Tension on the String...: Classic Bowhunting Tales and Insights

TENSION ON THE

STRING . . .

Classic Bowhunting Tales and Insights

MARK R. BAKER

A Classicbowhunting Publication

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2012 by Mark R. Baker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

The stories in this book are all the authors stories, told to the best of his recollection of events and accounts experienced and related to him. All the hunts were conducted in fair-chase conditions and in utmost accordance to game laws. Dates, specific places, and names in certain instances have been omitted to protect anonymity and in keeping with the timeless theme of the book. Minor instances have been omitted which have no bearing on the events or significance of the outcomes in order to protect the integrity of the flow of the storylines. All elements are true to the best of the authors knowledge.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/02/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6830-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6829-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6831-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916830

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements . . .

Foreword . . . by Doug Campbell

Introduction . . .

The Connection . . .

Section One . . .

Deer

Chapter 1— No Waiting on the Wind

Chapter 2— Payoff for Persistence—The Scripted Season

Chapter 3— A Return to Paradise

Chapter 4— By the Numbers . . .

Chapter 5— The Last Hoorah . . .

Chapter 6— Big Deer are Wheezy

Section Two . . .

Antelope

Chapter 7— Murphy Must Be Asleep Today

Chapter 8— Two in Twenty . . .

Section Three . . .

Elk

Chapter 9— Frenzy!

Chapter 10— Gravelly’s Elk—A Hunt Remembered

Chapter 11— Those Fabulous Baker Boys!

Chapter 12— The Scrapper . . .

Chapter 13— The Life of Riley . . .

Section Four . . .

Primitive

Chapter 14— The Therapy Bow

Chapter 15— Board Bows . . . beyond building basics

Chapter 16— A Primitive Adventure . . .

Chapter 17— Quiet Counts for Something

Chapter 18— A Hardscrabble Trail . . .

Chapter 19— Slow Dogs Can Still Bite!

Section Five . . .

 More

 Wild

 Adventures

Chapter 20— The Others . . .

Chapter 21— Second Season Elk

Chapter 22— River of Memories . . .

Chapter 23— Two in Twenty . . . Too!

Closing (and rambling) Thoughts . . .

About the Author

Dedication

 . . . for my father, who lit the fire in me . . . and for my wife and kids with whom I’ve shared in this journey.

Acknowledgements . . .

First and foremost, I owe everything I am today to a loving wife . . . Penny, who went along with my bowhunting obsession, and embraced my ever-growing involvement into it, and the passing on of it all to our sons, Boone and Kory. She has seen, for the most part, the value in it, and the family bonds it has created as a result. Bowhunting transcends generations, and she fully understands it’s lure, and it’s magic that we share in our family as a result of it. To Boone and Kory, your acceptance and involvement in this crazy pastime has thrilled me more than you could ever know. Our days afield together are so precious to me. I love you dear . . . and I love you boys . . . and thanks for putting up with me all these years.

I can’t begin to tell these stories without acknowledging the many exceptional hunting partners and friends with whom I’ve shared these adventures and more. Finding a good hunting partner is almost as tough as finding a spouse. They become family almost, in that they think and act in much the same ways that we do. I have been truly blessed to have shared with them the hard work, sweat, tears, memories and journey . . . each one has been both inspiration and teacher to me, compadre and consultant. These are their stories, as much as mine.

Gerald Fish Fisher and I have shared decades of great times . . . and raised our boys into bowhunters with each other’s help and guidance. And now the boys, too,—Boone, Kory, and Riley—have become our best bowhunting buddies.

Walt Francis, and brother Bob . . . among the hardest working and dependable companions one could ask for, and I am forever grateful to have shared campfires with both.

Doug Campbell . . . gifted knife builder, and bowhunter extraordinaire . . . shares an ethic, enthusiasm, and knowledge base with humble generosity.

Todd Cooper, Dale Teachout, John and Jason Swanz, and Darryl Smith . . . thanks.

And there are others in these pages, some named and others not . . . but all are welcomed guests among my memories, and I am forever grateful for their contributions to my own experiences.

Many of these stories have previously appeared among the pages of Traditional Bowhunter Magazine, Primitive Archer, and the Professional Bowhunters Society Magazine, in similar form. I am truly grateful for their respective editor’s confidences in my writing abilities, and acceptance of materials over the years and I learned a great deal about this craft of writing as a result. I’ve never considered myself a great writer, but I’ve tried to tell the stories in a comfortable to read fashion. They reflect my hunting over the past three-plus decades with a bow, and they appear in no order or timeline. I prefer to think of them as timeless tales, a virtue of our style of outdoor pursuit. I am a voracious reader, and remember a time when good books on traditional bowhunting were hard to find oases to escape into. Nowadays, I’m in good company with my tales. I hope they find a niche on your shelf.

The photos are mostly my own, although some have been taken by my friends while we hunted together. Thanks to Walt, Doug, Dale, Todd, and Fish . . . and all who contributed to that important element of the story.

And thanks to God Almighty, for His creation, and His guidance and will, which has led me on this grand adventure of life.

Foreword . . . by Doug Campbell

Some people measure success by the size of their bank accounts, the piles of possessions accumulated or the way they have been able to manipulate others to their way of thinking. Then there are others who are more concerned with the lives they have impacted in a positive way, the traditions they have preserved for future generations and the legacy they leave behind. To any who know me it is obvious which type I prefer to hang out with. I’m very proud to say that Mark Baker is one who does his best to fulfill all three of the latter, and I’m very glad and honored to call him friend.

In 2000 my lovely bride Karen and I packed up everything we owned, our daughter, the dog and moved from hot humid Missouri to Montana to hopefully enjoy semi-retirement. While the retirement part hasn’t exactly worked out as planned it has been a great life living in Montana. Besides being able to chase elk without having to travel 1400 miles, one of the greatest joys has been the new friends we’ve made along the way.

We first met Mark and Penny after being out here a couple months. I saw a flyer advertizing that the Montana Bowhunters Association was having their annual Gathering in nearby Bozeman. To top it off, Monty Browning was the guest speaker so it was a no brainer that we had to attend. When we arrived, we looked up Monty to say Hi, and found Mark escorting him around. Mark introduced himself and Penny, and during the following conversations we found out we only lived 25 miles apart, so we made plans to get together after the Gathering. Now twelve years later, we have become fast friends and shared more than a few good times together.

At the time I met Mark he was serving his second term as President of the Montana Bowhunters Association. Since then he has served two terms as President of the Traditional Bowhunters of Montana as well. One of the things that stands out most about him is his dedication to our sport and willingness to give of himself to further traditional bowhunting. Even with his accomplishments within the archery community, undoubtedly what he considers his and Penny’s most successful accomplishment will be in raising his two fine young men. Karen and I have watched Boone and Kory grow from a couple rowdy, tow-headed boys to a couple of mature young men. With their father’s example to follow, I know they will surely leave their own marks on this great sport we call Traditional Archery.

Well I’d better let you get on with what you intended when you opened this book—no doubt you are going to enjoy the following writings and ramblings Mark has put together for us.

Introduction . . .

I’m drawn to the wilds . . . always have been, and always will, I guess. Its appeal is overwhelming to me, to my curious nature, to my restless soul. Montana has this wild allure, and I can’t seem to escape it’s calling, though I love the wilds elsewhere as well. Still, I always long to return to my mountains, my prairies, my home’s haunts.

The last best place they say, and I’m convinced, exists here on the east slopes of the Northern Rockies. Where vast expanses of grasslands, meld into cedar-choked draws leading into rolling foothills, square-topped buttes, and framed at last on its western horizons by towering snow-capped peaks. Fleet-afoot herds of pronghorn antelope chase across grass and sage, while whitetails and mule deer bed higher in the brush and cedars, and daily wander down to feed and back up again at daybreak. Occasionally a bear will meander through lower elevations, along creek banks in search of carrion or chokecherries, depending on what time of the year. The skies see plenty of soaring raptors of all types keeping wary eyes peeled for mice or ground squirrels.

Mid-September sees colorful changes in the flora, as brush and aspens turn from greens to reds and yellows, and snows begin to dust the peaks. Windswept grasslands turn hues of gold and browns, and skies clear of summer’s smoke from distant wildfires. The air is crisp and cool, and fresh as can be, and you can see a hundred miles. This is magic time for me, when I want to be out as much as possible to take it all in.

Hiking upwards off these prairies and into the foothills is a gradual climb towards faces of some of Montana’s highest of peaks. Grasses give way to pine and fir trees, with aspen stands along seeps of moisture and in north and east facing slopes where intense sun is less likely to penetrate. Mule deer are plentiful here, and so are moose and elk, hard antlered now in fall’s splendor, and performing the annual rituals of procreation, nature’s ballet of sound and purpose. On the high ridges yet above, bighorn sheep and mountain goats exist in almost regal environs. We share these slopes, top to bottom, with other hunters . . . lions, wolves, grizzlies, black bears, coyotes. Wind, water, fire, ice, flood and drought all play their parts in this area’s creation and constant state of change. It’s old, it’s new, and as near a complete ecosystem as exists in the lower contiguous states.

It’s no wonder that Native Americans hold numerous places along here close to their hearts and souls. This same east-slope corridor is where the first people trekked southward along opening pathways amongst retreating glaciers, after crossing the land bridge from Siberia, onward to populate much of the continent. Archaeological digs in these parts have uncovered hunting camps that date back some 10,000 years and more. I’ve discovered pits and hides where ambushes have occurred by these same hunters . . . long before myself, and I’ve trekked to high points likely shared by those same hunters of previous generations, and sat for hours in contemplation and wonder. It’s my playground, my school, my church, all in one.

And Montanans have done much to keep this natural appeal as is . . . I’ve been fortunate to have top-notch role models growing up here as a young man, who shared with me the value of wild places. Many of the final strongholds of our wild species survived here after the exploitive expansions of civilizations overtook much of our country. From early on, Montanans recognized the importance of these treasures, and have taken appropriate actions to safeguard them.

As hunters, we embrace the ethics of fair-chase, limiting technological as well as societal trends that serve to degrade the respect we have for wild, free animals. Baiting or even the use of food-based scents are prohibited; remote scouting cameras, infrared or night vision optics . . . not allowed; neither the use of electronics calls or two-way radios; strict limits on the killing tools of choice during primitive seasons allow us to maintain some modem of difficulty in these privileged pursuits. Even on private lands, the game remains the property of the public . . . no game farms, no ranching-for-wildlife programs that privatize and commercialize our conservation endeavors thus far.

This has helped us in preserving healthy, viable herds, and plentiful access to them, with resultant lengthy season structures. This is a recipe for satisfaction in our hunts . . . particularly for us bowhunters who enjoy the chase as much as the end result. Multiple species to hunt, with long, satisfying seasons, all in a setting relatively unchanged since prehistoric times . . . who could ask for more?

I am drawn to the wilds. My father helped to instill this in me, although he never lived to see it come to full fruition. He steered my interests towards organized scouting as a boy, and even further into programs that nurtured leadership and self-reliance, woodsmanship and survival skills. He taught me to slow down in the outdoors, and to shoot guns and bows and arrows. He even taught me a prejudice against technology, inadvertently, when compound bows came on the scene, through his own disdain for them. His respect for wildlife, and how you pursued them was passed to me through his example in his own pursuits with a bow. Moving to Montana, at the age of 15, was like winning a lottery for me. My Dad’s untimely death, when I was 18 years old, only strengthened my outlook on life and my resolve to enjoy in each day doing what was important, and in my ability to sort the details of what matters in life, and what doesn’t. And in raising a family here, myself, I have done my best to pass these lessons on to my sons as well.

This book is but a snapshot of this bowhunters life. There is so much more. It’s been a lifestyle, a passion, an obsession . . . just ask my loving, somewhat understanding, wife . . . that permeates everything we do, from where we live, to how we live. It is who we are.

Given the circumstances in which we live, the opportunities I’ve been blessed to enjoy as a result, and the timing of our lives in an unpredictable world that seemingly changes at an ever-rapid pace, I’ve tried to write down some of the adventures and events I’ve been a part of in this life, for my progeny and friends’ to enjoy if they choose so. More so as an example, and less of a lesson, it’s just the way I, we—my family and friends, have chosen to do it. We’ve done our level best to conduct ourselves in a fashion that survives the scrutiny of our peers and most important, ourselves . . . and sets an example for others to follow, should they choose, that we can be proud of. On the surface, this is all I’ve tried to accomplish in this endeavor. If, beyond that, we can educate a bit, those thirsty for such, then I say you could do worse. We’ve tried to enjoy our journey and, in hindsight, would likely do it all again, the same. And we can only hope we leave this world for the better, in some small way, because of it.

The Connection . . .

Easing along the riverbank, my cautious footfalls conveniently disguised by the sounds of water over rocks, I made my way to the faint game trail that would lead me inland some 50 yards or so to a predetermined ambush point of my choosing. I paused as I noticed a river otter perched on a boulder in the river, not an uncommon sight, as a family had been frequenting the area recently. Finally reaching the trail and moving quietly along, I came to the large blown down cottonwood lying alongside, and climbed atop its immense girth, prone beside an equally large brother still standing. From my four-foot high perch, my back to the great tree, I faced a well-traveled game trail that passed beneath yet another blowdown behemoth, it’s trunk and branches arching over the passers-by like some great garden gate. Patiently I waited, my Bear recurve in hand, for what fate might bring me.

Lulled by the quiet whispering of the nearby river and the rustling of leaves from the cool evening breeze, I was shaken back from the edge of conscious clarity as I keyed in on the sounds of approaching footsteps on the trail. A family of does, seven total, moved unsuspecting down the trail, beneath the limbs of the fallen tree, and began to feed in the small clearing beyond.

The mule deer does had no idea that a predator was in their midst, intent on carrying out that ages-old dance that Mother Nature scripted. From a distance scarcely