Lost treasures.
We’ve all had them. There was that bow that you traded away; it shot very well but a “better” bow came along or maybe you needed more room in the den. So you sold it, only to regret it years later.
There are those bows that you keep as wall hangers because they have a special meaning, like the first self bow you made or the bow that was given to you by that Old Fart bow hunter you so highly respect. Then there are those that you wanted to keep, but for some awful reason, the bow mysteriously disappeared.
I was 9 years old and we had just moved to the farm. This was South Jersey, 1974, and there was not a significant deer population, but a rather healthy number of rabbits and pheasants. I would shoot my Fred Bear red fiberglass bow at an old chair in the back yard. Life was good. One afternoon, while enjoying a day of chair shooting, my uncle Eddie came over to pay a visit. He sat there watching me and, when I was done, asked to look at my bow. He commented that it was a good bow, for fiberglass. But, if I was in the market for a new bow, he may just have one collecting dust somewhere. Well, when I heard this, I was all smiles.
A short time later he returned with a long lemonwood bow that had recurved limb tips. He explained that his uncle had made this bow for my mother when she was in high school. When my mother saw the bow, she told me how she used to take it to school via the bus and shoot high school archery.
I put a new string on it and ventured down to what use to be McCrory’s and bought up a mess of arrows, a snap-on quiver with a cheap plastic hood, and I started shooting. I practiced all summer and fall, just waiting for small game season to start.
First day of small games season, 1975, a bit chilly and I went hunting. Ventured down past the cornfields, crossed the road and hit the woods across from Murphy’s farm. I passed a few shotgun hunters and they all but chuckled when they saw my bow. It was longer than I was tall.
I started hitting the thickets. I’d sneak up on them, look into them, and see if I could find a sitting rabbit. After a few hours, my stalking skills started to get relaxed and I was just not as quiet or all that sneaky now. Then, all of a sudden, the whole woods exploded as a big old cottontail jumped up and started to run. He ran right in front of me. I had already drawn, anchored, aimed and released. The arrow flew from the lemonwood bow and the rabbit started tumbling, head over heels. I trailed him for about 20 feet and found my trophy.
I promptly gutted him and started for home. While walking down the dirt road I passed the two shotgun hunters who had chuckled. The older man looked astonished and then congratulated me on my hunting skills.
This bow adorned my bedroom wall when I lived on the farm, when I lived in the city, when I moved to California, when I moved back to Baltimore, and then when I moved to Georgia.
When I ran out of room, I took the bow and a few guns to New Jersey to hang on the wall of my grandfathers den.
The bow has since vanished, but it’s still alive in my memories.
FVR published TBG
Topic: What was your first traditional bow harvest? (Read 2106 times)
