Episode # 22 - Bird Of A Thousand Arrows

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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. We want to welcome all the new people joining us and the thanks to those who have been following us thus far. The Code of Traditional Archery is dedicated to the legacy I was raised with under the former Ontario Bow Hunters Association. The efforts and work to create, implement, and forge the original primitive weapon and archery seasons and laws in Ontario will not be forgotten. You can find this podcast on Spotify, iTunes, and Amazon Audible, or wherever you listen to your podcast. And if you like what you hear, we'd love it if you left a review. Original intent of this podcast was to bring back traditional archery and bow hunting to an older era where hunting ability met Archer, and together the two formed a bow hunter. Shooting and hunting with recurves and longbows is more popular than ever. However, the approach is much more so an art and skill set, not a product, but a process. Enjoy episode 22, Bird of a Thousand Arrows. The clock on the classroom wall above the door seemed to slow toward the end of the day's lessons. I stared at its face and back to the window where the long row of ancient maples bordered the edge of my high school's driveway. The yellow and golden hues swirled in the air outside, making this classroom and subject, that of history, my favorite that year. I spent the better part of that week arguing the effectiveness of the Roman fanlang fighting position from an essay I'd written, and was eager for the day to end. As the rest of the class chatted about the impending weekend and party plans were made to keep from being bored in small town rural Canada, I was making plans of my own, as I watched the sunlight dance across the early October sugar maples, tossing their leaves about in small swirling updrafts into ice blue skies. I would have little time before nightfall beckoned to its shadowy tendrils where I wanted to hunt. I knew exactly where I needed to be that day. It was more than a 15-minute brisk walk home, and I could cut that time in half if I ran all the way. Those days my extracurricular school time had been cross-country running, and it suited my independent nature so well, a good run cleared my mind and took the edge off of a monotonous school day. I made it home in record time, the sun still setting in the sky as if patiently waiting for my chores to finish, which I'd already completed before leaving for school that day. I ran downstairs to my room and grabbed my recurve that had been waiting for my return. Stepping out the back door of a bungalow, I slung my bow across my back and checked to ensure the arrows were in place on the hip cover I was wearing. Minutes later, I made my way down the street towards the end of the south end of the town limits, a modern day Robin Hood riding a red CCM speed bike at breakneck speed. My destination was several natural grass fields that connected to the back of an old homestead the town was now encroaching upon. The north side was off limits as it housed a fenced in pasture for several jet black Arabians, and a connected barn where at times I was allowed to hang over the fence and feed the lone friendly mare when she was out by herself. I banked the old red speed bike off the curb at the edge of the paved single lane road in a manner that suited my buddy's Huffy BMX bikes, more so than the thin rinned racing bike, nearly going over the curved handlebars in my haste. As I rode slowly over the gravel drive leading to the old farm home, I glanced over at the farmhand, tossing oats off his old shubby silverado, and onto a pallet sled nearby. At it again, he yelled over to me. I am, I replied, nodding in return. I walked the bike over to where he was standing. I parked the cycle at the edge of the barn and pulled my bow off my shoulders, leading it and the quiver of eight dark green easting game getter fluflues against the weathered grey wood. The setup contrasted perfectly with the background they were leaning on, and I stared at the red barred spiral fletch I'd painstakingly wrapped myself several weeks prior. Need help? I asked. No, I'm good today, he replied. My father had always taught me the etiquette of getting permission on property I wanted to hunt. Always asked to help out, he would say, and in fact, the very ask had on several occasions, got me temporary pocket money on the old farm hang a few times. On this day, however, I would get a pass from helping with the feed chores. They were out back this morning picking up the waste green from the bins behind the rear barn, if you're wondering, he remarked. How many? I asked. At least a baker's dozen, but another flock had appeared and they wandered into the grass next to the paddock. He pointed north across the yard and beyond. I grew excited at that point. Say hi to your dad, he said, as I walked back to retrieve my bow and arrows. I nodded and checked to ensure I had all my ket with me after my furious ride out of town. The gray and rusty birds I was after were plentiful on my youth in the area, but they were experts at hiding out in the natural long grass that was still there and bordered by fence lines choked with wild raspberry and blackberry bushes. Brought to eastern Ontario in the late 1800s, the birds I was after today were called Hungarian partridge, Huns, Greys, or Grey Partridge. A stunning bird, rusty red, adorned gray bodies that presented a very challenging target for a swinging shotgun, and even more so for a 16-year-old and his recurve. Although at the time I was spurred on by teenage persistence, and if musky are the fish of a thousand casts, these were the bird of a thousand arrows. This area was not open to hunting with firearms, though. Shotguns was not going to happen. Within town limits, only a bow could be used, and even then, carefully around the old farm, now being encroached by the town and its new mall that was coming soon. There was amazing hunting for rough grouse around town. King Ruff hunted many overgrown logging rolls and old orchards nearby, and some wild ringnecks could even be found if he hunted hard enough for them in the tall grasses that adjoined the riparian wetlands nearby. But Huns offered something historical for me, an old world avian. And most hunters around town never sought them much unless they happened into them chasing other species. For me they were a legend of a bird, spoken about by my father's side of the family. Most of them staunch bird dog folks, of side lock, English stalks side by sides, filsencloth vests, and stories of staunch pointing red beeslash and English cocker spaniels flushing them from open grain fields ran through my young mind. I'd taken my springer spaniel out with me several times after these birds. She was still young, though, and her brash, curly attitude, liver and white tail wagged fearlessly for me when upland hunting. But it was a bit of a cross-country type of thing with her, and although she found birds with me every time for the bow, she ranged a little too far sometimes. As eager as she was, I left her today at home, walking and opting to stock the wild gray partridges by myself, hoping to chase down a single or two after busting the cubbies I knew were there. As you may now be aware, I'd been at this before, in fact, more than a dozen times or so that year already, and success had come with one fallen tail feather, the Green East and Game Gatter's tip with the steel blunt had knocked off the tail of a cockbird I narrowly missed with my Flemish string launch attempt. That, however, unsuccessful, had now become the driver for pushing forward, and the realization that I'd come so close to tagging one of the birds, I'd practically forgotten about the upcoming whitetail season opening shortly. I'd spent the Sunday prior having my then girlfriend toss clay birds for me into the air for the better part of the day, quite unimpressed at helping me, but that afternoon had sharpened my aerial shooting somewhat, even if it hadn't helped my young love life much at all. But such is the folly of young teenage minds. I looked down at the dark brown Wilson brothers tab that had been my grandfather's, the old finger loop worn and gone, replaced by his deft hands with spun wool to secure it to my fingers. I tugged a judo shaft out of the hip quiver, knocking the arrow, and turning quickly to my rear, spun and took a shot at a nearby dandelion stem some ten feet away, trying to simulate a common partridge shot. One of the head's wires snipped the feathered frostbitten flower, sending seedlings into the air that drifted off down the pasture. Good enough, I thought, stepped out into the long grass to begin to walk slowly into the large field. The wood lot across the almost five hundred acres of fields and hedgerows I stepped out into was mostly birch and poplar covered, and the brilliant white and yellow October afternoon was illuminated that much more by the sun casting its light show onto the woods nearby. This would be problematic, however, and I soon realized this after busting a very fattened up cottontail rabbit from a nearby blackberry bramble, the sun cutting my vision in half with its glare. I needed to adjust, or I'd never be able to see the birds jump from cover as I zigzagged across the humble plots of open ground. I turned and opted to walk back where I'd already come in and approach from a different angle, hoping to catch the birds with the sun at my back. I retraced my path and using the edge of the adjacent woodlot, I walked along the golden leaf poplar and birch tree canopy shining to my left, and I stopped to look at a wide set of heart-shaped deer tracks that appeared fresh in the dirt. As soon as I knelt down, I could hear the unmistakable concerned whirring and sharp calls of predict predicts, the gray partridge I was after near the tall grasses somewhere out in front of me. Huns love seeds. In fact, the bulk of their diet is native seeds, grasses, and the occasional insects. Their primary food in the property I was hunting, apart from waste grains, were ragweed seeds. The big issue I had, again, was no dog this time. Normally a hunt would be a sniffing and waggy and flushing sort of high speed springer spaniel affair after these birds. But today I was on my own again to sneak with the intent to pin a cubby close enough to get a shot off. The sun was quite low in the sky now, only an hour and a half left or so of light, I thought, as I snuck slowly around the large patch of hippie grasses bordered by an old fallen shed now encircled by grapevines, popping with the tart frost bitten fruit and brush. Ahead and behind the lost structures I saw half a dozen grey rust birds break and run to the cover of the grass some forty yards beyond. Quickly knocking a judo, I stepped around the shed and approached the bird's hiding place. No sooner had I stepped round the weather wood and brush when the air behind me exploded into a rusty gray burst of feathers, as more than a dozen Huns made their escape. Turning and picking a bird, I swung through a cockbird less than fifteen feet away. Leading him a split second, I loosed the arrow which flew within an inch or so, so close I thought I had him. I could hear the worried raspy chirks of the birds to my front now as well. Knocking another arrow, I stepped into the choked brush, as if trying to stomp out a grass fire. Nothing. I could hear something in the brushy tangle of grapevines, though. Another step and a purring caught my attention. Knowingly, I swung the short recurve in the sound's direction to my left, but I was a scant second too slow as a plunt rough grouse took off at the edge of the brush and rocketed upwards towards the safety of the poplars nearby. I snapshot at the gray faced bird with the arrow, just a touch below its tail fan, embedding the arrow into the lower branches of the nearest tree. Stepping to get a better look, the remaining Hungarians flew to my rear and only a few feet away, with no arrow knocked, I had no chance. They flew out, gliding into a brush pile near the opposing entrance to the second field, and made for the brushy ditch that separated the large lower end of the farm. I shook my head. Two misses, the last one certainly a hail merry shot at that rough. I did not expect to be there. I retrieved the arrow, setting my bow down and managing to knock the arrow in the tree with a well placed stick toss. I sat down on an old stump, a cutaway from a hundred years prior when the main highway was cut through, and one I'd sat on several times prior for breaks. I held up the shaft I knocked out of the tree, checking the green colored game getter to ensure it was still true and not damaged. A flock of wood ducks peeled through the tree line on their way to a pond I knew well, squealing as they twisted through the bright orange and red yellow canopy across the gravel road, and for a moment wondered if I should have been sitting on that pond this late Dan October, instead of tossing arrows at gray rockets. Those very birds, the wood ducks, however, had spurred on my archy enthusiasm for wing shooting that same autumn, as only two weeks prior, successfully, I'd arrowed a Drake Woody on a nearby feeder creek on the wing. And I was not about to give up today. How had I arrowed that duck? I thought. I just didn't have time to think. In fact, at that point my young mind realized I almost hit a flushing grouse at ten feet or so away, narrowly missing at that distance. I picked up the short recurve, turning its dark browns and laminating lines over as the sun cast its shadows onto the ground at my feet. I raised the bow slowly and pictured a hun jumping into the air where they had been only a few minutes earlier and visualized the shot again. As a kid, I'd been raised around shotguns and outplane bird hunting. My late grandfather, an avid master gunsmith, and I was taught both himself and by my father the reliability of the Churchill shooting method for out-playing game from a very young age. Of all the books he had in his shop, one stood out over others, and it was that very book that spoke to me that day by Robert Churchill, Game Shooting. A line that both my grandpa and father had said to me over and over again. I repeated it to myself several times. One fantastic piece I have fully integrated in my shooting form over the years is a principle found within the book as well, and it's called dry practice. As I stood there with the voices of my mentors in my head, I knocked an arrow and pretended I was stalking to the collapsed shed again, and envisioned the same covey taking off. I raised the bow and drew and let down the string several times in this dry training process, swinging through the bird in my head, each time having the bow in a high, ready shooting position, keeping my feet shoulder width apart and going through the bow arm draw anchor part of my shooting frame several times. Turning back to the ditch, my attention and focus now were on where the birds were. The sun was now less than an hour away from being swallowed by nightfall, and time was a wasting, as they say. Straining to see any sign of the birds that had hit the ditch some eighty plus yards away, I guess they would have tried to hit the heavier part of the cover to the left of the landing zone they'd chosen. I checked to make sure I had the blue and brown leather dual purse possibles bag positioned on me correctly, a bag made by my grandfather and left for me in his passing, and I tossed it over my shoulder and secured, swung the hip quiver a little more behind my right leg for clearance, and for good measure removed a second arrow tip with the steel blunt and held it across the front of the riser at an angle in my bow hand, much like a horse bow archer would, with an arrow already knocked at the ready. I began to sneak. Slowly but deliberately I approached the holding area, and backing off a few feet to give me some room scanned the cover ahead, and there, not twenty yards away, was a plunt male Hungarian partridge picking at something off the side of the ditch, in typical worried fashion. Walking slower, I held my bow up, canted slightly. As I approached, he ran to the berm of the ditch and offered no shot through a mess of brambles I was walking next to. I walked around the berm and he burst into the air, some eight feet away. The air launched with no thought and took a rusty red tail feather caught by the judo and spun into the air, falling to the ground. Amiss. I knocked the second shaft quickly from my bow hand and stepped to see four more birds ahead of me, less than ten feet away. They broke, and I got onto the rear bird, and released as the bow swung through his low jump, colliding with his back, sending a plume of gray feathers into the air as he fell back to the earth. The entire scenario had lasted seconds, and ahead of me lay the Hungarian predators next to my arrow covered in grey and rusty plumage. Two more huns ran from the ditch, several feet away, but I let them go, watching them jump into the air once they cleared the grassy hiding place, and with stiff wing beats vanished into the horse pasture above me. I walked over and knelt down, rounding my hands over his rust patched face and admiring the red crescents on his chest. I looked at his tail fan and smiled to myself. Not a tail feather today. Not this time. The sun was setting, more door ducks were passing from the big river to the small pond and creek that was hidden in the forest beyond, the sun igniting their iridescent feathers in blues, purples, and green highlights, and my thoughts turned to retell my adventure and get out with my dad to that pond to hunt puddle ducks together the following weekend. I hunted that area a few more times, once the same year and again the following as well. I was successful twice more, once on the ground and once again on the wing with a terrific jump shot bird through a mess of fall-colored raspberry canes, worthy of Mr. Churchill's upland shooting method. His swing through method now adapted to a recurve bow, I hunted that farm many times prior without success. Some days I saw no birds, and others I missed. But with each failure, I was one step closer to success. I've had several folks ask me what possessed me to hunt upland birds with a bow on the wing. I was raised to hunt in a family that passed that tradition on. Many of my relatives did not follow it, but I could not resist its pull. Nothing else has kept me so truly present, and as a youth, I had time on my side to dive deeply into the depths of hunting with and shooting traditional bows, no matter what game I pursued. Part of that pull was the people I'd read about and oftentimes met along the way, and when it came to bow hunters, folks who hunted everything with a stick and string, many left that mark on the ancient ethical predator within me. I found my legends and inspiration in their writing and film works. Pheasants with Fred Bear, Doves and Cinnamon Teal with Vic Bowyer, Wing Shooting Ducks with Ben Pearson, Kennedy Geese with Ron LeClair. No one told any of them they couldn't do it. They connected with their weapon, recurve or longbow, and went afield. Simple as that. Shooting for me has always been a part of my life in all forms. I was raised at a firearm, was a tool, was no toy, and that same respect was applied to bows as well. Even as a kid shooting my 20-pound browning Apache recurve, it was a tool to be used that commanded respect. And in that regard, practice and maintenance in order to be effective. It was the input I gave the weapon. I found target archery, but simply did not attach myself to its rigid structure. It's just that I was raised as a bow hunter. And that's not intended as a slight to any target archers, far from it. I've many, many good friends of mine that shoot target archery and I respect their art. It's just my fact, my story, and my experience, as their experiences are theirs. And to quote the late Bruce Lee absorb what is useful, reject what is useless, and add what is specifically your own. This quote is based around experiences, not just training, but the results of testing that training, not just incorporating things to collect information. No, it is wholly and purely about application. Target archery helped my foundation to a gr a degree, but I found the nature, the rigidity of it, to be a constraint for me personally. I was released from some of those constraints through applying other skills to my archery for hunting effectiveness. And Robert Churchill's principles on shooting and shotgunning applied nicely to shooting instinctive with a bow for me. It made logical sense in a simplicity of application. One must find the path or a way that suits them. And I've said this many times before. For myself as a traditional bow hunter, or to put it another way, one who hunts traditionally, so to speak, that path is all about hunting application. One of my biggest influences in martial arts in Brazilian jiu-jitsu in the early 90s once said to me after a particularly very tough rolling session on the mass My friend, remember you must be on autopilot. Let go, under pressure, you make the art. The art does not make you. This applies to not only archery, but specifically my interest as a bow hunter and in life in many ways as well. To quote from a Japanese text I was raised on as a daily mantra, and still apply to this day. In order to understand whatever it is you are trying to apply your work towards, you must first listen without hearing, see without looking, and walk without moving. Be present. We are pleased with the responses from both bow hunters and new hunters as well to our traditional bow hunting app, a one-of-a-con game changer that has something for everyone from new to seasoned bow hunters. Available on both Apple platforms and Google Play. If you want to learn how to get started in traditional archery, begin with our crash course. If you want to shoot instinctive or develop your own foundation, move on to our 15-module shooting method. And don't forget to listen to our members-only Ethical Predator Podcast and, of course, our bow hunters meditation. For folks learning to hunt with traditional gear, check out the six-week traditional bow hunting boot camp. We are offering in-person and mentorship programs for traditional bow hunting education based around our online boot camp as well. Send us a message if you would like to learn both online or in person and excel learning instinctive archery for bow hunters using our unique application-based training. The best part of the app is all the material can be downloaded onto the app and used even if you have no Wi-Fi access, no matter where you are. Don't forget to hit the link to receive our free Ethical Predator newsletter delivered to your inbox weekly with tips and advice on all things traditional bow hunting and more. You can find the link for the app newsletter in the comments. Big announcement: we are excited about the launch of our upcoming audiobook version of the Code of Traditional Archery, featuring an additional commentary piece at the end of each chapter with Mr. David Tetzlaff, co-editor of Traditional Bow Hunter magazine. If you haven't already, check out Compton Traditional Bow Hunters, the national traditional bow hunting organization, offering great membership benefits and ensuring the traditions of bow hunting with the stick and string is alive and well, not only now, but for generations to come. 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 and our platform message based on the three pillars of the code of traditional archery: weapon proficiency with the stickbow, ethics to guide us on our collective journey, and conservation with stewardship in mind in order to protect the wildlife woods, fields, and waterways we hunt as our themes are resonating. Please do take the time to leave a rating and comment. Thanks for listening in. We encourage you to immerse yourself in the art of the stickbow. Shoot straight and walk with us.