Book: Hunting with the Bow and Arrow

S >> Saxton Pope >> Hunting with the Bow and Arrow




At first the seasoned marksman will doubt this. I can only recommend a
fair trial. One of the most successful experiences of my sporting life
was one of these "close misses." A very noble buck, broadside on, was
trotting head up across my front and down a mountain slope nearly a
hundred and fifty yards away,--out of reasonable range as archers count
distances. I made my calculations as well as I could and loosed a
shaft, more in honor of his wide branching antlers than in any sure
hope. While the arrow was in the air the deer stopped short and looked
at me. The shaft swept down its long curve and shattered its point
against a rock at just the right height and about six feet in front of
the beast. If he had continued his trot, it would have pierced his
heart. Nothing was the worse for that adventure except the broad-head,
which was gladly offered to the kindly gods who had so gratifyingly
watched for me its straight true flight. And I had just as much
satisfaction from the episode as though I had actually slain the
deer,--and had had to cut it up and carry it into camp. This would not
have been true with a rifle. At any range of the bullet's effectiveness
I should have expected of myself a hit, and a miss would have hugely
disappointed me with myself and ruined temporarily my otherwise sweet
disposition.

But even acknowledging all this, the fact indubitably remains that one
must occasionally get results, one must occasionally _expect_ to get
results, in order to retain interest. Even though one goes forth boldly
to slay the bounding roebuck and brings back but the lowly jackrabbit,
he must once in a blue moon be assured of the jackrabbit. And he must
get the jackrabbit, not merely through the personal interposition of
the little gods who preside at roulette tables, but because his bow arm
held true and his release sweet and the shaft true sped.

All this is perfectly possible. Any man can within a reasonable time
become a reasonably good shot if he has the persistence to practice,
and the patience to live through the first discouragements, and the
ability to get some fun along the way. The game in its essentials seems
to me a good deal like golf. It has a definite technique of a number of
definite elements which must coordinate. When that technique is working
smoothly results are certain. Like golf a man knows just what he is to
do; only he cannot make himself do it! As the idea gets grooved in his
brain, the swing--or the release and the hold,--become more and more
automatic. But always there will be "on" days when he will shoot a par:
and "off" days when both ball and shaft fly on the wings of
contrariness.

Of all the qualities above mentioned, I think for the beginner the most
important is to cherish confident hope through the early
discouragements. For a long time there seems to be no improvement
whatever. And there is not improvement as far as score-results go. But
the man who studies to perfect the elements of his technique, and is
not merely shooting arrows promiscuously, is actually improving for all
that. He must strive to remember that not only is each and every point
important in itself, but that all must coordinate, must be working well
together. No matter how crisp the release, it avails not an [sic]
the bow arm falter or the back muscles relax. Again like golf, one day
one thing will be working well, and another day another; but it is only
when they are _all_ working well that the ball screams down the fairway
or the arrow consistently finds its mark. Thus the beginner, practise
as thoughtfully as he may, will for a time, perhaps a month or so, find
little or no encouragement in the accuracy of his shaft's flight. This
is the period when most men, who have started out enthusiastically
enough, give up in disgust. Then all at once the persistent ones will
begin to pick up. It is a good deal like dropping stones in a pool. One
can drop in a great many stones without altering the surface of the
water; but there comes a time when the addition of a single pebble
shows results.

In his chapter on Shooting the Bow, Dr. Pope has most adequately
outlined the technique. If the beginner will do what the doctor there
tells him to do, he will shoot correctly. Nevertheless he will find it
necessary to find out for himself just _how_ he is going to do these
things. It is largely a matter of getting the proper mental picture,
and finding out how one feels when he is doing the right thing. Each
probably gets an entirely individual mental image. Nevertheless a few
hints from the beginner's standpoint may come gracefully from one who
only yesterday was a beginner, and who today has struggled but little
beyond the first marker post of progress.

The target game and the hunting game differ somewhat, but the actual
technique of releasing the arrow is the same in both. I strongly advise
the use of a regulation target at regulation distances for at least
half of one's practice. There is an inexorable quality about the
painted rings. One cannot jolly oneself into a belief of a "pretty good
one!" as one does when the roving arrow comes close to the little bush.
Those rings are spaced in very definite inches! Even when one has
graduated into a fairly hopeful hunting field, one returns every once
in a while to the target to check himself up, to find out what he is
doing wrong. And in the target, too, one can find the interest along
that valley of preliminary discouragement. One should keep all one's
scores, no matter how bad they may be. Even if a lowly seventy is the
best one has been able to accomplish, there is a certain satisfaction
in going after a not-so-slowly seventy-one. Every ten scores or so
average up, and see what you have. Thus one can chart a sort of glacial
movement upwards otherwise imperceptible to one's sardonic estimate of
himself as the World's Champion Dub.

Begin with a light bow; but work up into the heavier weights as rapidly
as possible. The first bow I used at target weighed forty pounds. The
first hunting bow, made for me by Dr. Pope, weighs sixty-five. I could
draw it to the full, but only with difficulty; and it was not in any
proper control. I seriously begged the doctor to reduce it for me,
alleging that never would I be able to handle it. He very properly
laughed at me. Within the year I had worked up to the point where
seventy-five pounds seemed about right; and at the present writing I
have one of eighty-two pounds that handles for me much easier than Dr.
Pope's gift did at first. So begin light, but work up as fast as
possible. Do not linger with a weak bow simply because it is easier to
draw and because you can with it, and a light target, make a better
target score.

Beware of shooting too much just at first. If you strain the muscles of
your drawing fingers you will have to lay off just when you are most
eager. They strengthen very rapidly if you give them a chance. Once
they are hardened to the work you will have no more trouble and can, as
far as they are concerned, pop away as long as your bow arm holds out;
but if once you get them tender and sore you will be forced to quit
until they recover. It's as bad as a sprain.

Start at forty yards. Stand upright, feet about a foot apart, facing a
point at right angles to the target. Turn the head sharply to the left
and look at the bull's-eye. _Do not thereafter move it by the fraction
of an inch._ Bring your right arm across your chest. Pause and
visualize the shot, collecting your powers. Now promptly raise your bow
in direct line with the target. Draw the arrow to the head as it comes
up. All your muscles are, up to this point, alert but tensed only to
the extent necessary to draw the shaft. At the exact moment of release,
however, they stiffen to the utmost. It is like a little spurt of
energy released to speed the arrow on its way. That, I think, is what
Dr. Pope means when he says one should "put his heart in the bow." It
helps to imagine yourself trying to drive the arrow right through the
target. Pay especial attention to the muscles of the small of the back.
The least relaxation there means an ill-sped shaft. The bow arm must be
on the point of aim, and _held_ there. The release must be sharply
backward, and vigorous. Personally I find that my mental image is of
contracting the latissimus dorsi--the muscles of the broad of the back
by the shoulder blades--and thereby expanding the shoulders, forcing
the hands apart, but still in direct line with the bull's-eye. And
after the arrow has left the bow, _hold the pose!_ Carry through!
Imagine yourself as a statue of an archer, and stay just in that
position until you hear the arrow strike.

Just in the beginning, at forty yards, with thirty arrows, you may be
satisfied if you hit the target between sixteen and twenty-one times
out of the thirty shots and make a score of from sixty to eighty
points. Your ambition will be, as in golf, to "break" a hundred. By the
time you have done that your muscles will be in shape and you can begin
on the American Round. At first you will probably make a total of about
two hundred for the three distances. Progress will show in your
averages. They will creep up a few points at a time. It will be a proud
day when you "break" three hundred. Eventually you will shoot
consistently in the four hundreds; and that is about as far as you will
go unless you devote yourself to the target game, and confine yourself
to its lighter tackle and the super refinements of its delicate
technique.

The bow you will finally use for practice at the target will not be a
hunting bow. It will be longer and more whip-ended and not so sturdy.
But if you are to get the best results for the hunting field, I believe
it should approximate in weight the hunting weapon. It should not be
quite as heavy, for one shoots it more continuously. The one I use
weighs sixty pounds. With a lighter bow one would probably make a
somewhat better score; but that is a different game. Do not get the
idea, however, that mere weight is the whole thing. Nothing is worse
than to be over-bowed; and many a deer has been slain with a fifty or
fifty-five pound weapon. Only, there is a weight that is adapted to you
at your best; that "holds you together"; that keeps you on the mark;
that calls your concentration; and that is like to be on the heavier
rather than the lighter side as judged by beginner's experience.

In conclusion, let me urge you eventually to make your own tackle.
Personally, I am not dexterous when it comes to matters of finer
handicraft; and when I became interested in this game I made up my mind
that the construction of a bow or the building of a decent arrow was
outside my line, and that I would not attempt it. After a while Pope
persuaded me I ought to try arrows, at least. Under protest I attempted
the job. The Doctor says it takes about an hour to make a good arrow. I
can add that it takes about four hours to make a bad one. Still, when
completed it did look surprisingly like an arrow, and it flew point
first. Pope looked it all over and handed it back with the single
comment that I certainly had got the shaft straight. But that arrow was
very valuable. It proved to me that I could at least follow out the
process and produce _some_ result. It also convinced me that Ashan
Vitu--who was a heathen god of archers--possessed a magic that could
make one drop of glue on the shaft become at least one quart on the
fingers; and that turkeys are obsessed with small contrary devils who
pass at the bird's death into the first six feathers of its wings and
there lurk to the confusion of amateur archers. But I wanted to make
another arrow; and I did; and it was a better arrow and took less time.
I have that first arrow yet. It is a good idea to number the output;
and to preserve a sample out of every three dozen or so, just to show
not only your progress but also the advance of your ideas as to what
constitutes a good arrow. And some you will probably find valuable for
especial emergencies. Number Three of my own product is just such a
one. It starts straight enough for the point at which it was aimed.
When about thirty yards out it begins to entertain its first distrust
of its master, and to proceed according to its own ideas. It makes up
its mind that it has been held too high, and immediately goes into a
nose dive to rectify the fault. Instantly it realizes that it has
overdone the matter, and makes a desperate effort to straighten back on
its course. A partial success darts it to the right. Number Three
becomes ashamed and flustered. Its course from there on is a series of
erratic dives and swoops. I should be very sorry to lose Number Three,
for I am quite confident that I could never make another such. When my
most painstaking shooting has resulted in a series of misses, I launch
Number Three. There is no particular good in aiming it, though it can
be done if found amusing. But it is surprising how often it will at the
last moment pull off one of its erratic swoops--right into the mark!
As a compensating device for rotten shooting it is unexcelled. It is a
pity to laugh at it as much as we do; for I am convinced it is a
conscientious arrow doing its best under natural handicap; like a prima
donna with a cleft palate, for instance.

In a manner not dissimilar to my beginning of the fletching art, I took
up bow making. It can be done. The only thing is to go at it without
any particular hope. Then you will be surprised and pleased that you
have achieved any result at all, and will at once see where you could
do better again. To make a very fine bow is a real art and requires
much experience and many trials. But to make a serviceable bow that
will shoot and will hold up for a time is not very difficult. And it is
great fun! The first occasion on which you go afield with bow,
bowstring, arrow, quiver, bracer, and finger tips all of your own
composition, and loose the shaft and the thing not only flies well but
straight and far, you will taste a wonder and a satisfaction new to
your experience. It will probably take you some time to convince
yourself that somehow the whole outfit is not a base imitation.

From that moment you are a true archer, and you will actually look with
tolerance on anything so stiff and metallic and mechanical as a gun.
Your wife will accustom herself to shavings and scraps of feathers on
the rugs. Inspirations will come to you anent better methods, which you
will urge enthusiastically on the old timers; and the old timers will
smile upon you sweetly and sadly. They had those same inspirations
themselves in their green and salad days. Then no longer will you need
a Chapter of Encouragement. [1]
[Footnote 1: Stewart Edward White, the author and big game hunter, has
so entered into the spirit of archery, that he has become an expert
shot with the bow after a year's practice. The use of fire-arms no
longer appeals to him because it is a foregone conclusion just what
will happen when he aims at an animal. He was considered by Col.
Roosevelt to be the best shot that ever entered the African game field
with a gun.

In the use of the bow he has revived his interest in hunting, and
admits that it is a more sporting proposition. At this present writing
Stewart Edward White, Arthur Young, and I, are on our way to Tanganyika
Colony, Africa, to carry the legends of the English long bow into the
tropics. What is written on the scroll of Fate is not visible; but with
a sturdy bow, a true shaft, and a stout heart, we journey forth in
search of adventure.

S. P.]




THE UPSHOT

In ancient times when archery was practiced in open fields and shooting
at butts or clouts, men walked between their distances much as golfers
do today, and having completed their course, it was often customary to
shoot a return round over the same field. This was called the upshot,
and has descended into common parlance, just as many other phrases have
which had their origin in the use of the bow and arrow.

So we have come to the end of our story and prepare to say good-bye.

Although we have said much, and probably too much of ourselves, we have
not spoken the last word in archery. There are a few things that we
have learned of the art; others know more. And though we would praise
our pastime beyond measure, protesting that it is healthful, admirable
and full of romance, yet we cannot claim that it accomplishes all
things and is the only sport a man should pursue.

Its devotees will find ample room for differences of opinion. The shape
of a feather and the contour of a bow have been subjects for argument
since time immemorial. Nor is our art suited to all men. Few indeed
seem fitted for archery or care for it. But that rare soul who finds in
its appeal something that satisfies his desire for fair play, historic
sentiment, and the call of the open world, will be happy.

People will scoff at him for his "medieval crotchet," will think of him
as the Don Quixote of Sherwood Forest, but in their hearts they will
have a wistful envy of him; for all men feel the nobility and honorable
past of our sport. It carries with it dim memory pictures of spring
days, the green woods and the joy of youth.

It is also futile to prophesy the future of the bow and arrow. As an
implement of the chase, to us it seems to hold a place unique for
fairness. And in the further development of the wild game problem,
where apparently large game preserves and refuges will be the order of
the day, the bow is a more fitting weapon with which to slay a beast
than a gun or any more powerful agent that may be invented.

Of course, there are those who say that all hunting should cease, and
that photography and nature study alone should be directed toward wild
life. That sweet day may come, but at least no man can consistently
decry hunting who eats meat, wears furs or leather, or uses any vestige
of animal tissue; for he is party to the crime of animal murder, and
murder more brutal and ignoble than that of the chase.

And those who think the bullet is more certain and humane than the
arrow have no accurate knowledge on which to base their comparison. Our
experience has proved the contrary to be the case.

Yet these are not the reasons why we shoot the bow: we do it because we
love it, and this is no reason; it is an emotion difficult to explain.

Nor should I close this chapter without reference to that noble company
of archers, the members of the National Archery Association--men and
women who can shoot as pretty a shaft as any who ever drew a bowstring.
The names of Will Thompson, Louis Maxson, George P. Bryant, Harry
Richardson, Dr. Robert P. Elmer, Homer Taylor, Mrs. Howell, and Cynthia
Wesson are emblazoned on the annals of archery history for all time. To
them and the many other worthy bowmen who have fostered the art in
America, we are eternally grateful. The self-imposed discipline of
target shooting is much harder work than the carefree effort of
hunting. The rewards, however, are less spectacular.

To you who would follow us into the land of Robin Hood, let me say that
what you need most is a great longing to come, and perseverance; for if
I should try to explain how we have accomplished even that little we
have in hunting, I would protest that it is because we have held to an
idea and been persistent. In my own mind the credit is ascribed to the
fact that I have surrounded myself with good companions and tried again
and again in spite of failure.

All that we have done is perfectly possible to any adventurous youth,
no matter what his age.

Nor is that which is written here the finis, for even as I scribble we
are on our journey to another hunt, and bowmen seem ever to be
increasing in numbers.

May the gods grant us all space to carry a sturdy bow and wander
through the forest glades to seek the bounding deer; to lie in the deep
meadow grasses; to watch the flight of birds; to smell the fragrance of
burning leaves; to cast an upward glance at the unobserved beauty of
the moon. May they give us strength to draw the string to the cheek,
the arrow to the barb and loose the flying shaft, so long as life may
last.

Farewell and shoot well!

[Illustration: (Signature of) Saxton Pope]

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