Episode 15: Bowhunting Heritage

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to the Code of Traditional Archery, brought to you by Primitive Stone Archery and the founder Grant Richardson. Welcome to the Code of Traditional Archery Podcast. I'm Grant Richardson, your host, and we're well into our second season now, and we want to welcome all the new people joining us, and thanks to those that have been following us thus far. Our original intent of this podcast was to bring back traditional archery and bow hunting with a stick and string to an older era. Yes, things do change, but in its inception, it was simply a heck of a lot harder way to hunt due to the skill set, the dedication, and woodsmanship required that so many parts of the bow hunting industry attempt to circumvent with technology these days. Back in the day in our province, a small group formed in 1972 out of a northern Ontario moose hunt, and those present all happened to hunt with bows and found each other pursuing the same path. The Ontario Bow Hunters Association was founded, a group dedicated to protecting not only hunting with a bow and arrow, but setting the bar high for what would become an active influence on archery hunting in Ontario. This group that would be instrumental in bringing the first archery only seasons, primitive weapon season laws, and with those laws the foundation of ethics for archery hunting in the province of Ontario. I was lucky, being raised in a hunting family that bow hunted, and even more so as my own father was president of the Ontario Boat Association from 77 to 78. I was a witness to the formation of and implementation of those laws and how they created opportunities across the province, affecting game management even outside of the archery seasons. The people that formed this group were hardcore bow hunters in every sense, and they took the pursuit of game with the stick and string seriously. Their hunting stories would become adventures in my young mind, and those adventures would form legends. You see, it was not the kill that mattered as much as the journey to that moment. No, it was the process and hard work and the ground that was covered in all of that which mattered that resulted if one was ardent enough in one's pursuit. When an animal was taken, bear, moose, even a doe, buck deer, rabbit, or grouse, it was celebrated in the manner in which it had been hunted, and in that celebration was a resolute respect for the animal and the process. I saw this over and over again as a kid, and it left a lasting impression on my young mind that still exists today. Arguably, the OBA was a strong influence on Bohing, Ontario. The structure that they brought was based on years of meetings and assemblies with Fish and Wildlife and big game managers and other bow hunting organizations. And the following is an excerpt from the Ontario Bow Hunters Association Bow Hunting Notes, and I want to give a special thanks to an old friend of my father's, Dennis Sunberg, one of the legends from my youth and the Ontario Bow Hunters Association for the assist. A historical sketch. The beginnings of what we know today as the Ontario Boners Association emerged colorfully out of the Machouan Hotel the day prior to the 1972 moose hunt. Ken Grant Eric Griffin had arranged to meet Joe Drummond before proceeding to the designated hunting area, and Ken recalls quite vividly camping alongside a logging road, spending the night scaring off mice, skunks, and a bear. The following day, with Chris Metz from Maryland and Ron Potter and John Dewinger from Ganinoque, the party proceeded up the logging road to Geeky Lake. Only four, Mertz, Desmond, Griffin, and Grant, the last two in a flying Volkswagen, made it to the logging cabins between Forks and Geeky. Sometime during that week, the Geeky Lake Moose Association was born, only to be quickly renamed the Ontario Bow Hunters Association. The main purpose of the association were quite simple, in part a desire to reign and retain the camaraderie and companionship during the off season, a feeling that a hunting domain the size of Ontario deserved at least one bow hunting voice, and a promise to try and organize those individuals across the province who chose to hunt with a bow. Formally, Joe Desmond was named honorary president, Ken Grant Vice President, and Eric Griffin Secretary Treasurer. Later during the fall of 72 and into 73, a number of informal meetings were held at a Stitzville residence of Griffin. Names were gathered and a newsletter was sent out, focusing on the need for provincial standards for bow weights, razor sharp broadheads, and longer hunting seasons. Obviously little has changed. The spring of 73 brought the group together again for a bear hunt. An experienced bow hunter from Matokokin, Dennis Gregory, joined the group and was named vice president, with Ken Grant being promoted to president. Ron Aguire and Jack Cadu from Cornwall area and a number of hunters from Sudbury joined the group, and Ron Frank was among them. A number of late night meetings that week served to fuel the OBA, and from then on, newsletters published regularly on Eric Griffson's typewriter that kept people informed. And finances in those early days consisted of a few dollars that went into a kettle. Through the years of 74 and 75, a number of meetings were again held in the home in Stittsville of Griffin. During the Timmins Moose seasons of those years, meetings were also held in the moose hunt area, and more of the objectives of the OBA were defined and later implemented. Things such as the realization of the need to develop OBA representatives in many of the outlying areas around the province. A rather large and successful canvassing of representatives throughout the province and the states began to bear fruit as the membership of the OBA began a sudden upswing during the years of 75 and 76. Also during this time, the newsletter took on a positive approach by expanding to encompass other articles and editors, giving a fresh new outlook to the scene of bow haunting in Ontario. From the OBA's inception in 72 until the fall of 76, the success and roots of the association were due mainly to the effort and foresight of its Secretary Treasurer, Griffin. Almost single-handedly he took care of the money, meeting communications, and with all the reps and executives, as well as put forth an interesting and informative newsletter every second or third month. Ron Frank, nicknamed Putty, took the president's chair January 76 and held that position until June 77. During Putty's tenure as president, and as a result of the kind of energy and openness with which he dealt with a growing organization, a healthy growth period was seen. The period was not without some conflict, but Putty as always was capable of dealing with these problems, and the organization never seemed to suffer. Ed Frome took over the membership and brought the organizational standard of that office to what it is today. Putty had to leave office because of his intended vocational change, and a grateful OBA will not easily forget what he gave of himself to make the sport of bow hunting better. Education will, we hope, always be foremost in the minds of the OBA, and Putty certainly gave that a boost with the Sudbury Seminar, which took place on the campus of Cambrian College, May of 1977, with a hundred or so in attendance. Workshops were run on everything for bow hunter safety, equipment of all types, hunting techniques, game anatomy, patterning deer, tracking to wilderness survival. The seminar also prompted the first publication of the OBA, which is called Bow Hunting Notes and encompasses everything that the well-equipped, well educated bow hunter should know. Putty, Zika Canthi of Cambrian College, and those who contributed the first publication deserve much credit for those efforts. Continuing. Fred Richardson took over as president July 1977, and Fred held that office to December 1978. One of the major first organizational steps took place in that year for the OBA, that being incorporation, was completed in 1977 of September. The beginning also meant the OBA had to look seriously at its internal organizational structure to ensure that all of its operations were of a high standard and open to scrutiny. The year 1979 brought some executive change with Ernie Push, treasurer since 77 in January, moving west and turning the office over to Mike Prochitko of North Bay. Guy Ziebert, after bringing the newsletter up to excellent standards, turned that position over to Dennis Sunberg of North Bay, who has continued the same quality of newsletters for OBA members that have become accustomed to, and Doug Ratz took over as president for 1979 that year. There was some major changes in 1979, with insurance being added for individual members when they are engaged in bow hunting activities. And the programs for this year, some of which are clearly in the founding stages, include education, a program for both the individual member and provincial for the Ministry of Natural Resources personnel, legislation, which is a continual dialogue to ensure we have firsthand input to provincial changes that may occur, and club membership to ensure contact with all the clubs throughout Ontario, and awards to clearly maintain a continuous record of the hunting and involvement activities of individual members, and a year-long calendar of OBA events that should include activities such as general meetings, seminars, jamboree, the bear hunt, and zone workshops. I have all in likelihood omitted events and individuals who have contributed much to the growth of the OBA in bow hunting, but it becomes much more evident as time goes on that the success of the OBA will depend on the time spent by dedicated people to ensure its future. And that is an excerpt from that OBA bow hunting notes manual. And I want to thank Dennis Sundberg for allowing me to contribute to that. And it's a it's the beginning excerpt in that book and manual they did. And it I think it's important to understand that really this was the first organization in Ontario in its exception, in its inception, I should say, that really made that impact we have on our laws now. The day had started early for me, hearing my father wake up and head to the kitchen. Pitch blackout still. This was long before morning coffee was part of my wake up routine. Wearily I stepped into the low light of our kitchen, the light of the oven reflecting off my dad's face, and he smiled and handed me a plate of fried eggs and bacon. I sat down thinking about what was about to happen. Images of white-tailed deer and bowstrings singing danced in and around my young brain as I stuffed my breakfast down as fast as possible. There was an urgency, you see, to get going, to jump to it was undoubtedly going to be a long day of sitting, but with great expectations. This event, however, is more like a theme park for me as a child, and it started long before the sunrise, and even my sleepiness of waking up. No, it started months, if not years prior and continued on, always present, never leaving me in the spring and summer. When trout dancing to my hand tied flies preoccupied those lucid days, shooting practice, Ontario bow hunter jamborees, fun shoots, broadhead shoots, arrow tuning, equipment preparation, and the thrill of my youth for deer prep scouting, finding that perfect location away from anyone else, and deep within the pine and poplar forests of my young days. I walked many miles, both with and without my father in search of that perfect place I imagined, to sit and hunt the legendary white tail deer. Finding their tracks was like locating a lost jewel, and I would assess everything I could upon finding a set of prints. What direction they were headed? Had the deer been walking? Running? Was there more than one? What was it eating? Where did it bed down? Was this a main run or occasional? What time of day had it come by, and of course, had it come by the stand we'd set already, all these thoughts and more prevailed heavily into my thought process. Summer would eventually turn from hazy warm days to August September cold nights, and I would leave my window open to my bedroom at night just to try to detect the first scent of autumn air. I would watch my father's anticipation grow like a fever. He would shoot every day after he came home from work, and I would shoot alongside him. In days before the opener, evenings were spent arranging kit, tree stands, and ground blinds had been made already set long prior. This was serious business. Gathering and shoots were gone for now, and the focus was on preparation. Sharping his broadheads like some ancient shaman about to perform a ritual surgery, he was laser focused on the task at hand. Raising a finished and completed head up to the light he would pronounce out loud, shaving hair sharp, son, nothing less than that. We began to turn out of town and hit several bumps in our old red 1979 Ford Bronco, the suspension bouncing me around the front seat. The area was a tree nursery, at least some of it was, and it was one of the first archery only areas open on Ontario at the time. I watched the sides of the dirt road closing around us for signs of any deer moving as we made our way into the forested roads. Climbing out of the large truck, I was cautious, shutting the door quietly and followed my father as he walked to where I would be sitting around eighty yards from his location. It was ice cold for October, and the chill would eventually find its way to my toes and fingers first. I had my ways of moving them to keep them warm, counting the ducks flying to the nearby river, how many puddle ducks versus divers, and wait to hear the shotguns roar to the incoming birds as I imagined them pitching into their decoy setups. I did see a deer myself on occasion, and I would nearly split myself in half wishing I had a bow in hand. Instead, I would study the deer's movement, its walk, behavior, and where it was coming and going. I would then be bussing to tell my father my good fortune and how he would have handled a shot from my future hunting bow on the animal. Soon enough, noon would arrive, and the familiar quiet footfalls of my dad's boots would arrive at my location and he would beckon me forward. Cherry pie and hot chocolate from the country restaurant nearby was on the menu, and he and his fellow archers would meet for lunch and talk of the morning hunts. If there was time, we would often went back and hunted the dirt bushroads for grouse or rabbits and scout hunted until it was time to head back to the stands and sit until the darkness fell. A down deer was an event. It was celebrated since at the time it was rare to see a deer taken with a bow and arrow. I recall a buck that was hit one afternoon by another hunter. My father stopped his own hunt, and he assisted the new bonner in tracking and retrieving his deer despite it being one of his last days to hunt that year. It had begun to rain and the sky was growing dark despite having plenty of light remaining in the day, and my father's friend was seen heading to our truck as he stepped out, prepping for what would be one of the last bow hunts that chilly October afternoon. We could see him coming up the road with bow in hand. As he did, two fat rough grows stepped out, and as per their namesake strut it out for all to see their kingly crest and tails displayed. As he walked up to them, I expected fully to see a judo tipped arrow removed from his bow quiver and one of the birds to catch it in full flight. But that did not happen. He had a sense of urgency as he strode by the two bronze feathered birds, and they flushed upwards into the yellow and orange canopy, where poplar met maple at the sky's edges. T I got a hit, he shouted to my father, who was eyeing a scarlet covered arrow sitting in his buddy's quickie quiver. T a buck, he came in and ran off, a big one right near me, he stated, half tripping his words in excitement. Let's go after your hunt, he stated to my father. I need help looking. No, no, we better go now, and with that my father encased his Browning Explorer, and grabbed a light and some flagging tape. Grant, get a layer off, he stated. We'll be walking, you won't need your sweater. I nodded, and as I moved to the truck's back seat, I realized that I wasn't going to sit but go on a track in recovery, and this was thrilling for a thirteen year old. We walked down the old gravel bush road, overgrown in many places, the edges lined with ripened grapes and apple trees from an old homestead now lost to the ears and weather. I was trying to remain fixed on my father's conversation as several more grouse flushed wildly from their hiding places in the tangles of purple fruit. He was talking his buddy through the whole hunt. His first shot at the deer. In fact, his first shot at a deer with a bow, the direction the animals had come from, what position the deer had been in when the arrow had been sent, and how the buck had reacted when the arrow struck it. I listened intently, keeping pace behind them as we arrived at the trail that led to his sparse ground blind, using a deadfall and some nearby brush as a natural setup. The first buck had come directly in at him and offered no shot, when moments later the second buck charged in at the first, picking a fight. He had partially stood drawing as he rose from his hiding place and shot the second buck. They had spun off fast, and the one he was sure he'd hit had run without stopping as he watched the arrow fall from its side. Moments later, it disappeared. My father slowly asked him to show him the hit site and the last place he saw the deer. At the hit site was dark brown guard hairs, and I stared at them. Deer hair. This was amazing to me. And there was significant markings of a hit, scarlet orange against the crimson pine needles and bright orange maple leaves strewn about the forest floor. Studying the arrow, my father pulled it from his quiver. A port orfred cedar shaft still intact with a large ace broadhead. See, Grant, my father turned, showing me the arrow. That's a lung hit, I'm certain. Also, that head is still very sharp. Always remember that. He stared at me seriously. Turning back to his friend. Let's tag this spot and get on him. He had me flag each hair and blood, and would turn back every few feet or so looking for the pattern of travel. We broke into a set of heavy cedars after forty yards, and there inside the cedar edge was a large indication of where the bucket stood, as his life ran from him. I was stunned momentarily. I'd seen this before, but not concentrated as such, and my father had me study it closely before moving on. And we stood for several minutes. I doubt he's much further, he said. We moved slowly with a careful and meticulous stride into the cedars, and then just as we were breaking into another opening of hardwoods, my father stopped us and knelt slowly. It took me a few minutes of looking, but there ahead no more than twenty feet lay the deer beside a small hemlock, as if placed from a painting. We watched for several minutes and my father had his friend knock an arrow. The setting sun cast long shadows through the upper canopy of maples, and as the wind dropped, leaves settled down upon all of us. Go get your deer, my dad remarked to his buddy moments later. My father stopped me from walking up and allowed his friend have several minutes alone until he waved us over. Oh my Fred, he said. My, my, my, what a deer. He laid his recurve across the buck, and kneeling he touched the antlers of the stout six point. You know I've shot deer with a rifle, he said to us, but this, he shook his head, this is so different. His voice slowing. I've hunted for almost four weeks and didn't get a chance until today. He paused. Thanks for the help. We helped to get the deer out of the bush and into his truck. As we drove back, my father and I discussed the event. By the time we left, a large gathering had surrounded the deer. The story was told several more times to eager ears with smiles all around, and the buck was revered for its life and habits. A week later, a knock on the door, and there was his friend. Deer for you, he said. Thanks again, smiling. He handed me a box full of venison. That caused me to pause and think. This was not just a deer hunt, this was something else, something more. It spoke of a classic tradition and a set of values, older and ethical, organic and full of mirth and camaraderie celebrilling the life of both the wild and the deer that resided there. This was the lifestyle I was raised and immersed in. This was hunting the hard way. This is the true culture of bow hunting. We're excited to announce we're launching our book, a project almost two years in the making, The Code of Traditional Archery, Walking the Path, The Legacy of Traditional Bow Hunting. The Code of Traditional Archery is a book reflecting on the hunting journey of traditional bow hunting, the ethics, and the process that guides us along our journey. Following along in a story-teach lessons learned format that is both earnest and organic in approaching the true process of a hunting legacy, bringing back traditional bowing to its intended roots without the need for technology. Walk with the writer in an in-depth approach to the developmental process that draws the reader into a world where the hunter becomes connected with prey, developing a deeper sense of appreciation for nature and the three pillars of the code of traditional archery, and bow hunting with a stick and string. You will find our book on our store or through Amazon or Barnes Nobles Online and in-store retailers. Check out our Instagram and Facebook pages and hit the link in the comments to find your own copy of the Code of Traditional Archery. And be sure to follow our podcasts on Amazon and Audible. We have another big announcement. We are hosting our first webinar live this Thursday, 27th of April, 7 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, and they will be covering my three secrets for stick bow hunting for wild turkeys. I don't hunt fields, I seldom call, and I rarely use decoys. If you're looking for some tactics to up your game, to register, hit the link in the podcast comments, and I will see you soon. Thursday. Thanks for joining us. We appreciate all the positive feedback we've been getting from folks all over the world. This confirms for us the intent we have in our platform message based on the three pillars of the code of traditional archery. Weapon proficiency with the stick bow, ethics to guide us on our collective journey, and conservation and stewardship in order to protect the wildlife woods, fields, and waterways we hunt as our themes are resonating. If you haven't already, check out Compton Traditional Bow Hunters, a great organization that ensures the traditions of bow hunting with a stick and string is alive and well not only now but for generations to come. They're hosting the annual Compton Rendezvous this June. Check out their Instagram or website for more information. Thanks again for listening in. We encourage you to immerse yourself in the art of the stick bow. Shoot straight and walk with us.