’s your bear!”  Suddenly the barking stopped and then picked up again some distance away.  Oh, no, the bear is alive!

 We hustled into the swamp and soon located the dog some 80 or more yards away snapping at the bear’s heels.  From behind, Garth and Craig whispered, “Why don’t you just slip up there and finish him off?”

 “Ok, I’ll try,” I said reluctantly.  Really I was thinking, Why don’t one of you go finish him off if it sounds so easy.

 Closing the gap to about 35 yards, I was taunted from behind to shoot.  Not exactly in a calm state, I drew and released the string, sending the Dougherty Natural aluminum arrow skipping into oblivion.  The bear ran a short distance, maybe 30 yards before lying down, giving me only a rump view.

 Once again taking my two buddies’ ill advice from behind, I sent another mini-missile on the way.  With the shaft buried to the fletching the bear spun around in circles like a dog chasing its tail and then took up the charge.  Having made only two steps backward the dog suddenly appeared between us, luckily diverting the bear’s attention.

 To make an even longer story short, I was down to three arrows and there was no sign of the bear weakening.  While in the process of trailing the bear, he eventually offered a broadside shot.  Quickly I shot and my arrow passed clean through his chest.  Craig quickly and graciously volunteered to walk some two miles or more to get a slug gun—just in case.  Garth and I continued following the bear hoping he’d expire—soon.  He’d have to.

 Eventually the bear bedded down in a stand of tightly grouped saplings where we watched from a distance.  After a half-hour or so without any movement, I decided to slip in closer.  At 20 yards a narrow opening offered what appeared to be a clear path.  As bad luck would have it the Snuffer found the only tree between us.  Startled, the bear jumped up and ran from sight.

 Now I was down to one arrow.  Within minutes the dog located the bear again lying on a rise in the swamp.  Although he appeared to be dead, we approached with caution when closing the gap to maybe 25 yards the bear got up and slowly began circling down wind.  I quickly drew and held steady before letting the last arrow slip free.  Upon impact the bear let out a roar and turned to make a charge.  Once again the dog redirected the boar’s attention, giving us time to escape out of harm’s way.

 Scouring the area we found the badly bent and blood-soaked arrow.  Looking at Garth, I said “So now what?”

 “ We wait,” he replied.

 While in the process of trying to straighten the arrow, I was entertained by Garth chopping down a small sapling. “What the heck are you going to do with that,” I said.

 “Well, I’m making a spear just in case.”

  Please, Craig, hurry with that gun.

 After an hour the young guide turned the god loose again.  Having barely lost sight of him, the all-too-familiar baying sound pinpointed his location.  Following our ears, we found the bear bedded down behind a large brush pile growling and snapping its jaws at the circling dog.  First eyeballing a clear path for retreat, I made a mad dash for the brush pile with an arrow knocked.  Leaping aloft, I drew and sank the arrow behind the shoulder.  All hell broke loose upon impact, causing the bear to let out a furious roar, standing on its hind legs and swatting air!

 I’ve never been much for a long distance runner but I’m somewhat quick out of the gate.  Leaping out over the barking dog, I was running for all it was worth.  Hearing a yelp. I glanced over my shoulder only in time to see the dog sailing through the air and hear Garth yelling.  “Oh my dog!” With one swat the enraged bear sent the dog airborne before sprinting another 50 yards and going down.

 Shortly thereafter the dog reappeared and a close examination uncovered four claw marks on the rump, none of which were serious.  Nevertheless, I truly believe things could have taken a serous turn for the worst had the dog not been there.

 While field dressing the bear, I was somewhat curious to know where the first arrow had taken the bear, considering how long he lived.  Interestingly, the first arrow caught the top of the liver and one lung.  I’ve known of whitetails that have survived with one lung but never without both.  The second arrow penetrated the same lung and the third severed the heart.  One can only surmise this was one tough bear with a  will to live.

 If you’re wondering what happened to Craig, well he showed up after all the excitement and field dressing was complete, none of which he claims to have missed.  The Ontario Department of Ministry aged the bear from a tooth submitted and later sent a letter stating the bear was 7 years old, much older than the “average bear.”

 When we returned to Atikokan, I was approached by a man who claims to have harvested more than two-dozen bears (26 to be exact) over the years and consequently has plenty of exciting stories to convey.  His advice was to never, never take up the trail of a wounded bear.  Good advice, I’d say.

 Some years before he and a friend found themselves in a very similar situation that nearly turned tragic.  While moving in for a finishing shot, the bear attacked, taking down hi friend.  Before he could stop the bear, his hunting partner’s arm had been severely mauled.  Although surviving, he nearly bled to death before arriving at a nearby hospital!

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Published by admin on 28 Jan 2010

African Blind Date By Paul Hantke

African Blind Date
Join this bowhunter on his first trip bound to Africa
as he goes face to face with the trophy of a lifetime.
By Paul Hantke

http://www.bowandarrowhunting.com/

 IT OCCURRED TO me as I pushed a cart overflowing with equipment cases and duffel bags through the Jan Smuts airport in Johannesburg that I was on the blind date of my life.

 I had accepted an invitation from Sangira Safaris to come to South Africa for a three-week hunting and photo safari, but I knew nothing about the company or its principals other than that it was a new venture by two relatively novice professional hunters.

 Not only was I sailing into personally uncharted territory on the other side of the globe, but also the adventure had been arranged, booked and inaugurated into action in about five weeks.  Normal planning for a trip like this should take months, but the wonders of e-mail and a need to get there quickly made it all happen.

 Haste was in order, because, as it was, I arrived in the first week of September, which is well at the end of winter for that half of the world, and almost too late for hunting.  The rainy season, or springtime, brings everything to a halt.

 

Summer in South Africa is the off-season for hunting because it is way too hot.  Not to mention, during the summer vegetation has grown lush from the rainy season and many game animals are virtually impossible to see or pursue.
 
 So there I was that morning with a cart full of gear. (As Staff Editor for the Y-Visionary Outdoor Group, I also had firearms and lots of other stuff for field testing in addition to my archery gear.)  Things got better immediately as I was greeted by my hosts, Tinus Van Heerden and Stoffel Botha, proprietors of Sangira Safaris, Tinus has a background in the military Special Forces, while Stoffel was a federal police investigator, but both grew up “in the bush.”

 Their professional skills in bush craft and hunting would show later, but I was immediately taken by how friendly and down-to-earth both fellows were, and their excellent English made it easy to quickly make friends.  We off-loaded the cart full of stuff into the back of a new 4×4 Crew Cab Toyota pick-up and we were on our way to “the bush,” which varies considerably as you move around South Africa.

 First stop was the bush veldt outside of Thabazimbi, which means “mountain of iron” in Tswana.  Mountain of Iron is the world’s largest deep-pit iron mine that is serviced by the most amazing (and scary) road you have ever seen.

 Our hunting grounds were on a private farm of immense proportions in the valley north of Thabazimbi, which flattens out and looks much like south Texas, with thorn bushes instead of mesquite.  The ground there is level with a couple of inches of soft silt over hard earth, and the thorn bushes grow so thick it is often impossible to find a path through them.

 

 Arriving about midday, we had lunch and then headed out in the old Land Rover hunting buggy.  Our drive took us along the first fence line for several kilometers, and then we turned into the middle of the property.

 I had been warned by a couple of old Africa hands that the animals there were especially hard to see due to their superior camouflage.  “All your North American skills and instincts will need to be re-programmed,” I was assured.

 They did not lie, and I found myself frustrated because Stoffel or Tinus would point out game that I simply could not see.  I could see and agree with the specific tree they were supposed to be standing beside, but I couldn’t make out the animals themselves.  It was interesting but not fun.

 In spite of my handicap, the fellows managed to show me gemsbok, impala, red hartebeest, dukier, kudu, and blue wildebeest, all in a two-hour drive.  We were, in fact, looking for a specific old bull in one of the blue wildebeest herds that the landowner wanted to cull.

 We managed to find the old bull and I grabbed my bow and set out on a stalk with Tinus.  You don’t get to be the old bull by being stupid, and that cagey wildebeest played hide and seek with us for awhile from abut 150 yards out before he darted for parts unknown.

 In the truck, on the way back to the farmhouse, Stoffel suddenly grabbed my shoulder and pointed into the bush.  “Look at the size of that kudu!” he exclaimed.  Everyone else looked and had the same reaction.  “What a monster!”  I, of course, saw only movement in the brush.  After several attempts, the big kudu was ruled impossible to stalk for the day.

 Dinner that night was a South African “Braai,”their version of a good old charcoal grill, and was well received after the long day.  It had been decided over steaks and libations that Stoffel and I would head out to a “hide” next to a waterhole the following morning where I might get a chance to stick a warthog.

 We were dropped off early the next day, and I literally had to look around carefully to find the hide, which only protruded about three feet above ground level.  The interior of the hide is dug out some three feet deep, and a rough wooden bench is you only seat.  The brush walls are lined inside with a tarp to prevent the detection of movement inside, and there are a few tiny viewing holes punched in the tarp.  A “shooting slit” that was about three inches wide and extended about two feet up from ground level was positioned well over to the side.

 

We began our vigil, hoping to get a chance at a warthog once the sun heated up the bush veldt and the animals made their way to water.

 I had along my High Country Ultra Force bow and was shooting Game Tracker’s Carbon Express 300 arrows tipped with the company’s new First Cut broadheads.  A sight check the afternoon before showed the bow was dead on.

 Stoffel and I spent a long and unproductive morning in the hide, eventually drawing pictures of animal tracks and playing tic-tac-toe in the sand at our feet.  We were a scant 25 yards away from the waterhole, so all this was done in virtual silence.
 Our only visitors were Lourie birds and two female kudos, who came in and drank, then laid down just a few feet from us, testament to the camouflage and proper upwind positioning of the hide.

 It was some seven hours before we heard the old Land Rover grinding its way to our position for our pre-scheduled midday pick up.   Once aboard, we weren’t more than a few hundred yards from the hide o our way out when trackers and professional hunters alike all pointed in the same direction.  “Kudu!” they exclaimed,  “and warthogs too!”

 Once again I saw only gray shadows in the brush that I presumed to be kudu, but I could make out a couple of dozen warthogs moving with the shadows.  We stopped the truck and two female with piglets ran across in front of us and disappeared into the thickest on the other side of the trail.  I don’t know if it’s the Disney influence, but I find the sight of warthogs on the move quite humorous.  The pigs and their babies drew a smile as they passed.

 Next came a moment of pandemonium wherein our trackers, Joseph and September, exchanged lots of information in several different languages with Tinus and Stoffel, the gist being that the kudu and the warthog were apparently moving together, and more than that, it was thought they would circle back and resume their trek to the waterhole we had just left.

 “Do you want to go back, or do you want to go have lunch and try again this afternoon?” was Stoffel’s question to me.  “I came to hunt,” was my reply, and September turned toe Rover around, dropping us off short of the hide so we could stalk in while they left by a different route.

 It was another two hours before we began to get any action, and then it was all from female kudu coming quickly into the water and then moving aside into the shade from the taller trees near the waterhole.

 Stoffel kept watch at the peephole, occasionally updating me on the scene while I fiddled with my equipment and thought about what I was doing.

 I eventually decided that my many months of work and practice made me feel comfortable with a shot out to about 30 yards, any further that that and I’d have to pass.

 I was at the peephole when the bull walked in, and I’m sure my jaw dropped just a little bit when I first saw him.  He stood nearly six feet tall at the head and was sporting a set of spiral horns that had to be over 40 inches tall.

 “There he is!” I said excitedly, but quietly, as I got out of the way of the peephole so Stoffel could see.  I was jut making the decision to reach for my bow when Stoffel stopped me, “Take it easy,” he said, “all the vitals are right behind that spot.”

 

We watched the young bull come warily to the waterhole, testing the air with nose high.  Stoffel pointed out a place bhind the animal’s shoulder where the markings made an oval.  “Shoot for the center of that oval,” he said, “all the vitals are right behind that spot.”

 For a second all I could think of was the Gary Larson cartoon of the deer with a target on his chest and his deer buddy saying, “Bummer of a birthmark, Hal.” It was an interesting mental juxtaposition, but I quickly regained my focus.

 “The young one!”  I whispered.  “How much bigger can those things get?”  His answer came back in the same hushed tones as he pulled me back to the peephole, “How about this one?” Stoffel asked.

 Almost seven feet tall at the head, I quickly saw the big kudu Stoffel was referring to.  The trophy was walking right into the water.

 He sauntered to the waterhole and gave the young buck a shoulder to signal him to back off, then he turned broadside to me and began to drink.

 I stepped back from the peephole, eyes and mouth wide and heart hammering already.  I don’t remember what I said, but it was probably not printable anyway.  I picked up my bow, nocked an arrow, set my string release, took a deep breath, and moved forward to fire.

 That was when I discovered that the slit was too close to the wall for a proper elbow-out posture when firing.  So I folded my arm down, concentrated on my bow-hand hold, my cheek weld and the fiber-optic 20-yard pin that I had placed just at the top of the oval in the markings.

 I ever so gently touched the trigger on my release and was very happy to see the yellow-fletched arrow center my target.  Right about then I realized that I had just heard Stoffel saying, “Are you going to shoot?”

 The big kudu hunched up, spun around once, and took off.  A few minutes later and about 100 yards away we found the big guy.  The broadhead had cut a path through heart and lungs and stopped on the inside at the offside shoulder.

 We measured the horns with a steel tape right after I took the kudu, and they ran out to 54 ¼ inches.  A more professional measurement was taken with a steel cable after the head and cape had spent three days in the cold room, and the set still measured 52 ¼ inches.

 As I understand it, the kudu will qualify for both the Rowland Ward and the Safari Club International world record books.

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Published by Newbowhuntingsupplies.com on 26 Jan 2010

Bow Hunting During the Late Season

Doe in the Snow

The Does Looking for Food

The count down to the end of bow season was upon us and I still had tags to fill. With snow already on the ground and the temperature at 8 degrees it began to snow lightly. I had been sitting in the house all day and decided it might be a good idea to go bow hunting. So I opened a package of hand and toe warmers and started to get dressed, this will be a good time to try out my new winter hunting cloths I thought to myself, after getting all bundled up I jumped on the 4 wheeler and headed out. I could see all kinds of tracks in the snow around the field near the middle stand, ‘Davy’s stand’, so I decided to go there.
I hooked my crossbow onto the pull rope and climbed up the stand. After pulling my bow up to me I took off the quiver and hung it on the tree next to me. Birds were the only thing I saw for the first hour. I thought to myself, “I am getting down it is too cold for the deer to move, no I’ll stay a few more minutes”. Then I saw them, 5 deer just coming out of the woods across the field. The first three went straight across the field and the other two went to the left and worked their way around the field. They were heading towards ‘my stand’. Please come this way I thought, not happening, darkness began to sit in and it was time to go to the house.
On Thursday night the weather was about the same but the snow was coming down hard and the wind was blowing. Once again I bundled up and headed out to bow hunt. This time I went to ‘my stand’, it has a roof on it. However, on this day it didn’t help the snow was blowing directly into my face. The view from this stand was perfect. With the snow on ground I could see both hill sides and down the lane. While scouting the area I saw 2 deer at a distance, no wait 3, no 4, wow 5 deer. They were hanging out next to a fallen tree. I watched 2 deer, they were both does, head for the field but I lost the other 3. The 2 doe that went into the field were heading my way so I got my crossbow ready. I turned off the safety and pointed it towards the opening in the trees. Slowly they made their way down the tree line when out of the corner of my eye I saw another doe in the lane. I was trying not to move, my bow was in shooting position. One more step and she is mine when the deer in the lane snorted and they all jumped and ran. The doe I was getting ready to shoot only ran about 20 yards stopped but she was standing in some brush so I couldn’t shoot because the brush would throw my arrow off course. Then she finally made her move into the woods. The other 2 doe were circling behind me so I slowly repositioned my bow and was moving with them. I saw an opening in the brush where I could shoot so I was following the doe hoping she would get to that opening when bang, my bow hit the tree my stand was on and off they ran.
Time to go back to the house once again empty handed. There is nothing I hate worse than to get snorted out after sitting out in cold for so long. However, the thrill of bow hunting was still there. I was able to see the deer and almost had a shot.
On Thursday, January 14 about an hour before dark, I decided to go back to my tree stand. After sitting in my stand for 15 minutes I heard movement behind me. The snow was still on and I could see 2 deer coming off the hill. I lost them as they were coming up the hill and then there she was. She walked towards the back of my stand and stopped. Than the other doe came up, she was walking towards the lane directly beside my stand. I leaned forward to hide behind the blind that is around my stand. She stood beside me for about 5 minutes finally she went into the lane. However, I was afraid to move because I knew the other doe was some where behind me. The front doe finally made a move for the field and the second doe started moving up. As the front doe was working her way down the tree line I was trying not to move so she wouldn’t warn the second doe. Finally, the second doe came our and started heading for the field. Turn a little, I thought, so I could get a shot, that’s it, a little more, I have you. I pull the trigger on my crossbow and heard a thug. She jumped and ran into the field, with every step I could here a gushing sound, I said to myself “I hit her good” when down she went.
I was finally able to get a late season bow hunting kill now it was time to field dress her. When I came around the corner of the house my husband was just pulling in from work. I told him I finally killed a deer for your friend at work that is in need of the meat. He said, “I could tell you got one, you are gleaming”. No matter how many times I kill a deer with a bow I feel the sport just keeps getting better and better for me. Bow hunting is far better than gun hunting if you have never tried it you should give it a shot. To all you bow hunters out there, never give up, you will get your shot.

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Published by Newbowhuntingsupplies.com on 26 Jan 2010

Bow Hunting in the Early Season

The Big Buck

Look at this 15 Point BuckLook at the size of This Rack

It was a Sunday evening, two weeks into the Ohio bow season, and it was time for my husband and me to get into our stands. Bob went to one end of our land and I went to the other. While sitting in my stand, playing on my iphone,I heard deer moving in the woods. It was time to listen and be ready to shoot. My crossbow was sitting next to me so I got the binoculars out to try to see where they were. The bucks started grunting, what a neat sound. The grunts were getting closer and then there was a sound I had never heard before, kind of like a real deep grunt or roar. Then in the field across from me appeared some doe and two nice size bucks, an 8 point and a 10 point. They appeared to be playing when all of the sudden the two bucks started sizing each other up. They weren’t really fighting, just pushing each other around. This went on for about 45 minutes then they just stopped and went on to eating and walked away. They stayed 85 yards away from me so all I could do is watch.

When Bob came out of his stand he said he watched the big buck, a 15 point, and a smaller buck pushing each other around on one side of the field and on the other side of the field were two eight points doing the same thing. He was telling me about the noises they were making and said he had never heard some of these sounds before. The one noise was like a real deep grunt or roar and when the big buck made that noise he chased the smaller buck away from a doe. After the buck chased the other buck away Bob got to hear the wheeze, Bob said it was a neat sound. Needless to say, the deer stayed too far away for Bob and me to get a shot.

Since bow hunting is being in the right place at the right time and scouting your spots, Monday night I decided to go to his stand because he saw the big buck, but all I saw was some does about 100 yards away. I heard the bucks grunting but never got to see them. Then right before dark the coyotes started to howl so I figured the deer were going to leave. On my way out of the woods I saw a deer near my stand but I couldn’t tell if it was a buck or a doe. When I got home from teaching the next day I went back to get the pictures off my camera and low and behold standing right next to my stand was the big buck. It was about 7:15 p.m., well before dark, and there were 5 pictures of him.

I decided I was going to bow hunt out of ‘my stand’ for a while. Tuesday I had 4 small bucks come by my stand but I didn’t want to take a shot. On Wednesday night I heard something coming from behind my stand. It was getting close to dark so I really couldn’t see well in the woods due to the leaves but the fields still had plenty of light. The first deer comes out and walks toward the feeder, it was an 8 point with a high rack but not very wide. It eats a little bit and then looks back in the woods and starts to walk off. Then here he came, the big buck, 15 points. When I first saw him my heart started beating quickly. I said to myself, “Is that really him? Am I going to get a shot? Now calm down Christy”. As I watched him walk around and check out the territory I settled down. By the time he walked towards me it was getting dark. I put the scope of my crossbow on him, yep it was the big boy, but how far was he away from me. I looked back up at him, tried to figure out the yardage, I thought you don’t want to wound this one. He walked to his left and stood broad side to me, again just couldn’t figure out how far away. I decided it was too late to shoot and watched him walk away.

When I went bow hunting Thursday night I figured out he was 30 yards away and I had the perfect shot. Needless to say I have not seen that big buck since. Even though I could kick myself in the butt for not shooting I think I did the right thing.

The life of a bow hunter is hard at times but unlike a gun you must make sure they are in range before you release or pull the trigger on your bow. However, it is a great feeling being in the woods and seeing the deer and other wildlife just doing their thing. I would rather bow hunt than gun hunt any day.

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Published by admin on 22 Jan 2010

Game Farming vs. Golf Courses By Ted Nugent

Game Farming vs. Golf Courses
By Ted Nugent

http://www.bowandarrowhunting.com/

Young Rocco showed admirable discipline. It was cold, damp and uncomfortable in the deep woods. He climbed the challenging hills and terrain carefully with pure youthful spunk. The hardest part was sitting statue-still for extended periods of time with dad. But his intense smile said it all. He was mesmerized by the wild all around him. The flitting songbirds captured his attention, the distant crow speak ignited his young, inquisitive imagination. The nearly invisible deer, ghostlike, feeding along the ridgeline ahead, caused him to hold his breath temporarily and stare fascinated by the dynamic of the beast and his exhilarated level of awareness. This boy was on fire! High on natie as it oughta be.

The day rocked on, father and son truly harmonizing with Ma Nature, and more importantly, each other. Like my dad before me, I was driven to teach my son the laws of nature—hands-on—as a natural, thinking, conscientious participant, hunting our families’ dinner by dedicating ourselves to her rules of tooth, fang and claw. To observe my boy embracing this powerful reality set my soul aflight.

This day afield was particularly moving for us, not just because we had some great discussions about important things, not just because an eight-year-old boy showed good self-control and self-discipline and intense interest, and not just because our midday sack lunch together tasted better in the wild than any five-star meal anywhere. Much more importantly, this day in the wild was extremely special for the simple fact that we could actually experience it legally.

You see, at eight, Rocco, is not by law allowed to deer hunt in Michigan, or almost any state for that matter. Even though he has dedicated himself to firearm and archery safety and marksmanship, certainly as good, if not better, than many of those of legal age, the goofy laws in most states force young children like Rocco to stay away from hunting, and for all practical purpose, the outdoors and her valuable lessons. With this programmed failure to recruit new, young hunters, the value of wild ground and inherent wildlife habitat is virtually doomed. Tragically, an entire generation has been discouraged to feel the mighty spirit of the wild by these nonsense laws. Believe me, the alternatives are ugly. Read the papers and watch the news mutilated by report after report of younger and younger violent offenders. Review recent history and see the invention of words such as “drive-by shooting, “ “school shootings,” the explosion of gang violence, graffiti, vandalism, preteen drug running and pregnancies, and kids randomly killing each other, and you will note it all began the same time as America’s exodus from the country to the city and the land. Hunter’s numbers began to decline THEN the crap hit the fan.

Thankfully, Rocco and I had a wide-open opportunity to hunt game together because of private property visionaries. With the rape of the hills, urban sprawl, the paving of America, and an epidemic of habitat-destroying golf courses, malls and other over-the-top development, wildlife ground will only be saved if that wildlife has renewable value. Many private property owners across the country, for many legitimate reasons, have enclosed their land with game-proof fences in order to offer specialized hunting opportunities above and beyond the regular seasons. And why not? Certainly this private control has proven to be an obvious, upgrade in quality deer management, and those increased opportunities provide a vast increase in quality family hours of recreation. That’s a win/win if there ever was one.

Is it real hunting? Certainly the very same variables that dictate a quality hunt anywhere apply on natural habitat within enclosures as well. With good escape cover, adequate food sources and sensible management restrictions, much like those rules that succeed on public grounds, an enclosed property hunt is as good as any wilderness hunt. Anyone who has had a lick of real-world hunting experience can tell you how anything can happen out there in the wild, fence or no fence. Only the inexperienced squawk their supposition. Facts are always a much better source of policy than guesswork. The critics of enclosure hunting invariably ignore these statistics and facts, mindlessly continue their vacuous diatribe. Meanwhile, the truth is there for the discovering if but a modicum of effort is pursued. So be it.

People who just plain hate hunting and hunters have found support within the hunting community by small-minded hunters, who, by all appearances, just like to hear themselves pontificate, for whatever reason. Legislation was posed a few years back under Bill HR1200 to ban all fenced-in hunting under 1000 acres. That bill was defeated for obvious reasons regarding private property rights, but in Washington State, and now Wisconsin, the anti-hunters have succeeded in fooling the public, as such enclosures are now illegal. This closed mindedness is coming to Michigan and other states right now, and represents a terrible mistake for many reasons. But the primary tragedy of such thinking is the brick wall it represents to family, particularly, children’s opportunities to hunt during those most important formative years of their youth.

In Texas and Mississippi, there is no minimum legal age for young hunters. Parents made those determinations for years without any injuries or accidents. And those 5, 6 and 7 year-old hunters bag deer regularly, under safe, well-supervised conditions that a bureaucrat or socialist cannot fathom. By all accounts, those families do not need to be protected from themselves, thank you. And if enclosure hunting is “unfair,” then, pray tell, just what do you call chicken McNuggets?

With shooting light fading into the evening shadows, Rocco belly-crawled the last few yards to the forest edge, and set up his little bolt-action .223 rifle for the shot. And because of all the dedicated range time he had invested to cultivate his inherent marksmanship discipline, he put that big, wild old hog down with a perfect heartshot. As we field dressed the beast and dragged him out of the forest, I glowed, witnessing my son’s joy and excitement from his first kill. It was a long, difficult, challenging day of lessons in the wild. Lessons that touched the deepest, most important cor of his being. Lessons of stealth, accountability, discipline, patience, awareness, self-control, self-sufficiency, nature, cause and effect and, ultimately, how to open up and feel his father’s love. To bring any obstacles whatsoever into his equation would be truly unfortunate. And it is very sad that no father and young son in Wisconsin or Washington State will ever be able to feel what we felt this day, all because selfish, ignorant fools create a policy with zero information. Really, really sad.

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Published by admin on 19 Jan 2010

My Method of shooting the bow: by Frank Addington Jr.

My Method of shooting the bow:
The Groscup Method of Instinctive Shooting
Although my father actually started me shooting a bow instinctively at four years old, I have dubbed my method “The Groscup Method” in honor of my friend and mentor the late Rev. Stacy Groscup.  A humble Methodist minister from Morgantown, WV Stacy was a great shot with a bow.  Any bow.  He was the first man to hit an aspirin tablet from mid air with a bow and he was the only archer to ever hit seven pills in a row, that remains a world record.  He did that record shot in the 1980’s in front of national TV. In 2004 he signed the 7th arrow he used for that shot and gave it to me.  I also have many other things that help me remember my old friend and second father. 

Stacy always called me his second son, and we laughed about it.  My parents didn’t mind sharing and Stacy and I were close my entire life.  Now that he is gone I want people to remember him and read about him.  I guarantee Stacy had a positive impact on anyone he ever met.  Like Jesus, he went about life doing good for others.

 
There was only one Rev. Stacy Groscup.  His father Baptized my father when dad was born and I grew up watching Stacy’s amazing shows.  I even tossed targets for him at a number of shows.  When I turned 18, he took a Pepsi can and tossed it into mid air and challenged me to hit it.  I did and that same day he put me in front of an audience shooting aerial targets. 
 
Stacy preferred the shortest bow he could get with the arrow as close to his knuckle as possible.  Fred Bear liked his arrow near his knuckle too.  However I’ve seen Stacy shoot an Onieda eagle, longbow and longer recurves with the same accuracy.  Since he was not a tall man, he liked the bows short.  He could shoot anything with a string on it.  He had an extensive bow collection, everything from antique Turkish coathanger bows to the most modern Black Widow or Zipper.  Golden Eagle even produced a limited edition bow via Zipper with Stacy’s name on it and they also made a video in the 1990’s featuring Stacy.
When the Archery Hall of Fame inducted Stacy as their 49th Inductee, I was very pleased to have been the one that got the nomination packet together.  It was the least I could do for this great man,  As humble as Stacy was he was very honored to be recognized by the sport he loved so much. I loved seeing him at the podium accepting the award and speaking to the group at the ATA dinner in Indianapolis.  When we got back to West Virginia the Governor honored Stacy with the Distinguished West Virginian Award and the WV Senate had him on the floor of the Senate and recognized him.  The West Virginia DNR also hosted a small party for Stacy at their headquarters at the Capital. 
The morning of the Governor’s award Stacy met me at Pop’s archery shop.  We presented Stacy with a Mathews MQ 32 bow.  A member of the media was there to interview Stacy.  I had told them he would be available for interviews but wouldn’t have time to shoot.  The next thing I know Stacy has the brand new MQ bow he’s never shot outside and a reporter filming him shoot discs out of mid air with it.  Now keep in mind Stacy had just driven three hours and was 78 years old.  He hit the aspirin the FIRST shot for the camera.  I was amazed and I had watched him shoot my entire life.  After the shot, Stacy grinned, said we better go and put his sport coat back on and we left to meet with the Governor.  Just another day for Stacy.  I mentioned the feat later that day when I spoke at the Governor’s ceremony.
I could tell you a lifetime of similar stories about Stacy.  Having shared the stage, hunting camps and practice range with him my entire life I can attest to the fact that he was the most consistent instinctive shooter to ever draw a string.  I am not taking away from any of our sport’s legends, living or past, and I consider myself a fair shot, but of us all—instinctive shooters and exhibition shooters, there has never been another like Stacy.  He could hit aerial targets from his stomach, his back, at a full run, or in a variety of positions, and was able to maintain his accuracy through old age.  When he was 82 he joined me on stage and hit the aspirin the 7th shot… at 82 years old.  How many of us will even be able to see an aspirin airborne at that age? 
 
Stacy played a big part in my life and is one of the reasons I do what I do.  He was one of those role models that impact your life and remain unforgettable.  Ted Nugent wrote a song about another friend of mine named Fred Bear.  He wanted future generations to remember Fred.  I thought that was huge of Nugent to do to keep Fred’s name out there for all.
I thought that by using “Groscup method of instinctive shooting” in my media interviews it would help keep Stacy’s name and memory alive.  If you have never heard of Stacy or did not have the opportunity to see his show I am sorry.  When we lost him the sport lost a gentle giant, a legend, and a man that truly lived up to the word hero.   
Until next time, Adios & God Bless.
Shoot Straight,
Frank Addington, Jr.
The Aspirin Buster
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Published by KurtD on 14 Jan 2010

DO NOT POST ITEMS FOR SALE IN THIS SECTIONS (Blogs and Articles)!

This section of Archerytalk is just for Blogs and Articles.

Please use the Archerytalk Forums TO POST A FREE CLASSIFIED AD

Thanks,

admin

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Published by sarah on 22 Dec 2009

My very first hunting trip in the pouring snow

The weather man is calling for a twenty four inch snow storm here in Roanoke county Virginia.   more snow than we will have gotten in fifteen years, also setting records for the month of December!  Anyways, i decide it will be fun to hunt in the snow and i should get to my tree stand before it starts snowing heavily.  As soon as i start walking into the edge of the woods i can barely see through the sno

windburn :(
 
windburn :(

w. i don’t turn back.  By the time i get to my stand already an inch and a half of snow has fallen and the steps are slippery climbing up.  im sweating and i should have lived in that last moment of warmth.  finally hooked in my stand i start to feel the snow flakes and wind on my cheeks.  windburn was in my future. my big fluffy NON-waterproof coat was starting to turn white and so was the rest of my clothing. i had to stand up to get some of it off before it all soaked in.  this turned into a routine.  an hour has passed and I’m colder than I’ve ever been in my life, and it feels like the temperatures dropping.  it hurts to look to my left; the wind and snow are hitting me harder than ever.  the next two hours were miserable.  i hadn’t seen a a squirrle  much less a deer and i was about to die so i lower my bow down and descend down the slippery steps once again.  up the hill i fell more times than i can count and next time i WILL dress warmer!

 

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