Triple Double Double Triple
For starters, I would like to wish my Spirit BloodBrothers a very happy 2021! As we throttle into another gift of a new year of life in the eternal deercamps of America, I hope we all maximize the positive and fight like mad to reduce and hopefully eliminate as much of the negative as we can in our every word, deed and action.
I will be sharing some of my amazing deerhunts from 2020 and still going on into 2021 here in an effort to emphasize the many lessons I have learned. When approached with the proper mindset, each and every hunt will provide important lessons in not only how to be more efficient deerhunters, but more importantly, how these powerful lessons of cause and effect can be applied to our everyday lives for overall upgrade.
Many of us will hunt nonstop for the next month or so, and I thank God everyday for the opportunity to connect with His physics of spirituality in the soul cleansing great outdoors.
2021, ready or not, here we come!
Another perfect, glorious morning in my sacred swamptree, trusty Mathews bow and GoldTip arrows in hand, quivering with excitement, harmonizing as one with the dawn of a new day in the lap of God, the fire in my smile challenging that of the rising sun.
I don’t know about you, (actually I do know about you!) but for this old bowhunting fool, each and every day afield is precious and celebrated beyond description as I snort, wallow, embrace, celebrate and cling tenaciously to every single magical sensual/spiritual stimuli moment in the natural world.
After a peaceful row across our shimmering, placid lake in the dark to get to my southwest wind ambush zone, I could hear those uniquely soothing sounds that only a wildground hunter gets to appreciate just before the rest of the world awakens.
Way off I hear the nearly imperceptible far away blast of a commuter train horn, answered by the longrange distant barking of dogs.
Assisted by my hearing aids, and when the wind is just right, I can make out the distant growl of big rigs hammering down the expressway delivering life’s goods to America.
Somewhere out there, far, far away, a beeping backup alarm is going off as workers carpe diem another American Dream workday.
A hoot owl calls my name and the subtle songs of birdlife begin to fill the delicious air above my little marshland perch.
Can you feel it!
As clearly as I can hear all those distant sounds, I failed to pick up on the quiet pitter-patter of dainty hooves on the dry leaves of my forested ridge until their makers were right upon me.
Three handsome does cautiously stepped one foot at a time down the leafy trails at the puckerbrush edge, and I immediately went into reasoning predator Tedator kill mode.
With a pocketful of antlerless deer tags, I knew killing does was just what the habitat management doctor ordered, so ultra-slowly my Mathews rose to the occasion.
The two lead does were big girls and number three was no slouch either.
Hidden pretty good in the leafy canopy of my towering oak, my arrow nock came home to the corner of my mouth with a life of its own as doe #1 entered a perfect window at 30 yards.
The silent deathray of my 425 grain GoldTip shaft of mercy was in and out of her chest before she knew it and off she death-dashed madly hellbent for backstraps straight for the sanctuary hellzone of the bedding thicket of my fen.
The other two deer bolted rearward a few yards and rubbernecked her disappearance into the marsh, but I already had arrow #2 nocked and loaded.
At a little over 35 yards my sightpin found its mark just behind the shoulder of the 2nd big swampdonky, and presto! I watched my glowing Lumenok vanish into the pumpstation welcome matt crease with a lovely thwack!
This old backstrapper too hauled dead venison right down the trail doe #1 took as I nocked my 3rd arrow and tracked doe #3 rubberneck after her two pals.
This deer pranced a few yards in the opposite direction where she stopped and looked back, giving me a quartering chest shot at a tad over 40 yards.
Too late princess, as pretty zebra arrow #3 arched lovely and smacked hard through her ribs, exiting the far shoulder, lighted nock foggy with blood as she leapt 25 yards, spun around once and hit the dirt.
Oh my! Now that was about as exciting as any old bowhunter could ever dream of!
From the time I saw these three beauties till the time they were all dead couldn’t have been more than a minute, maybe two. Maybe less I’m thinking.
I sat there in a whirlwind of sensations, doing my best to truly grasp exactly what had just transpired.
Yes, amazingly, all three arrows were textbook perfecto, and my mind raced with the celebration of a job well done from a lifetime of shooting and loading arrows without having to look down at my bow or the bowstring or the arrow nock.
Talking about Samurai oneness!
Lucky, lucky me!
I recovered all three does in short order, and to this day I can relive that magical encounter and rapid fire archery accuracy for all it is worth, and believe me, it is worth a lot!
Over the years I have had two such amazing triple kill bowhunting moments, and also three double kill scenarios as well.
In each case I go into full-on Samurai mind over matter subconscious arrow life control.
It can best be described as an out of body predator spirit moment.
Mind you, I hunt every day of the season, hunt on extremely deer rich territory, and have picked out and setup my stands with a lifetime of scouting and hunting information to optimize my successes.
My extensive daily rangetime includes diligent practice and training to the point where my bow is a distinct, muscle memory imprinted extension of my very being, and after a few million arrows launched, no thought is needed to nock an arrow on my bowstring, thereby pretty much eliminating any fumbling whatsoever.
Stealthy oneness with our bow and arrow should be the goal, and it can come only from indefatigable repetitiveness. I made that decision many, many years ago and it has delivered a height of happiness and satisfaction that is rewarded with year-round backstraps and unlimited spine-tingling magical memories forever.
Though I have had far more days getting skunked with nary an arrow being launched, and of course the heart/mind/spirit shattering occasions of missed shots and bad hits, I can always close my eyes and relive these few and far between magical moments when the bowhunting planets align, God has mercy on my fumbling human soul, and the Great Spirit of the Hunt is right there at my side showering me with much needed luck.
A good arrow provides the ultimate experience. When everything is just right and we get to pull off a very rare double or even a dreamy triple, I’m lucky I don’t smile myself to death!
On my hunting grounds, both in Michigan and Texas, including friends’ farms and ranches, I literally have more tags than I can possibly utilize. Add to that factor the sheer joy of donating precious venison to family, friends, neighbors, associates and various homeless shelters and soup kitchens, and the motivation to kill as many deer as possible is about as perfect as it gets.
I want to kill deer. The game departments want me to kill deer. The agriculture concerns want me to kill deer. The highway departments wants me to kill deer. The insurance industry wants me to kill deer. Various state and federal agencies want me to kill deer. The deer need to die to make room for next year’s fawns, and I want to continue to eat venison throughout the year.
Any questions? Didn’t think so. Shootemup! Aim small miss small! HammerOn my fellow backstrappers all! HammerOn! I will be in a tree it you need me. The deer need me!