Wednesday, January 18, 2012
An Open Letter: I Hate You, Bowhunting
You clumsy b***h! Why must you make everything so eff-ing difficult? Really! From having to tune you, to your annoying wrist release that clinks on any piece of metal it can find to the point I’m convinced it’s magnetized, you are a chore. Anyone who claims they prefer you over a firearm I have to scan with a Jeweler’s Eye, seeking out that skin-deep flaw that'd betray a symptom of the obvious internal psychological or physiological defect that’d cause someone to say something so foolish.
I prefer a rifle. I am a Cowboy, not an Indian. Take this last weekend. After months of deer hunting, finally, a buck trots by my climber, albeit, behind me. Instead of quietly spinning around and clicking off a safety, I have to rise from my seat, draw back, and try to squeeze an arrow through a maze of twigs and branches. He didn’t wait long enough for me to even straighten my knees. Deader than fried chicken with my .300 or even my .45-70.
Then, as the memory of him fades, a line of does creep down the same trail. This time I was ready. But as I focused in on a gorgeous chocolate-coated nanny, I guess my binoculars knocked the nock because when I hit full-draw, the arrow fell from the string, tinging onto the Viper’s rail as carbon met aluminum, and the does high-whitetailed it out of there.
And if that’s not enough for a day of suffering, consider the evening hunt. An old, old doe came creeping from the palmettos nervous as can be. As luck would have it, she managed to slip right into the one clear five-foot shooting lane I had in that direction. At fifteen yards, she should be between a hamburger bun cozied up with a slice of cheddar right now, but instead, she’s still out enjoying life as the Rage greased her back hairs and planted into the sandy pine soil. Whisker Biscuits, Pendulum Sights...these aren’t harmless consumer products, they are the names of torture devices.
You are a sadist. It is not sportsmanship, as others proclaim, it is lunacy. I personally like venison in the freezer and antlers on the wall, and a bullet is the most efficient means of achieving these goals. I mean, for the time and money I invest chasing a smart animal in his own backyard, I gotta send my best when opportunity arrives. If someone has a great round of golf, they don’t go out the next day with half a bag of clubs and whiffle balls. Chess players don’t say, “Ah, screw it! I’ll play without my rooks today.” If I were a star NFL wide receiver coming off the game of my life and I decided to play the next tilt with one hand tied behind my back, coaches, family, and friends would pull me aside and counsel me on destroying my career and reputation. To choose bowhunting over a rifle for any reason other than paid endorsement or a large wager is impaired judgement. Smell the air for alcohol.
But here’s really the part that chaps my behind – I neeeeeeedddddd you. You are the Belle of the Ball. You get me into these exclusive, A-list hunts on great public lands. Somehow I’m the blight in this relationship, and it...
Forget it; I’m done with you for a near-length of a baseball season. If you think you’re going hog or gobbler chasing with me this Spring, you are the delusional one. Enjoy your stay in the dark of the case in the darkest corner of the closet.
Peace be with you. Until August.
PS – Tell your cousin, Crossbow Hunting, I said hello.