Old pictures are like time capsules in a way. As I look at this one I can date it pretty easily.
The bow is one of my early glass backed longbows. I used 4 Osage lams, with an Osage riser. The back glass was brown, belly glass clear and the handle wrap dark brown leather.
I called her “Yellow Girl” and she was a good bow until the epoxy I’d put her together with started to fail and she was retired to the bow rack early. Such a shame for a bow that I liked a lot. She had a substantial “thump” in the hand at release, but not overly bad for a bow that scaled 70# at full draw.
Looking further into the picture I can see a patch on my shirt from the Bowhunters of Wyoming and the shirt itself is a faded “tiger stripe“ camo pattern that my mother made.
She’d grumbled a little when I asked for the shirt pocket to be on the right side instead of the left so I could put things in it without interfering with the bowstring.
Mom made my best shirts in those days... the sleeves were specially cut for my long arms.
The bibs I'm wearing are made from what was typically called "WWII" pattern camo. Good stuff and I miss it. Much better than most commercial patterns out there today.
I’d place the picture at 20-25 years ago, right after I had returned to Missouri from living in Wyoming.
My good friend Sam Collier had come up with permission to hunt a very nice farm in north central Missouri and I jumped at the chance to bowhunt deer there. It was the middle of October when we pulled into the farm for the first time.
Most of the leaves had dropped already, though some still held their leaves with just a hint of the bright leaves that had graced their limbs a scant week before. We hit the ground at a fast walk, soaking up deer sign as we went. There was plenty of it and signs of rutting bucks was plentiful.
After a few hours, I’d made a decision as to where I wanted my stand to be and we returned to his home for dinner, refreshments and a bull session that lasted far to late into the night.
An hour before first light I was back on the farm and searching for the exact tree I’d chosen the day before. Miffed at not being able to locate it and with dawn approaching much too quickly I finally made the decision to get in the first tree I felt was close. It would have to do for the time being.
I had all my stuff in hand and laid it at the base of the chosen oak, stripped off my shirt and started the tiring, sweaty process of getting the screw in steps in place. I finished the task and climbed into my little Loc On stand as the first rays of the morning sun penetrated to the forest floor.
Even though I’d worked in a minimum of clothing, I’d worked up a little sweat and I paid for that as I sat shivering in the frosty minutes of pre dawn. It was pretty uneventful for the first hour or so. Just the usual squirrels busy with their fall routine of gathering, burying and eating the freshly fallen acorns.
I don’t know for sure where the buck came from. He’d probably followed the faint trail across the hillside behind me to the point where I first saw him. It was a total surprise. I’d neither heard nor seen any glimpse of him until looking over my shoulder I spotted him just disappearing into a plum thicket some 20 yards distant. He’d somehow gotten past me without a hint of his presence.
Yanking on it’s lanyard around my neck I brought my grunt tube to my lips and gave one brief, subdued, “brrrrrp”. The buck stopped and looked back in my direction. Acting as if he’d only thought he’d heard something he finally turned to go off in his original line of travel. I called once more. “Brrrrp”. This time a little louder. That did the trick. The buck turned and came to me as if on a string.
His course of travel would bring him around behind the trunk of the tree I was in so I turned facing the tree trunk with bow positioned to take the shot as he walked clear.
I’d made some special arrows for the season. Port Orford cedar shafts with an orange cap dip, crowned with two gray barred turkey feathers and an orange cock feather. The fletch was burned to an old English style as described by Saxton Pope in his fine book, “Hunting With the Bow and Arrow”. I squeezed the orange speed nock nervously as I awaited the appearance of the buck below me.
It seemed an eternity waiting for the buck and in fact it had been too long. He should have already come into sight.
Topic: Yellow Girl and the Buck (Read 5299 times)
