Silent language..

Wind stirs the foliage surrounding the Aspen as he crouches behind a downed spruce tree. Elk ghost through the forest alternating between shadow and light, softly speaking to one another in a language only understood by elk. A sleek and graceful cow walks only feet from the hunter hidden in the thick tangle of brush and towering forest . He draws his horn bow and looses an arrow into the crease directly behind the cow’s shoulder. The arrow deflects off of a branch on the way to the elk and slices through her abdomen quartering forward to her chest cavity. The hunter knows the shot is not a good one, he follows the wounded cow silently, hoping for the opportunity for another shot. At the edge of the forest she stops and stares back in the direction of her pursuer, suddenly an arrow pierced her shoulder burying to the fletching, the elk launches forward on wobbly legs and collapses in the meadow.
Aspen stealthily approaches the downed elk an arrow knocked to the string, a buckskin clad hunter slips from the shadows from the opposite direction on moccasin clad feet. The two hunters are from different tribes and do not speak the same language, but the language of the hunter is sometimes unspoken . Through sign and gestures they decide to butcher and share the kill.
Although these ancient hunters never shared their names, tribe or clan lineage or even conversation, they communicated through sign and understanding of the wilderness and her unspoken language. In this modern world we still have encounters where a look, gesture or maybe even the moment tell us all we need to know to assess the situation at hand. In the animal kingdom these wordless moments are what communication is all about, I have never heard a deer say “HEY! Watch out there is a hunter out here someplace.” But I have seen them catch the scent of danger ,raise their tails and somehow the whole herd instantly knows that danger is a possibility . Sometimes they speak to one another as a warning ,challenge, or a whole array of vocal sounds whose meanings we hardly understand. But for the most part animals communicate on a level far superior to our written and spoken language. I enjoy being around people and trying to read their unspoken body language and expressions. Often times their words contradict with their unspoken communication. Our train of thought as a hunter can be the deciding factor between success and failure, often our frame of mind will be noticed somehow by the prey we hunt. I have tested this theory on several occasions. When a deer is getting close enough for a shot I never make eye contact , always try and concentrate on a prayer of thanksgiving for the moment at hand and never allow my mind to think about the killing. These things have alerted animals to my presence on more occasions than I care to recount, through some sort of unspoken energy between hunter and prey. Even if you are not a hunter but just a lover of nature and all things natural, try stalking closer to natures creatures with your mind in a good and sacred place. You may be surprised at how close we can get to our natural brothers and sisters when we keep our minds and mouths silent… Hawk a/ho

Warriors!

Fog shrouds the forest; a white blanket of frozen water vapor covers everything including me. Ahead of me, a bull elk lets forth a bugle, the sound almost prehistoric coming from the dense fog. The bull is not far from me but the fog conceals him from view. I answer with a cow call and move silently forward, immediately the enraged bull answers from within the thick soup of now swirling fog. I see the tip of an antler as he emerges from the mist. At less than ten yards, the bull seems to be part of the white surroundings. His body is covered with a crystalline white as he ghosts to my right. He stops, scenting the air for any sign of danger. The wind is still in my favor but the fog quickly engulfs him again. For the next hour we move through this alien world calling to each other and using the white mist as cover. Finally, the fog begins to burn off as the sun breaks through. Within minutes the world is bathed in bright light reflecting off millions of tiny frozen particles which cover the high country. Somehow, I have wandered into the center of a huge mountain meadow, two small pine trees are my only cover and I am surrounded by a large herd of elk. Near the edge of the meadow, the majestic bull stands, sunlight gleaming off his antlers. Several cows and calves are feeding throughout the meadow and another bull is coming through the tall grasses toward the herd bull’s harem. With a loud challenging bugle the bulls square off fifty yards from me. The old patriarch bellows a warning at the intruder and gouges his huge antlers into the earth, sending grass and dirt through the air. The younger bull answers with a bugle of his own and lowers his head for the attack. With a clash of antler and muscle the two rivals begin to battle. Their shoulder muscles strain as they try to push each other off balance, antlers clack loudly as they slam into each other. Both bulls are prime specimens, weighing in at near eight hundred pounds and sporting heavy beamed, long tined antlers. The older bull has been in countless battles and holds the experience card. The younger bull has the bravado and endurance of youth as they battle for the right to breed the receptive cows in the herd. The battle only lasts for a few minutes, and comes to an abrupt halt when the mountain winds suddenly switch, carrying my scent to the herd, elk bark a warning and retreat to the heavy timber. I stand alone in the meadow the rich scent of elk all that remains of the scene that played out before me. I walk to the spot where the battle took place and I lay my hands upon the torn up earth, hoping to feel the power of the antlered warriors still upon the earth. A bugle echoes deep in the forest announcing a new challenge from a new rival for the old warrior, he will no doubt answer the challenge and stand proud in the face of his adversary, and maybe tomorrow I will get the chance to harvest an elk on this hunt. Maybe the elk will detect me and my arrows will remain flightless, no matter the outcome the hunt will be good, the prey worthy the mountains peaceful. I am humbled, honored and proud to have witnessed the battle between the two warriors and will not soon forget our encounter… Hawk. A/ho

Mother Earth..

For me the coming of spring is one of my favorite times of the year. Mother earth awakens, the cold bitter winds of winter and deep snows give way to green grasses and warm Chinook winds dance across the landscape. In the high country the snows are receding and wildflowers are waiting for the new sunshine to help them burst forth with beauty and sweet smelling scent which is unmatched by anything in nature. With the beauty and grace possessed by all women of this world, Mother Earth stretches her body to its full height and beauty, we stand in awe at her remarkable, and magnificent allure as she shows us the rebirth of all things upon her bosom. Baby animals begin to emerge from their nests and burrows, upon the plains deer and antelope are bursting at the seams with the new life growing inside them, as are the elk and bison along the western front of the Absaroka mountain range. Hawks and Eagles are sitting on their eggs, faithfully waiting for the soon to be born chicks to arrive. Owls are feeding their chicks that are now about three weeks old, meadowlarks are seen on the open range fence posts and sagebrush singing their love songs to the world. The song reverberates across the ancient lands with a harmony and pitch that would make Celine Dion envious. I could walk for hours across the newborn landscape just soaking up the newness and harmony of it all. Cleansing rains fall upon the earth, combined with the spring sunshine; each day witnesses a rebirth of natures wonder, splendor, and the new life sooths the soul.
Within a month or so every tree will be leafed out in all its glory the grasses and flowers will be grown to their full height and dazzling brilliance, from the heavens the creator will smile down upon her natural beauty. For those of us who take a moment to stop and stare, to contemplate mother earth in her time of brilliant rebirth and awesome beauty, we will be humbled, awestruck and at the least momentarily connected to her through all things in this great circle of life...Hawk…

For those of you who are fellow hunters and have been giving me a hard time about getting too Deep and philosophical about my secret affair with mother earth and her perfect beauty. Spring is also a good time to drink beer, shoot bows and bear season is open..…… OOGA BOOGA brothers and sisters of the bow.

FINDING THE GOOD

I recently read a story of an african hunter sent to me by a fellow outdoorswoman and survivalist... she has far surpassed my abilities in the world of survival and I am honored to share a quote from the hunter whose story she sent me.. the words of Nqate ...

"When you track an animal - you must become the animal.Tracking is like dancing, because your body is happy - you can feel it in the dance and then you know that the hunting will be good.When you are doing these things you are talking with God."(!Nqate Xqamxebe 1998)... A/ho to my fellow hunter.. and thanks to Robin for sending me the link.......

The mud flying from the tires would have been fun were it not for the fact that I was stuck clear up to the axles twenty miles from anything resembling civilization. This day has turned out to be a real disappointment, first I got a flat tire, then my truck slid into the ditch while trying to four wheel up an old mud slicked logging road. Daybreak brought with it a pounding rain combined with a cold west wind, my clothes are soaked from changing the flat tire in a pounding rain storm that would have drowned a duck.
Two hours later my spirits are low as I struggle through the wet landscape towards a high ridge to the north. Mule deer frequent this drainage this time of year, offering ample opportunity to harvest one of the long eared warriors. Through the pounding rain I see a large buck bedded next to a rock outcrop partially shielding him from the torrent of water falling from the heavens. On silent yet soggy feet I close the distance to ten yards and ready for the shot. The string slips from my fingers and the arrow leaves the bow in a graceful arc, with a resounding thump the cedar shaft impacts with the rocks inches above the deer, and shatter into a dozen pieces. The buck ghosts away into the storm leaving me standing wet and I must say a pitiful figure on the mountainside. I lay my hands on the earth and feel the warmth leaving the ground where the buck had been bedded all day, I turn to leave the ridge with a heave heart and forlorn disposition.
The rest of the afternoon is spent digging out the pickup and driving home through the now snow covered mountains, the storm has gotten worse changing to snow and beginning to freeze. Near the bottom of the mountain I am suddenly staring into the frightened eyes of a mule deer, the truck slides on the slick road as I hit the brakes. The impact sends the deer flying and jolts the pickup to the core, causing the Don Williams CD to skip in the player and my heart to nearly stop.
Outside the wind has grown to a howl and the headlights illuminate the deer laying in the road, the life slowly draining from her once graceful body. I feel her spirit slipping away and offer a prayer for her journey. After dragging her body into the woods and laying her among the pines and sweet smelling earth I once again begin the long drive back down this lonely stretch of back road. The storm has worsened but my spirits are better, my day seems to have been filled with hardships and disaster, but I realize that my bad day is nothing compared to that of the old matriarch now laying dead upon the frozen ground behind me. Her death was not one of honor or dignity and she will not be remembered by anyone but the one who took her life. I recall days spent upon this mountain and the spiritual connection I felt as the eagle called from the sky or a bull elk bugled somewhere in the pines. Somehow we forget to connect to nature when things go wrong and nature throws us a curve. During times like that is when we should recall our true place and all we have been given, instead of concentrating on the negative energy surrounding the moment. It is hard to do believe me, I often rant and rave at bad situations instead of embracing the good . Hawk a/ho

LISTENING......

I move silently through the early morning darkness the thick timber surrounding me is a comfort, like a blanket covering my movements along the forest floor. Early mornings like this always make me feel as one with the natural world, no other humans stir at this time of the morning especially in this high country. The stars wink overhead in the darkness, thousands of magnificent shiny diamonds against a backdrop of blue black velvet sky. Daylight is still hours away as I make my way through the wilderness on moccasin clad feet. I have no destination in mind and no agenda to follow, this is a ritual of sorts for me, every year I come to this high country in search of elk. I also take the time to explore the wilderness, not hunting or tracking but just being wild. I enjoy the trails through high timber in the hours before dawn , high ridges in the middle of the night or maybe just laying on my back in an aspen grove on a lazy afternoon . Don’t misunderstand me, I will stay on an elk for days following like a wolf through the wild places, until the opportunity comes for the shot and a possible climax to the hunt. Sometimes we as hunters get so caught up in the hunting that we forget why we come to these mountains in the first place. We become so engrossed in the pursuit of a harvest that we fail to see the natural world and all it has to show us. This is why I take the time to roam the night, sit on a windswept ridge , or daydream along a rushing stream . Not to become one with nature but to enjoy all she allows me to witness while out there. The call of a wild creature in the night stirs our primal soul , the flight of a hawk high on a late afternoon thermal somehow soothes our soul and the feel of clear rushing water on our skin cleanses our souls in a way only nature can. So next time you are out in the wild places, take a moment to not only notice, but feel the wild world around you. I assure you that you will leave the wilderness with a better outlook and clearer perspective than when you arrived.

I sit upon the earth , the night speaks to me, the trees speak to me, the rocks speak to me, all around the creatures of the earth speak to me, not because I speak their language…. But because I take the time to listen….. Hawk

Tooth and claw v/s stick and string.

The Beartooth Mountains rise behind me, creating a beautiful backdrop to this spring evening. The Wyoming rifle season for bear is in full swing so the bruins are becoming more nocturnal with each passing day, making for a more challenging hunt . Several bears have been working along this creek and I move slowly among the aspen and cottonwood thicket, scanning for any movement. The wind is in my face and seems steady. The afternoon shadows help to conceal my movements. While the whitetail doe feeding at the tree line reassures me that I pass, so far, undetected.
A blur of movement! From out in front of me, a cinnamon colored bear suddenly appears. The bear is at a lope and coming fast. I can’t say when the bow began its arc, or the arrow left the string. It all happened so fast. But I remember picking a spot, where the rapidly approaching front shoulder meets the neck. At five yards the bear and the Magnus tipped cedar arrow became one in a blur of feathers and fur. The bear let out a loud roar of pain and began spinning around biting at the arrow. Not being certain of the effectiveness of my shot at such close quarters, having taken a running facing shot, a shot I would never take but in self defense. The bear was still growling and biting at the arrow sticking from his neck, when I made the decision to try and end this encounter before it becomes even more dangerous. I reached around with my right hand and drew my backup pistol from its holster, took careful aim and fired . The bear expired a few seconds later. I cautiously approached the downed bear and pulled the cedar shaft from his cinnamon coat. After saying my prayers to the bear and the creator for a truly exciting hunt, I tagged the bear and prepared to pack him out ..
My wife, Stacey helped to skin the bear the next morning and I was surprised to find the arrow had in fact killed the bear. The pistol shot had missed at five …yes five yards! I am thankful that it wasn’t a charging grizzly bear. The outcome would have been very different I am certain. I promise myself to practice a lot more with the pistol before going a field again...I will never know if the bear was charging at me, or if he was simply running in my direction. Whatever his motivation, I am truly honored to have met him in those final moments of his life. And, on future hunts ,I will wear the claws of this cinnamon warrior around my neck. In honor of his meeting, on that spring evening, when cinnamon met cedar. When my heart beat faster as his slowed for the last time ……Hawk a/ho

Song Dogs

Coyotes …
Ears! All of my senses are on alert, as are the coyote’s. He stands in the sagebrush only thirty feet from my hiding place among these giant six foot tall sagebrush. His ears are all I can see through the thick brush. For the last few hours I have been calling on my rabbit in distress call and waiting for just this kind of an opportunity. I can feel the worn leather grip of my longbow in my left hand, the string taught against the fingers of my right as I patiently wait for the coyote to make the next move. The wind is steady out of the North West and is in my favor. The sun is setting off to my right, casting the final shadows of the day along the frozen Wyoming ground, and the sweet smelling sage is effectively hiding me from the stealthy predator still standing behind a sage brush, thirty feet away. Finally, Old Wiley steps quickly onto the trail which will bring him only feet from my concealed position. At eleven feet away, he stops and looks back along the route from which he has just come. I bring the bow to full draw, releasing the arrow into his fur covered body. With deadly force the razor sharp broad head exit’s the coyote and lodges into a sage brush stalk as thick as my leg. The bloody, quivering shaft the only visible reminder of the coyote having been there at all.
I rise from the ground with an arrow knocked to the string of my Osage bow. I can still hear the coyote thrashing around in the underbrush about fifty yards from where he met with my arrow. As I advance on his lifeless body; with my bow in front of me and arrow knocked in case he is not as dead as he seems, I reflect on all the arrows I have been fortunate to release while in pursuit of wild creatures. Sometimes the arrows fly true, sometimes they go wherever the bow hunting gods guide them, often never to be seen again. No matter the outcome of the hunt regarding a kill, the outcome for me is almost always the same. I thoroughly enjoy myself! And more often than not, I find myself with a strong feeling of spiritual awareness, combined with a longing to return to these wild places even before I have left them for the confines of civilization.
I shoulder the beautiful coyote, heft the bow in my opposite hand, and begin the long walk back to the pickup. Night time is coming soon. I hear the plaintive call of a distant coyote in the ensuing darkness and can’t help but wonder if it is really a coyote, or maybe the spirit of the one who came to my calls today, bidding me farewell. No matter if it be a spirit, or the real thing, the small hairs along my neck have already risen, along with an involuntary shiver down my spine. This has been good day bow hunting, and will surely be a long walk through the miles of darkness. I grip the medicine bag around my neck and say a quick prayer to the creator for protection against the spirit of the “trickster” coyote before setting off through the black night.

Sacred ground

For miles the grasslands sway in the evening breeze, like a sea of gold the wind moves the landscape in a constant never-ending wave of moving grasses. Several miles away on the horizon a herd of pronghorn antelope graze among the sagebrush and grasses as they have for thousands of years. The pronghorn has remained virtually unchanged for millions of years; during the Pleistocene period, the pronghorns lightening quick speed helped them to survive the onslaught of attacks by Dire Wolves, and prehistoric Cheetah. Today they still populate the west in large numbers, surviving comfortably in the most extreme conditions, where other animals would surely perish. One other animal also survives this harsh environment remarkably well, the wild American Mustang. These hearty animals have survived for thousands of years as well , the American government tried to wipe out the wild mustang in the eighteen hundreds in an effort to bring the plains Indian tribes to their knees. After years of conflict with the tribes, this was our governments answer to the defeat of the proud warriors who had fought so bravely for their homes, families and way of life. Thousands of wild Mustangs were ordered shot on sight, nearly decimating the once vast herds, in the same way as the plains tribes main source of food and basic necessities of life the Tatanka or Buffalo which once roamed the vast plains in numbers too numerous to count. As I stare across the open country, I see the herds vanishing before my eyes and the lodges of the ancient peoples disappear into as much mist in my minds eye.
Thunderheads build across the western horizon, lightning dances in the cloud formation lending a spiritual aspect to the power I feel brewing all around me on these sacred high plains. Cisco, feels the power on the winds too. I feel the muscles bunching under me, as he starts prancing in that way he does, letting me know his legs are ready for a long powerful run across the threshold of time. He is a direct descendent of the ancient mustangs, a breed unto themselves, built for stamina and speed, endurance and true wildness. Cisco came to me through a friend, no one had ridden him and the horse trainer I took him to said I should never try to ride him because he would kill me. The warrior spirit in me stepped up to the challenge and we began the process of training each other. Our first ride ended with me meeting the earth at a high rate of speed, since then we have learned together and have ridden over a hundred miles together in the last few months.
I touch his side ever so slightly and release the reigns, on powerful legs we launch into the plains with lightning quick speed, the ground falls away behind us at Cisco hits his stride. The evening air hits my face making my eyes water as we fly into the winds; we have danced this dance before, man and beast flowing as one in a sacred manner across the lands of our ancestors. For miles, we run feeling alive and free in the face of the oncoming storm, finally, we slow to a walk and I pat his neck whispering into his ears in a gesture of friendship. The truck and trailer are in sight, somehow we have returned to the present, to the modern world, from our ancient journey. As I steer the truck onto the highway, and begin the trip homeward I glance across the plains , in the distance ancient fires still burn and the glow of hundreds of lodges light the evening horizon, while wild horses graze on the dimly lit grasses of late evening …………Hawk a/ho

Patience

An owl glides from the forest canopy on silent wings, daybreak is a half hour away and the morning chill somehow finds it's way through my elk hide shirt. I shiver from the cold, but remain otherwise still in my vigilant wait. The owl has made a kill and I hear the squeak of some small rodent, then absolute silence from the doomed creature.
Morning sounds reach my ears, the call of geese along the rivers edge as they wake to the new day, the whistle of a group of cinnamon teals wings slicing through the morning air overhead. As the darkness gives way to dawn I see a group of mule deer feeding along the treeline to the north. Seven does and a small buck making their way to bedding areas deep in the forest along this stretch of river.


For hours I wait, crouched just inside this wild rose thicket. Nature has put on quite a show for me throughout the morning. A fat raccoon nearly climbed up my leg while searching among the forest debris for grubs and insects, a weasel stood three feet away and inspected me, I think the little predator would have considered me as potential prey if I would have moved. Throughout the day I suffered the cold , numb fingers and toes, cramping muscles, thirst and hunger, but never once did I consider leaving my location. This is not my first day sitting in this thicket, for the last three days I have been arriving before light and leaving as darkness once again settles upon the land.


Twenty minutes ago the sun set, waterfowl are returning to the river directly behind me with great racket and rustling wings. The mule deer from this morning are returning to the fields to feed for the night. Although I notice all of these things around me my attention is drawn to a slight rustling of brush twenty feet away. A heavy antlered whitetail buck emerges from the thick tangle of willows and scans his surroundings for danger, he tests the wind periodically for any scent of predators. But I have done my homework, through scouting and careful observation I have learned some of this bucks habits. I have seen him on several occasions, but to my knowledge he has yet to see me. As he crosses fifteen feet to my left, I feel the string slip from my fingers, the arrow slices air and enters the buck directly behind the shoulder. I see him go down forty yards away and know he has left this world. As I say my prayers to The Creator for the gift of this meat and thank the deer for it's sacrifice, I hear the sounds of life along this river bottom, and wonder if somewhere out there is another deer watching all of this unfold, and thinking to himself, I am glad I had the patience to wait it out until darkness falls. Hawk a/ho

Decisions

Out of the west, a cold wind bites at my exposed skin. The wind is in my face carrying my scent away from the deer bedded ten yards from me. For the last three hours I have been stealthily creeping through the tall saw grass and willows along this river bottom. Six does are bedded under a stand of cedar and juniper at the edge of the riverbank; their seemingly impenetrable senses and constant alert behavior have made this stalk challenging to say the least. Twelve eyes, six noses and a dozen ears, scent, scan and listen for any sign of predators. Through patience, years of practice and more than a little luck I have closed the distance on my intended prey. I slowly rise from the tall grasses and draw my bow on the closest deer; I pick a spot behind her shoulder and feel my fingers beginning to relax against the string in anticipation of the shot.A smaller set of ears suddenly appears among the grasses at her side; I lower my bow and return the arrow to the quiver. The yearling fawn at her side has changed the outcome of this hunt. I as an ethical hunter try not to harvest does with the young of the year at their side, in the hopes that my actions will ensure a healthy herd for the future. The act of stalking a herd of deer has enough challenges, sneaking away from the herd undetected is even harder. As I sit on the ridge across from the still bedded deer, I count this days hunting as a success. A wonderful stalk, an ethical decision and a beautiful sunset mark my passing through this place, as the deer rise from their beds and begin feeding along the bottoms among the salt cedar and Russian olive trees. The mother and fawn touch noses for an instant, unaware of the predator watching them or the split second decision that nearly altered their lives forever. I rise from the ground and begin the walk back to my truck and the return to my own family, as the Wyoming sunsets on the western horizon, confident that I made the right decision at the right time, while looking forward to the next hunt, and the adventures that it may bring. Hawk a/ho

Steel Verses Stone

The wind blowing out of the north carried the harsh bite of extreme cold .The fur clad hunter laying in wait along this river shivers with excitement and numbing cold. The huge beast is plodding along through the waist high snow drifts only ten arrow lengths away. The hunter’s Ewe wood bow feels small in his hands through the wolf hide mitten. His other hand is nearly numb against the bow string as he sights down the rosewood shafted arrow. His people have been hungry for fresh meat for moons now. Each of his fellow tribesmen, concealed in the snow along this river bottom, feels the same sense of urgency. The attack on this lone bull mammoth must be timed perfectly, if the people are to survive this long cold winter. As the bull quarters away, the hunter slowly rises up from the snow and sights down the arrow. At the end of the shaft, a black obsidian point fastened with pine pitch and animal sinews contrasts with the surrounding snowfall. The hunter says a quick prayer to the Great Spirit before releasing the feathered projectile.
From all sides the old bull hears the sound of arrows. He feels the impact of each shaft as they enter his body, and is overcome with weakness. His powerful lungs that have carried him for sixty winters suddenly refuse to supply him with the air his huge body desperately needs. He slowly sinks to his knees.
The hunters cautiously approach the downed bull. Six arrows from six different bows are all it took to slay this huge animal in as many minutes. The ancient hunters send up prayers of thanksgiving and begin to butcher their kill before the wolves and other predators smell the blood on the cold wind.
Ten thousand years later on that same stretch of river another hunter stalks silently through the tall grasses. His buckskin clothing blends perfectly as he slowly closes the distance on his prey. This is no Mammoth but worthy prey by any standards. She is feeding along the rivers edge at twenty yards. If she continues along the river, and the hunter can close the distance, he will have a ten or twelve foot shot at this beautiful whitetail.
The river moves slowly by as a backdrop to the archer’s sight window. He draws his Osage bow, the cedar arrow tipped with a sharp steel broad head speeds across the ten feet separating the hunter from his prey. The arrow enters behind the shoulder, at a downward angle. The graceful doe launches herself sideways away from the danger and swims the river, exiting the water on the other side of the river about thirty yards from the arrows point of impact. One moment she is looking back across the river the next her world goes black. The hunter silently thanks the creator for the swift kill and thanks the doe for giving her life on this hunt,..
Today’s broad heads and fast shooting bows are truly wonderful for the modern archer, delivering arrows with staggering amounts of speed and penetration. Most broad heads manufactured today are capable of killing any animal we as archers may encounter in our travels. And, if put to the test, would likely perform as well on Wooly Mammoth or even T-Rex with devastating results. The one thing that will ensure a swift clean kill, on any species of game, is not the material from which the point is made, but the placement of your sharp point. Shot placement IS the one variable that may make or break any given scenario. Next time you draw your bow, before you release that arrow, do a quick mental check ... is my point sharp? ...is the animal inside my effective range? Do I have room in my freezer? ….

Predators..

Here in Wyoming and throughout the west, controversy surrounds the introduction of the wolf and it's subsequent population increase. As a hunter, conservationist and all around nature lover.. I have my own opinions regarding the wolf and the role it plays in this ecosystem. There is no doubt the impact the wolf has had on the elk , moose and deer herds in our great state. The wolf has thrived and their numbers have increased to the point where conflict with ranchers and sportsmen are inevitable. Thousands of elk fall prey to the canine hunters each year. Making it necessary for sportsmen to make a choice between regulating the wolf numbers or giving up our right to hunt...through the efforts of ranches , sportsmen and the Wyoming game and fish, Wolves will now be harvested outside of their protected areas allowing ranchers the opportunity to finally defend their livestock from predation. Although controversy surrounds this subject, be assured the wild wolf will continue to hunt the wilderness areas, and inhabit the high country where they can be just that, WILD wolves. I long to hear the howl of the wild wolf while hunting some high lonesome ridge, but can rest easy knowing the wolves who stray from these wild lands into the domain of honest hardworking people and prey on their livestock and livelihood will be eliminated from the gene pool. Teaching the next generation of canine hunters to prey on wild prey and helping to ensure the survival of wolf , rancher and our hunting heritage.

Timberline

Dawn breaks over the headwaters of the East fork of the Wind river. The early morning fog blots out the sun . During the dark of night wolves were howling along the treeline to the west, making for a restless night of sleep for me and the two horses tied just inside the trees. I start a fire and put on the coffee, my faithful australian shepherd looks at me from the bedrole he recently laid claim to after a long night of guarding the camp. The chill of early morning bites my skin as I raise my arms to the sky in an age old ritual of giving thanks for the new day and all it may bring with it. I think of the ancient hunters who roamed these lands, and wonder if they may have raised their arms to the sky on this very same ridge sometime in the past. The bugle of a bull elk breaks the silence of the chilly morning, and I remember why I have come to this high place. My bow and quiver hang from a tree branch ten feet from my fire. The elk bugles again and I smile to myself, the coffee is hot and the day only beginning. I will enjoy this moment of serenity and absolute natural beauty that surrounds me. After a cup of coffee and a relaxing moment by the fire, maybe then I will follow the call of the rut crazed bull, and see what adventures the rest of the day brings............The thrill of the hunt is only a part of what draws me into the high lands. I often wonder as I walk the lonesome trails, how many others like me are out there, walking through the shadows of some high mountain forest and seeing the world from that sacred place called the timberline.....Hawk A/ho