Ramblings of an Antique

Call me an antique. To that designation I nod in deference and plead guilty. For I am an antique – both in practice and sentiment.

My bows are bamboo and Osage; my arrows cedar. My muzzleloader is a Lancaster-style flintlock. My modern center fire is an 1874 Sharps, its thumb-sized brass cases stuffed with black powder and topped with lead slugs. And to add credence to this reference of antiquity, I began regular treks into the hunting woods in the late 1950s. Seems everything I am and know and possess and use is old.

But save age, over which I have no control, all other ingredients that relate to practice, and to sentiment I suppose, are a matter of choice. There is pure magic in the feel and cast of a wooden bow. There is a euphoric aroma that rises toward heaven during the processing of a cedar shaft. There is romance in the clack, whoosh, boom of a flintlock. There is nostalgic mystique in the rumble of a black-powder cartridge. No other contrivances of humanity with which I am acquainted have so completely locked me into their unyielding spell as have those just mentioned. As a result, I practice the old. Always will.

That practice often generates comment when I am in new company. Questions are common, all of which I am more than happy to answer if I possibly can. And there is often a quiet hint of interest that emerges, giving promise that another individual has allowed an embryo of intrigue to enter some deep spot inside. It may grow to maturity in the future. But seldom during any of these interactions is there one who takes offense to my mode of operation. That is as long as I keep my proclivity for strong sentiment under control. It is this element that is most likely to put me in opposition to some of the more modern among the hunting fraternity.

Sentiment causes me to struggle with many terms and behaviors now common in the hunting world. For instance, I wrestle with the nomenclature cull buck. I do support wildlife management and fully understand the concept of removing specific animals from a herd, but cull, at least in my aging mind, carries the connotation of insignificance. There is no buck, no animal in fact, that is insignificant. All are important, of value.

I have difficulty with high fives and fist bumping and similar displays of gleeful abandon at the taking of an animal. There is joy and a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment to be sure, but there is also an ample supply of sobering sadness, enough in fact to reign in rambunctious frivolity in favor of quiet reverence.  An animal, any animal deserves nothing less.

Then there is the bad-boy, tough-guy, going-to-war approach. My dad’s generation faced battle in World War II. My generation faced battle in Vietnam. Many others have faced battle since in other venues and there will be more in the future. These did and will indeed go to war. But it was not and will not be that outing in the deer woods.

Much thought and great care should also figure into the equation before hunting is viewed as a form of competition. Ill placed it seems is the thought of always having to win, whether with the animal or fellow hunters. It is natural and productive to have a deer or other game animal slip away, the beneficiary of keen senses and instinct. And the drive to always take the biggest or most seems a sinister demon that can rob a hunter of the true essence afforded by the experience.

I say none of this to take away for those with a different persuasion. There is room for difference. But for me, I will keep mine on a level at which I find the reward I seek, and that is to use tools of the past and relish in the simple pleasures of a grand and glorious creation, a creation I have celebrated now for more years than it seems possible. These are just my leanings when I consider the situation.

So please, feel free to call me an antique!