https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/blog.php?177-FVR A public discussion forum on wilderness surivival, primitive technology, and disaster preparedness. en Mon, 20 Jul 2026 09:40:32 GMT vBulletin 60 https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/blog.php?177-FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?157-The-Dream-Buck Mon, 03 Nov 2008 02:34:52 GMT The Dream Buck 11-2-2008 It was an easy shot, 25 or 30 yards... The Dream Buck 11-2-2008



It was an easy shot, 25 or 30 yards away. The doe was broadside and stepped out into the open and looked away. I was fortunate as I did have one arrow left in my quiver, a result of a fall out of the tree that I was sitting in.

The fall was not far, but unfortunately I had landed on my elk skin plains quiver that did not have any support. All but one arrow had been broken right in half when I landed on it.

I have made the shot a dozen times during the 3D shoots and have even made the shot on both deer and wild hogs in the past with favorable results, well, favorable for me. I knocked the arrow, drew anchored and released all in one movement. The arrow was on its way to the vitals, a perfect shot. The arrow seemed to have a mind of its own and soared way over the shoulders of the unsuspecting doe. She was oblivious to anything other than what was keeping her attention at her right.

Then he came out. He was big, I counted 10, 15, maybe 20 points on his antlers. He was a monster, but he looked strange, kind of malformed around the head area. It looked like, at this distance, he had antler tines running down from the top of his head, down his neck to his back. At that moment I noticed, he, the monster buck, the trophy of many a hunters dreams, was staring right at me.

He was looking right at me just like I was looking at him. He snorted, pawed the ground and then started to walk towards me. 30 yards, 25 yards, 20 yards, what was this monster doing? He was walking straight towards me. As he walked closer, the antler tines were coming more into view. Wow, as he closed his distance those were not antler tines. They were arrows, this monster buck with the trophy rack had arrows sticking out of his head, neck, all the way down to right past his shoulders.

The strangest thing was that the buck, what many would call a trophy, was a good 12 point buck with a massive rack with the bases so large, that you could not put your hand around them. This monster, this dream buck was walking up to me, never taking his deep dull sullen eyes off me. Was this was my worst nightmare, a devil deer?

He walked up to me and I put my hand out, while looking at me, right into my eyes, I pulled an arrow out of the base of his skull. I pulled out some antibacterial ointment and dressed the wound. I then proceeded to pull the arrows, all the arrows out one at a time, dressing each wound carefully until I came to the last arrow, right behind his shoulder.

I kept thinking, why is this deer still alive, why do I not just pull out my bowie knife and make one lunge and have a trophy that would adorn my den form many years. As I slowly pulled out the last arrow, that like so many others, had not reached the vitals, I noticed that he, the monster buck had seemed to get a glow in his eyes. A sparkle.

When I had finished pulling the arrows and dressing the last wound, he turned and walked away, never looking back. When he was about 30 yards away, my hunting partner walked up and threw up his bow, knocked and arrow and went to draw and release an arrow, when I pushed him off balance and his arrow sailed towards the tree tops.

My hunting partner then proceeded to question my sanity, my hunting ability, and my manliness as he cursed commenting that this was a dream buck, a trophy deer that may not be ever seen again. I looked at my hunting partner and dropped my bow and my quiver of broken arrows on the ground, walked off and did not say a word.

My sanity was questioned as it was recalled, that I had a stupid grin plastered across my face.

At this point around 0200, I rolled over and noticed that my wife who was already up reading asked me if I was okay, as it seemed that I was having a dream. I told her of the dream and said that I really don’t enjoy deer hunting anymore. She responded in her soft voice that I had not enjoyed deer hunting for the last 6 years. I responded with a dumbfounded “oh,” and went back to sleep.

This was an actual dream that I had one night not too long ago. The dream has plagued my thoughts and has embedded itself in my memories. ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?157-The-Dream-Buck https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?146-Weekends-with-Pop Mon, 29 Sep 2008 01:14:30 GMT My grandfather aka “Pop” and I would hunt and fish on the weekends from the time I was 14 till I joined the Marines. In the Fall, a bow hunting surf... My grandfather aka “Pop” and I would hunt and fish on the weekends from the time I was 14 till I joined the Marines. In the Fall, a bow hunting surf fishing weekend was usually the norm.

He would pick me up at zero dark thirty on Saturday morning, I would load up my Bear recurve and arrows and we would head for the Dunkin Donuts and the 15 minute light. Once there, we would sit and open our morning snack and feast on what we (he) had purchased. When the light changed, we continued our trek to our destination, Turkey Bone Ridge.

Turkey Bone Ridge was a name given to an area in the NJ Pine Barrens that we had been hunting for years. Once there, we’d walk up to the dirt road, he would go his way and I would go mine. We (he) would usually see deer, but never took a shot. I always wondered why, but never really asked. He had killed deer in his younger days, but did not seem to have the want now. We would always meet up around noon for lunch which consisted of a few sandwiches, sardines, crackers and coffee. We would then hit the woods for an evening hunt.

We had been hunting these woods for years, but that did not mean that we did not ever get turned around getting out. We had our special whistle call. Whoever made it to the road first would wait till dark if it was not already. We gave each other about 20 minutes, if there was a no show, we would then do our call. It would just keep us on track coming out of the pines.

If his whistle got me out of the pines once, it got me out a dozen times. One evening, I made it to the road first. Following protocol, I waited and whistled with no such luck. After about 30 minutes of whistles and a very dark night, I walked back to the truck, brought it up to the meeting point and blew the horn every minute. Another 15 minutes produced my grandfather, a bit tired and weary. He had come out of his stand, and started walking in the opposite direction, something that I had done many times over the years. It was time for a dinner out.

Saturday night in the Pines on the way to Seaside was a nice drive. There was a restaurant that we would dine in. Homemade snapper soup was my meal of choice. Then it was on the road to the beach.

Once we hit the strip at Seaside, it was usually late dark thirty. Next stop, the bait store then park the truck in the parking area, climb in the back and go to sleep. Morning usually came very early, sometimes too early. In the old days, we could just drive onto the beach and sleep on the beach. But times had changed, this was the 70’s and it was just not allowed anymore.

I would always get woken up with a hot cup of coffee, how he got out of the camper without me waking up is beyond me. The hot cup of coffee was a good start, then at zero early am, it was off to the restaurant for a quick breakfast. It may have been quick, but it was a lot of food. It had to be as we always planned to be in the surf up to our waists throwing plugs in the Atlantic when the sun started to rise in hopes enticing a striped bass. We would plug until lunch, then we would bait and throw out the big surf poles and it was cooking time. If we had caught a striper or blue, then that was what we dined on for lunch. If we had been skunked, then my grandfather always had packed away in the cooler, a few steaks that would be put on the grill.

Sometimes these hunting and fishing weekends would get extended when my Monday or Friday school days, I had off. When the November cold rolled in, we would hold off on the surf fishing and spend the weekend bowhunting deer. We gun hunted now and then for deer, but both preferred the bowhunting season as the lack of hunters in the woods was a blessing. After the late NJ bow season, we would switch gears and it would be a surf fishing weekend, except every now and then. Sometimes we would find ourselves surf fishing in December, for what, I don’t know. The lines would freeze and then the ice would fall off when we reeled in our lines. It was cold, real cold, but fun.

My Pop passed away a few years ago. My last visit, Caren took the kids to the public play ground not 50 yards away. We sat on the back deck, watching the kids play in an area that we had hunted for rabbits in my younger years. We spoke of passed hunts and the never ending want or “need” of getting back in the Pines or down to Seaside to throw a few plugs for Stripers. ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?146-Weekends-with-Pop https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?145-The-Shot-Not-Taken Mon, 22 Sep 2008 02:54:26 GMT Man I should have taken that shot. Maybe, betcha I would have missed. Man I should have taken that shot. Don’t laugh, we all have “The Shot Not... Man I should have taken that shot. Maybe, betcha I would have missed. Man I should have taken that shot.

Don’t laugh, we all have “The Shot Not Taken” in our hunting histories. Some just choose not to think, re-think, or obsess about them. Here are a few “Shots Not Taken” from mine and a few hunting buddies histories.

It was a beautiful morning to hunt turkeys on Spooky Mountain. I give the mountain that name because if you ever walk off it at night, you’ll know what I mean. A friend asked to accompany me on a spring bowhunt for turkeys. Now, I’ve never shot a turkey, never claimed to even get close to one, but he wanted to join me anyway.

He was shooting an old recurve and was consistent up to 20 yards with the bow. I had this place picked out for me but since he was joining me, I set him up instead. We put the blind up looking down this slight hill that was about 40 yards from the pines where I had heard Ol Tom many times. Once I got my friend set up, I ventured down and around about 250 yards to the other side of the mountain and settled in behind a natural blind.

It did not take long after I let loose with my first series of calls to see turkeys. I had hens running all over the place. Then I saw him, well I saw his head. It was a big ol tom walking through the thickets with his head about six inches above. At 20 yards!

A shot not taken. I know I could have made the shot. I’ve done it before in my backyard with plastic balls hanging on the straw bales. Why I did not shoot is beyond me.

Well, let’s not obsess about me, let’s obsess about my friend. You see, after I finished my first series of calls a tom flew down out of a tree and landed about 25 yards right directly in front of his blind. He watched the tom for about five minutes and then he was amazed when another tom ran out of the thickets and proceeded to start strutting. Here is my friend with two toms at 25 yards strutting their stuff. Now, to put the finishing touches on the cake, what happened next just floored him, it floors me. A third tom started working his way down the mountain to my friends left. This bird walked about 15 yards from his blind but he did not notice him until he darted out in front to join the other two strutting toms. Needless to say, all three birds were about 25 yards from my friend who just sat there and did not take a shot.

The moral of the story? Take the shot, don’t take the shot, I don’t know. I can tell you one thing, if I ever invite you to go turkey hunting on Spooky Mountain, I’m not giving up my spot, don’t care how good of a friend you are.

Frank V. Rago

Published TBG ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?145-The-Shot-Not-Taken https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?93-Tribute-to-an-Archery-Legend Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:23:00 GMT It all started in Winston Georgia, off I-20 towards Alabama during the first week of bow season 1994. Got in the woods and hung my stand. Typical... It all started in Winston Georgia, off I-20 towards Alabama during the first week of bow season 1994. Got in the woods and hung my stand. Typical Frank set up, off a beaten path with the stand only 6 feet off the ground.

I had only been in the stand for an hour or two and here he came. He was a nice 6pt with long tines. And they were still in velvet, a trophy to be had. He walked within 10 feet of me, arrow nocked, release on the string, he turned his head away from me, perfect set up.

I drew, anchored, and looked through the peep site, Oh No! the peep is not lined up, no problem as I can compensate. Oh No! The arrow is on top of the spring rest, no problem as I can compensate. I release, guess I did not compensate as the arrow flew right over his back.

I needed more practice, and a new rest. So I put on a new arrow rest and a new peep site that automatically aligns when you draw on my cam bow.

Here is where the story begins.

I had taken my soon to be wife Caren up to Athens to visit a few art shops. I chose not to go (duh) to the art shops and instead visit an archery shop called Archery Traditions that I had heard about.

I walked into Archery Traditions, opened my case and pulled out this cam bow I'd been shooting for years. I noticed this older gent sitting in a chair, he smiled, I smiled, I did not know who he was.

I shot the range for about an hour. Shoot then adjust sights, shoot some more and tinker some more.

When I was finished, all packed up, this older gent still sitting in the chair asks if I'd ever shot a longbow. I told him I had many years ago but that was then, and this, pointing at the cam bow was now.

He bet me that if I shot his longbow, he would have me hitting inside a pie plate in 15 minutes. I said, okay as my soon to be wife had not arrived yet.

My soon to be wife arrived, LATE! So for 30 minutes I got a one on one private longbow shooting lesson from Dan himself that day. Yes, I was hitting inside the pie plate when I left.

That was the last time I ever shot that cam bow. I traded it a few weeks later for a longbow.

I grew up reading about Fred Bear, Ben Pearson, watching Fred Bear on tv specials. I later realized who Dan was and to this day, I am proud to say, that I got a one on one longbow lesson from Dan Quillian, an archery legend and he converted me.


Thanks Dan.


FVR posted Tradgang upon hearing of Dan's passing. ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?93-Tribute-to-an-Archery-Legend https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?92-Running-with-quot-The-Bull-quot Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:20:31 GMT I’ve always been sort of a trader. I would rather trade than sell any day. It was the mid 70’s and the compound bow was making a mark in the... I’ve always been sort of a trader. I would rather trade than sell any day. It was the mid 70’s and the compound bow was making a mark in the archery community. It was the “future” of bow hunting and everyone had to have one.

Not me. Matter of fact, I kind of profited a little by the influx of compound bows in the local stores. One store was K-Mart. They stocked their new bows for the upcoming archery season and they were all compounds. Last year’s recurve bows sat in the corner in a bin with a price tag of $20.00 each.

Well, I had a job and, upon seeing this bin, I quickly purchased their last three bows which consisted of a Bear Panther, a Ben Pearson, and a Bear Kodiak. I instantly started shooting the Kodiak and the other two adorned my bedroom wall.

Ken, a good friend and hunting buddy, came over and immediately wanted to own the Ben Pearson. Now, knowing that Ken had an uncle who owned a farm in North Jersey, it was time to trade. We settled the deal for $20.00 and a guaranteed North Jersey farm deer hunt in the fall.

Fall soon came and we loaded up his truck and headed north. It was a pleasant trip as we drove on the Pennsy side up to Washington’s crossing then to Frenchtown. I’ll be darned; it was a real farm with corn, wheat, silos, and a bull, a big, black mean bull with long horns.

Saturday morning found us splitting up, Ken went into the hardwoods and I ventured in the opposite direction, bow in hand hoping to sneak up on a deer. It was a beautiful fall morning, a slight chill and a breeze in my face. I slowly worked my way up and around the hedgerows hoping to find an unsuspecting young buck. That did not happen, but I was amused for close to an hour watching this doe with her three fawns. The spots were almost completely gone but even a greenhorn like me could tell they were fawns. Maybe it was the way they were chasing each other around the corner of the field or maybe it was the way they jumped straight up in the air for no reason, it sure was a great morning.

Ken and I met at the farm for lunch and talked of our morning adventures. We soon finished and decided on how to set up for the evening hunt. We decided to cross the pasture and head down to the stream that came down from the mountains.

We headed toward the pasture and I noticed a mess of cows at the far end. Those critters must have been two, maybe three hundred yards away. “Ken, what happens if the bull comes charging us?” Ken replied “Ah, don’t worry about it. This is what you do. Stand your ground; wait till the bull gets about five feet away, and then jump to the side. He’ll run right by you and you go the other way.” I responded “Oh, okay.”

We jumped the fence, bows in hand and started our little trek across the pasture that the cows called home; the cows and one big, black, mean Bull. About the middle of the pasture, I mention to Ken that the bull is coming our way. He reminded me what he had told me, if the bull charges. “Oh, okay.”

I just happen to turn and about 50 yards away Mr. Bull (capitalized for a reason) starts pawing the ground and snorting. Bulls snort? I thought that was only in the movies. I stand there, Ken behind me, standing my ground.

Mr. Bull starts off at a slow sort of trot; he then speeds up, much like my adrenalin level. “Ken, Ken, the bull is charging.” No response. “Ken, the (can’t say these words) bull is charging.” No response. I turn around and my good buddy Ken is hoofing it half way to the other side of the fence, bow in hand.

It did not take me long to figure out that it was time to get out of Dodge, quickly. So I start running. Ken is yelling, “Don’t turn around,” just like in the movie Jaws. I ran harder than I have ever run in my life, bow in hand. It was a short flight. Neither one of us knows if I managed to jump over the barbed wire fence on my own or not, but I did clear it, very nicely. I don’t really know if Ken saw the whole thing because all I saw of him was how he was doubled over laughing so hard that he could hardly talk.

Moral of the story: I don’t know. But I’m never hunting dangerous game with him. He can outrun me.



FVR published TBG ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?92-Running-with-quot-The-Bull-quot https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?91-Hunting-Buddies Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:19:28 GMT The year was, oh it does not matter. It was New Jerseys, second or third ever archery deer hunt. Stosh and Casey were linemen for what use to be... The year was, oh it does not matter. It was New Jerseys, second or third ever archery deer hunt. Stosh and Casey were linemen for what use to be called Ma Bell. Their schedules were such that they always seemed to be off at the same time and this meant deer hunting in the winter, and trout fishing in the summer.

Stosh lived in a small house on the side of what use to be a creek. He ran a trap line from Beverly Road all the way down to the Delaware River. The money he made trapping was used for Christmas presents for his wife and daughter. He was an outdoorsman who had taken a 4pt buck a few years earlier in 1952.

Casey was just a plain good hunter. He never walked out of the woods without game and always filled his tags. Casey was not married but owned quite a few dogs. The dogs ate very well.

When Stosh and Casey found out that they could extend their deer hunting opportunities by using a bow, they were on it. They set up a range and practiced religiously. Stosh was shooting a wooden Bear bow, cedar arrows, with the old Bear two blade razorheads. Casey shot an all fiberglass short recurve made by Ben Pearson.

They hunted a mountain they called Turkey Bone Ridge, the original Turkey Bone Ridge. It was their honey hole up in Northern New Jersey. Now you will remember that I have mentioned this name before, reason is that Stosh and Frank hunted Turkey Bone Ridge II which was located in the middle of the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

Stosh and Casey had arranged to meet up at the cabin the night before and hunt the first day of bow season.

Opening morning found both hunters all ready to go. Both hunters had their own side of the mountain. They headed off to their stands. Don’t know where or how Casey was hunting, but I do know Stosh’s story. He made it to his stand and climbed up into it. While getting situated he just did not feel comfortable with his current shooting lane out of the tree, so he needed to cut a few samplings. He had situated his stand off a known deer trail and wanted every possible direction open.

Stosh hung his bow and started clearing the limbs away and then it happened. WHAM!!! He felt a searing pain across his face and head and he went flying out of his treestand. After he got his composure back and his eyesight, he realized that while clearing saplings, he had cut his bowstring. The bow flew off the tree and hit him and knocked him out of the tree.

He found his bow, checked for cracks, and then put on a new string. Stosh always carried an extra string taped to the inside of the bow limb. He checked his brace height and then climbed back into the tree, for a short time.

About an hour later he saw what he calls the biggest deer he has ever seen, something about maybe 12 plus points. The deer came down the trail, shooting lanes perfect. He drew, anchored, aimed, and released. The arrow went right over the back of the monster deer and he promptly ran off. Needles to say, Stosh was a bit ticked. Five minutes later he hears something coming down the trail, he looks, his are hopes up, gets ready only to see a very large red tailed fox. Since fox’s are legal to take. he takes the shot and puts the arrow right where he aimed. Just to add insult to injury.

Stosh and Casey were to meet at the cabin around noon, eat some lunch and help one another get their deer off the mountain. They had a running bet, the hunter that did not get a deer had to haul the other hunters deer off the mountain. Needless to say Stosh did not get his deer. Casey did. Casey not only shot one, he shot four does. He shot them way up on the top of the mountain.

Stosh being a man of his word spent the rest of the day hauling deer off the mountain. They ate very well that night and Stosh ate his and Casey’s share of tenderloin.

As with all good hunting buddies, times change, situations change, and we all move on. Casey met a woman and fell in love. He moved to Canada with his new wife and from what I heard lived a happy life in the wilderness.

After Casey left, Stosh gave up hunting and started his own business. He sold his bow and arrows, most of his guns, and totally immersed himself into his business. He did manage to go surf fishing on the off season, once in awhile. His daughter grew up and got married. She had two children a boy and a girl.

Stosh’s grandson while growing up took an interest in all things outdoors. When he was eight Stosh bought him a bb gun. When the boy turned 12, he asked his grandfather Stosh to take him hunting.

Stosh then had to get a new bow. Well, he actually had to purchase two but that’s another story.


FVR pulished TBG ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?91-Hunting-Buddies https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?90-Saplings Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:18:09 GMT Saplings, they just jump right up out of nowhere. We all know, we’ve all been cheated once, twice or if you are like me, many times by the little... Saplings, they just jump right up out of nowhere. We all know, we’ve all been cheated once, twice or if you are like me, many times by the little stick. We won’t talk about the 3D shoots where my old friend Allan, right before I shoot says, “now don’t you hit that sapling.” I laugh as the sapling is about 2 feet away from the target, Fwap! Yup, hit the sapling.

My first struggle with a sapling happened many years ago during my first venture to Paradise with Leon. It was a cold Saturday morning and I headed down the road off to a spot I had scouted Friday afternoon.

I had worked my way up and around the left side of the pines, walking up and down these little moguls through the lines of straight pines. Late morning, I was hungry and was kind of diddy bopping when I walked over a mogul right into the middle of five startled hogs. I mean I was right in the middle of them, about 6 feet away from all of them. I had a nocked arrow and quick thinking, picked out the big black boar. He was standing there chomping his jawls looking straight at me. I drew and released, fwap! I then realized my arrow had penetrated a nice one inch sapling. Needless to say the hogs at that point, were history.

Then there was the time I was hunting deer in a fern covered area at Pine Log. I caught a glimpse of movement about 50 yards off. As I snuck up, I noticed a doe and a nice 4 point buck simply feeding and walking away from me. Wind was right, so I got down and started to do a belly crawl to get close. I set up behind a nice size bush with the wind in my face while the deer slowly moved from my right to my left. I started to relax and calm down, nocked an arrow and if my estimate was correct, I’d be skinning a 4 point buck in about 20 minutes. The buck slowly walked into my shooting lane, he took a step, looked away, I drew and released. No fwap just a clank, clank, clank. I neglected to see a very small sapling right directly in the path of my well placed arrow. The broadhead sliced halfway through a sampling, shot straight up and hit a few limbs about 15 feet in the air. Needless to say the deer at that point, were history.

Later that same season, I decided to venture down to the power lines at Pine Log for a little walk in the woods. The leaves were making way too much noise so I opted to slowly ease into the stream that ran through the thickets. I have done this a few time with success. The water was not cold and my boots kept traction just fine. The stream was only about 3 feet wide and about 4 feet deep with close to 1 foot of water running through it. Perfect.

I slowly eased up the stream and there they were. To the right working towards me about 20 yards away was a young spike with a good size doe. I let the young spike walk past me and set my eyes on the doe. I nocked an arrow while the doe walked past me then did a 180 and started to walk back where she had just come from. Perfect, I could not have asked for a better shot. She was standing 20 yards away, broadside. I drew, aimed, and released. Fwap! It was a perfect shot. Her left leg was forward and the dark area right behind her shoulder had an arrow sticking right out of it. Funny, she was just standing there. She should be running, I could see the arrow had hit it’s mark. The doe at that point took a step forward and I noticed as she moved, my well placed arrow stayed right were I shot it. The dark spot behind her shoulder, yup, SAPLING!

I quickly nocked another arrow as I had a chance for a second shot. Again, I had another open broadside shot. By now you are probably thinking one of two things; either I am the luckiest hunter in town, or, where is that young buck? I will tell you where that young buck was, he was about 15 feet behind me. He snorted so loud that I jumped, he jumped, the doe jumped. Needless to say the deer at that point, were history.

So, I can honestly tell you that if there is a sapling between me and the critter I’m hunting, I’m going to hit it.



FVR published TBG ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?90-Saplings https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?89-Lost-Treasures Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:17:13 GMT Lost treasures. We’ve all had them. There was that bow that you traded away; it shot very well but a “better” bow came along or maybe you needed... Lost treasures. We’ve all had them. There was that bow that you traded away; it shot very well but a “better” bow came along or maybe you needed more room in the den. So you sold it, only to regret it years later.

There are those bows that you keep as wall hangers because they have a special meaning, like the first self bow you made or the bow that was given to you by that Old Fart bow hunter you so highly respect. Then there are those that you wanted to keep, but for some awful reason, the bow mysteriously disappeared.

I was 9 years old and we had just moved to the farm. This was South Jersey, 1974, and there was not a significant deer population, but a rather healthy number of rabbits and pheasants. I would shoot my Fred Bear red fiberglass bow at an old chair in the back yard. Life was good. One afternoon, while enjoying a day of chair shooting, my uncle Eddie came over to pay a visit. He sat there watching me and, when I was done, asked to look at my bow. He commented that it was a good bow, for fiberglass. But, if I was in the market for a new bow, he may just have one collecting dust somewhere. Well, when I heard this, I was all smiles.

A short time later he returned with a long lemonwood bow that had recurved limb tips. He explained that his uncle had made this bow for my mother when she was in high school. When my mother saw the bow, she told me how she used to take it to school via the bus and shoot high school archery.

I put a new string on it and ventured down to what use to be McCrory’s and bought up a mess of arrows, a snap-on quiver with a cheap plastic hood, and I started shooting. I practiced all summer and fall, just waiting for small game season to start.

First day of small games season, 1975, a bit chilly and I went hunting. Ventured down past the cornfields, crossed the road and hit the woods across from Murphy’s farm. I passed a few shotgun hunters and they all but chuckled when they saw my bow. It was longer than I was tall.

I started hitting the thickets. I’d sneak up on them, look into them, and see if I could find a sitting rabbit. After a few hours, my stalking skills started to get relaxed and I was just not as quiet or all that sneaky now. Then, all of a sudden, the whole woods exploded as a big old cottontail jumped up and started to run. He ran right in front of me. I had already drawn, anchored, aimed and released. The arrow flew from the lemonwood bow and the rabbit started tumbling, head over heels. I trailed him for about 20 feet and found my trophy.

I promptly gutted him and started for home. While walking down the dirt road I passed the two shotgun hunters who had chuckled. The older man looked astonished and then congratulated me on my hunting skills.

This bow adorned my bedroom wall when I lived on the farm, when I lived in the city, when I moved to California, when I moved back to Baltimore, and then when I moved to Georgia.

When I ran out of room, I took the bow and a few guns to New Jersey to hang on the wall of my grandfathers den.

The bow has since vanished, but it’s still alive in my memories.


FVR published TBG ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?89-Lost-Treasures https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?88-Corvus-Egor-III Thu, 27 Mar 2008 03:13:22 GMT When I was a kid, 9th grade, I got a baby crow. Three had fallen out of the nest, I took one, Drew took one, and Vance took one. As soon as I got... When I was a kid, 9th grade, I got a baby crow. Three had fallen out of the nest, I took one, Drew took one, and Vance took one.

As soon as I got "Corvus Egor III" (the III just sounded good), I promtly started him on wet catfood. I never caged him and used a perch and leather thongs to keep him put. I fed him and cleaned up crap for a month until his wings started to fill out.

I then would take him into the backyard and while holding his legs, raise him up and down, to work out his wings. I did this for a few weeks, then came the lightweight ropes that attached to his leg. We practiced flying.

In the meantime, I would take him over to the rabbit huch and show him how to dig for grubs and worms. He caught on real fast and was slamming those buggers. I then showed him how to pull bark on trees, and I was feeding him table scraps. I had stopped hand feeding him long before. He would tear into chicken and other meat scraps.

Boy, he made alot of noise. Everyday, we would go out back and I had started not using the lightweight rope around the leg. He would fly off to the big tree, then to the big oak, then to the garage. He use to sit on the back of Ceasar, my lab. I have pics of both of them on the doghouse roof.

Oneday, I took him out for exercise, I knew this was the day. He use to fly all over the place, but would always come back. Today, I knew, it was time, his time.

He flew off, hit the trees, then he flew off. I was sad, but happy at the same time.

My mother was really happy, well, so she thought.

Corvus would show up every morning, sit in that tree and caw. I come outback and he would caw, then fly away.

His visits started to be far and few, sometimes, in that tree, there would be three crows just making all kinds of noise.

He stopped coming, I grew up and graduated hs. Every now and then, during that time, a big crow would sit in that tree and just make racket. Yeh, it was Corvus.

After hs, I joined the USMC. After bootcamp, I got a letter, seems that there was this big old crow just making a racket in the tree. Guess it was him, or one of his kin.

Now, my friend Drew, he never broke his crow from finger feeding. He let the crow go, it came back. It attacked the neighbor ladys hair oneday. He took the crow and drove it 10 miles away. By the time he got home, his crow was there.

Don't know what happened to his crow, probably died somewhere.



To this day, every now and then, my mother will call. Damn crow sitting in that old tree woke me up this morning. Makes ya wonder.
__________________
Can't cheat the mountain, pilgrim.
Mountain got it....

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Last edited by FVR : Today at 09:18 PM. ]]> FVR https://www.wilderness-survival.net/forums/entry.php?88-Corvus-Egor-III