It Started With a Turtle

When I was about nine I found a small, tan box turtle. As was usual for me, I brought it home for a pet. As just as usual Mom totally accepted it. As far as I can remember, it did not have a name, other than “The Turtle”.

Neither did The Turtle have a cage. It was a free ranging turtle, as long as the range was our house. We would leave water and food out for it and occasionally catch a glimpse of it going across the floor with a purpose that only a turtle could understand. Mom said that she saw it mostly in the morning when the house was quiet before the day’s chaos kicked off. She even said that they had some interesting conversations. Ponder for a moment what a mom and a turtle might talk about.

Back from your pondering? Good. Whatever they talked about created a bond between them. I don’t know how The Turtle felt about the relationship, but Mom was very attached to that turtle. I didn’t know just how much she cared for that turtle. But then most young boys are not fully aware of the fact that their moms can truly love anyone but them. I learned of her feelings for The Turtle when I did a very dastardly thing. I traded The Turtle for a bow and some arrows.

It was a simple blond colored long bow. I don’t know what kind of wood it was made from but it was beautiful thing.  It was the same one that left a scar on my forehead as a result of a practical joke that didn’t go quiet as expected.

Mom was upset. She wanted me to get The Turtle back. But a deal is a deal and my neighbor would not reverse the transaction. Perhaps I didn’t try as hard as I should have.

As I said, it was a simple long bow, no re-curve or anything fancy.  I got a couple of target arrows with it and immediately transformed into the mightiest hunter of all time. Ironically, I never shot at any living thing. Clumps of grass, cardboard boxes, or anything that looked like I would not get in trouble if I put an arrow through it became fair game.  The string eventually broke. The only thing I had to get it going again was some of Dad’s nylon trot line. Also, I was a sickly, puny kid and I had trouble stringing it. So I left it braced all the time. I didn’t know that was a big no-no. The bow took on a strange permanent curve.

The bow and I went our separate ways when I was ten and I moved to Idaho. I know where I went. I don’t know where it went. But I didn’t really care. It didn’t shoot very well anymore and I was deep into my next great adventure, moving to the mountains.

Ok Mr. Peabody, fire up the WayBack Machine and let’s go back to when I was 17. Or, if you prefer, let’s go ahead to that time. Either way I’ll meet you in the middle.  I am back in Texas and in high school. I bought a green fiberglass Fred Bear bow from Gibson’s. It had a 70 pound draw weight. After all, the Mightiest Hunter needed a strong bow to take down big game. The problem was, I could pull it back but I could not hold it steady enough to get a good sight picture. You can’t hit the target if you can’t hold the bow on target. What to do?

The solution was simple. An 80 pound crossbow only requires you to pull it back. The bow holds the string and you shoot it like a rifle. On my third shot the string broke. On a quite night, if I sit still enough, I can still feel parts of me shaking from the vibrations created when those black metal arms were suddenly set free.

The bow that replaced that killer crossbow was a Ben Pearson laminated re-curved bow. At a draw weight of 45 it was pounds it was perfect for me. After hours of practice I chalked up one snake, several alligator gars, and almost a rabbit. Then came the time when college, a wife, kids, and a career gained a higher priority and the bows went to my younger brother.

Now let’s move to September 2012. I had just teleported home as Anita parked the flying car when … Wait, we haven’t gotten that promised future yet. However, my son Paul did bring his compound bow to the Farm so that I could shoot it. For years I had desired such a bow as his. I had been looking at them in stores and catalogs and dreaming of stalking wild game through the woods with my bow almost since the time when I gave up my bows to brother. Firing that bow gave my inner hunter the boost he needed to break the chains that had kept him subdued for all those years. I had become a full toxophilite.   I have no idea how I would have survived this condition if Anita hadn’t informed me that she was planning to get me a bow for Christmas. We would get it early so that Paul and I could hunt together this season.

Now I spend my afternoons shredding targets. I put out my trail cam, watch Bow Hunting TV, and reading everything I can about bow hunting. And it is good.

But better than all that is the fact that I have yet another reason to spend time with my son. We talk about hunting techniques, equipment, and shooting. We spend time sneaking through the woods together. And each time we get a little closer to taking that deer. We also get closer to each other. I truly enjoy the company of the man who is my son.

 I wonder how The Turtle made out. I’m doing just fine.