Here a funny incident occurred. Jack and Art were stalking a herd of
these wary creatures with the camera when suddenly around a point of
rock the whole band of goats appeared. Art was ahead and had only just
time enough to duck down on his hands and knees and hide his face close
to the ground. He stayed so still that the entire flock passed close by
him almost touching his body, while the camera man did his work from a
concealed ledge higher up. Though Young counts it little to his credit,
he shot one of these male goats, which was poised on so precipitous a
point that it fell over and over down the mountain side and was lost as
a trophy and as camp meat. Humiliating as such an episode may be, it
serves, however, to add a coup to the archer's count. And there we let
the matter rest.
But what is of greater interest is his outwitting a Rocky Mountain Big
Horn. This animal is considered the greatest game trophy in America. It
is an extremely alert sheep, all eyes and wisdom. If you expose
yourself but a second, though you be a mile away from the ram, probably
you will be seen. And though the sheep may not move while you look at
him, he is gone when you have completed your toilsome climb and peer
over the last ledge of rock preparatory to shooting. Ned Frost used to
say that when he hunted Big Horns he paid no attention to hearing or
smell, but he was so careful about sight, that when he raised his head
cautiously over a ridge to observe the sheep, he always lifted a stone
and peered underneath it, or picked up a bunch of grass and gazed
through it.
Most hunters are content to stalk this game within three or four
hundred yards, then aim at it with telescopic sights. It is the last
word in good hunting.
Stewart Edward White, the author and big game hunter, has said that the
following experience is one of the finest demonstrations of stalking
and understanding of animal psychology he knows.
Up near the head of Wood River, Young and his party came on a number of
Big Horn Sheep and first devoted several days to film work. Then Young
decided to try for a trophy with the bow. After hunting all morning he
discovered with his glasses a ram a long way off.
The country was open and had no cover. The ram was resting on a ledge
of rock elevated above the level of the valley. Even at a distance of
half a mile it was evident to Art that the ram had seen him, so Young
studied the sheep and the country carefully before deciding what plan
to pursue.
From the lay of the land it was plain that no concealment was possible
and no detour or ambush could be employed. The glasses showed that the
ram was a fairly old specimen and had a very sophisticated look. In
fact, to Art he looked conceited and had an expression that said:
"There is a man, but I am a pretty wise old sheep; I know all about
men; that fellow hasn't seen me yet and when he does, there is plenty
of open country back of me; my best plan is to lie still and let this
tenderfoot pass." So he went on ruminating and blinking at the sun.
Taking this mental attitude into consideration, Young decided that the
best method of outwitting this particular sheep was to take him at his
own valuation and proceed as a tenderfoot down the valley. So he walked
unconcernedly along at an oblique angle to the sheep and never once
taking a direct look at him. He went gaily along whistling, kicking
pebbles and swinging his bow. When he had reached a distance of two or
three hundred yards the old sheep lifted up his head to see what was
going on. Young paid no attention to him, though he observed him out of
the corner of his eyes. So the wise old boy settled back content with
his diagnosis.
Art walked along as innocently as ever. When he was a hundred and fifty
yards off, the ram raised his head again and took a longer observation.
He seemed to be changing his mind. Young said to himself, "He will take
one more look, then he will go. Now is the time to act." So nocking an
arrow on the string he ran at full speed directly at the sheep, and
when half way he saw the tip of his horns rise above the ledge and knew
it was time to stop. He came to his shooting pose and waited, the arrow
half drawn. Sure enough! Out walked the old fellow to the very edge of
the parapet and gazed over. Off flew the arrow and in the twilight it
was lost to vision, but he heard it strike and saw the ram wheel in
flight. As it disappeared over the ridge Art followed at a run;
reaching the top he peered cautiously about and saw the sheep at no
great distance standing still with its legs spread wide apart. He knew
by the posture that it was done for. So he went back to the valley and
because of the distance from camp and the oncoming darkness he made a
fire and "Siwashed it" or camped out in the open all night without
blankets. In the morning he went after his trophy and found it near the
spot last seen. It was a fine specimen. The arrow had pierced it from
front to rear completely through and was lost; a center shot at eighty
yards; a most remarkable bit of archery and hunting stratagem. This
head now decorates the dining room of the Young home in San Francisco.
Unfortunately the moose antlers were cached near a river in Alaska and
an unprecedented flood carried them out to sea.
While speaking of Alaskan rivers there recurs to my mind a most
remarkable incident related by Young. In one picture required for their
film it was necessary to show a canoe in the course of construction,
the subsequent use of this vessel and an upset in the turbulent waters
of the river. To represent his bow in its canvas case, and still to
spare that weapon a wetting, Young went down the river bank to pick out
a stick about the same size to put in his bow case. Taking the first
piece that came to hand he started to place it in the case, when struck
by its smoothness he looked at it and found he had a weatherbeaten old
Indian bow in his hand. It seemed like a sign, a good omen,--for we
playfully indulge in omens in these romantic adventures with the bow.
[Illustration: ARTHUR YOUNG OUTWITS THE ALASKA BIGHORN]
Studying this implement later I found it apparently to be a birch Urock
bow, some five feet long, having nocks and a place for the usual
perpendicular piece of wood bound on at the handle to check the string.
It would have pulled about sixty pounds, good enough for caribou
hunting.
And so in brief are the adventures of Art Young in Alaska.
But who can speak of the adventures in the heart of our archer? Here is
no common hunter, no insensate slayer of animals. Here we have the poet
afoot,--the archaic adventurer in modern game fields; the champion of
fair play and clean sport; all that is strong and manly.
I take off my hat to Arthur Young.
A CHAPTER OF ENCOURAGEMENT
BY
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
No one can read Dr. Pope's book without an appreciation of the romance
and charm of the long bow and the broad-head arrow. And no one can
doubt that the little group of which he writes has proved that the
thing can be done. Its members have brought to bag quantities of small
game, unnumbered deer, mountain goat, big horn sheep, moose, caribou,
thirteen black bears, six grizzlies, and one monster Kadiak bear. That
point it proved beyond doubt. But, each will ask; how about it for me?
These men are experts. It all looks very fascinating; but what chance
have I?
That, I believe, is the first reaction of the average man after he has
savored the real literary charm of this book and begins to consider the
practical side of the question. It was my own reaction. Fortunately, I
live within commuting distance of Dr. Pope, so I have been able to
resolve my doubts--slowly. My purpose is here to summarize what I found
out.
In the first place, the utter beginner has in his hands a weapon that
is adequate and humane. A bad rifle shot or a bad shotgun shot can and
does "slobber" his game by hitting it in the wrong places or with the
outer fringe of his pattern. But if an arrow can be landed anywhere in
the body it is certain and prompt death. This is not only true of the
chest cavity, but of the belly; and every rifleman knows that a bullet
in the latter is ineffective and cruel, and a beast so wounded is
capable of long distances before it dies. The arrow's deadliness
depends not on its shocking power, which of course is low, but upon
internal hemorrhage and the very peculiar fact that the admission of
air in quantity into any part of the body cavity collapses the lungs.
Furthermore, again unlike the bullet, the broad arrow seems to be as
effective at the limit of its longest flight as at the nearer ranges.
So the amateur bowman, suitably armed, may lay this much of comfort to
his soul: if by the grace of Robin Hood and the little capricious gods
of luck he does manage to stray a shaft into a beast, it is going to do
the trick for him. And of course if he keeps on shooting arrows in the
general direction of game, the doctrine of chances will land him sooner
or later!
In the meantime--and here is the second point--he is going to have an
enormous amount of enjoyment from his "close misses." With firearms a
miss is a miss, and catastrophic. You have failed, and that is all
there is to it; and you have no earthly means of knowing whether your
miss was by the scant quarter inch that fairly ruffled the beast's
crest, or by the disgraceful yards of buck ague or the jerking
forefinger or the blinking dodging eye. But the beautiful clean flight
of the arrow can be followed. And when it passes between the neck and
the bend of wing of wild goose; or it buries its head in the damp earth
only just below the body line of the unstartled deer, the bowman
experiences quite as keen a thrill of satisfaction as follows a good
center with gun or rifle,--even though the game is as scathless as
though he had missed it by miles. In this type of hunting a miss is
emphatically _not_ as good as a mile! And the chances are he can try
again, and yet again, provided nothing else has occurred to affright
his quarry. To most animals the flight of an arrow is little more than
the winging past of some strange swift bird.
Thus the joy is not primarily in the size of the bag, nor even in the
certainty of the bag, but in the woodcraft and the outguessing, and the
world of little things one must notice to get near enough for his shot,
and the birds and the breezes and the small matters along the way;
which is as it should be: and the satisfaction is not wholly centered
in merely a shot well placed and a trophy quickly come by. Indeed, the
latter is become almost an incidental; a very welcome and inspiriting
incidental; a wonderful culmination; but a culmination that is
necessary only occasionally as a guerdon of emprise rather than an
invariably indispensability, lacking which the whole expedition must be
classed as a failure.
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.