The Archery Letdown, By Pete Joers

The Archery Letdown

By Pete Joers

Being a self-proclaimed and very dedicated archery bum, I feel I must share a very peculiar chain over events that happened recently, which may help other archers:

The 2010 target season had just ended and what a blast! I never had so much fun flinging arrows with my family and friends, traveling around shooting many of the big tournaments, all topped off with my home club hosting a state championship. It was very busy, but what a blast!

Several times during that busy spring I had received phone calls from other archery bums inviting me turkey hunting. “Nope I’ve got plans…” I’d say, “Tournament here, tournament there, the archery club needs this done,” and so on and so forth.

Tournament season began winding down and it was time to get ready for August bear hunting as well as deer and elk hunting in September plus, as a bonus, I had drawn a quality deer tag for the Quilomene unit in eastern Washington. Time to switch gears!

My preparation ramped up, hiking, biking, shooting, lifting, culminating with chasing big mulies and two weeks in the alpine after the elusive elk. Now this is why I LOVE archery!

November rolled around and I was skunked so far, of course that just meant more opportunity for deer and elk hunting! Thanksgiving arrived and I was out the door headed for new hunting grounds with a bonus tag in one hand and my bow in the other.

Here’s where it gets interesting. I’ve been training and practicing all year, shooting thousands of arrows and I am now in a new area way up in the mountains, with great friends, hunting very hard, and I manage to harvest a great buck; the highlight of my hunting career…a genuine adventure. Once home, I took the buck to the taxidermist, cleaned the blood off of everything, put gear away, and made a movie (we got the whole hunt on video). The fun never stopped, that is, until indoor Multicolor started.

My target bow, which felt so good in my hands a few months ago, suddenly feels foreign, and after shooting it I can’t stand to look at it! I felt like I was just going through the motions: come home from work, go to the club, shoot a round of multicolor, get angry at myself and the bow.

One night when I got home after one of these self-inflicted indoor torture sessions and I see a big set of very familiar antlers sitting on the kitchen counter. “Taxidermist called and said to come pick up your horns, so I did it for you, thought you might like to see them again,” my wife Elizabeth said. With tears in my eyes I pick up the “horns” and instruct my wonderful wife that, “you can not play these, thus they are not horns, they are antlers!” Hugging them to my chest, and not waiting for my wife’s retort, I run off to my man cave. Sitting, thoughtfully looking at this mass of bone, studying every beam and point, I look up and there, hanging in its rightful place at the top of the bow rack, is my hunting bow.

Remembering back to the times I was too busy with “archery” to go archery hunting, things suddenly became clearer. Maybe this is where I lost my passion for archery, and maybe where I will find it again. I started thinking back to ten years ago when I was happy just to hit a paper plate at 40 yards and then discovering 3D and a whole new group of friends. Now we shoot “dots” at 80, 90, and 100 yards. Had I let my passion for tournament archery consume me to the point where I hated it, or had I just let my priorities get mixed up? I had forgotten that the reason I shoot a dime sized dot at 20 yards over and over, and travel the state listening for that beautiful sound of arrow hitting foam, is for that one chance, if it may happen, that the lord graces me with an encounter with one of his beautiful creations; for that one chance to see the wonderful flight of the arrow in the most chaotic of situations.

Setting the antlers next to my hunting bow, I gathered up my target stuff. Turning back for one last look I think to myself, “This is just the beginning of another hunting season. What a fantastic sport we have!”

Past Highcountry Bear Hunting Adventures

Watching as my good friend and hunting partner Jim Berry sauntered from the trailhead, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, “what am I getting into?” Fully loaded with 80-plus pounds of bear meat and gear, he resembled the walking dead. I was surprised when the first thing he asked was, “have you been glassing the hillside?” I hadn’t of course; because the mosquitoes were so thick I had to seek refuge in my truck. Grabbing my Leopold spotting scope, I quickly glassed up five bear in the fading August evening before heading into my camping destination.

Our chosen area was rugged, seemingly untouched by humans because of the difficulty to reach the remote ridgeline in the distance. Having been one of many alpine areas we had scouted throughout the summer, I knew we made the right choice; tomorrow was going to be a good day.

Fueling up on oatmeal and folgers singles, I rolled out of my tent. The hike in to our hillside was a nasty one, despite being only 2.5 miles as the crow flies, it seems like a walk in the park on a topographical map, until you took into account the 2,100 feet of elevation gain. Side-hilling through avalanche shoots and alpine blueberry fields and, of course, the all too present alder thicket so thick you fear you’ll never get free are the norm. Needless to say, one wrong step anywhere up there and you are in for a long roll down.

Bushbeating my way up the ridge to the peak, I was making good time, arriving to the alpine blueberry fields, at around 10:30 a.m., I worked my way toward the summit. Having glassed up two bear on my way through an avalanche shoot, I had high hopes, despite the fact that Jim had tagged not one but two bears in consecutive days with his rifle.

Once on top of the ridge I failed to glass up the bear I had seen on the approach. The west facing edge of the ridge allowed for a chance to glass berry fields for a quarter mile in either direction. The backside of the hill was another story; it was a sheer drop, where the only trails were made by the local mountain goats, and despite being August, the alpine bowls still held plenty of snow.

Being midday I figure the bear were holed up for a quick nap, so I decided to take lunch on a rock outcropping that stuck out from the hillside like a diving board. Halfway through an outstanding alpine lunch of tuna and crackers, my attention was quickly grabbed by a beautiful cinnamon color bear as it emerged 120 yards downhill from my position.

Quickly rolling off the backside of my perch, I put my pack on, preparing for the stalk. The stalk would not be a long one, but with little cover in the shin-high blueberry field and the insane angle of the hill, it promised to prove interesting.

Using the few bushes I had for cover, I slowly began a butt-sliding maneuver downhill toward the bear. At 40 yards, I nocked an arrow, while the bear gorged itself on the prevalent berries, oblivious to my approach from above. As I eased in closer, bringing the bear level with me on the hillside, I prepared for the shot opportunity to come.

Stalking a predator like a bear is an amazing experience; whether it’s your first hunt of the season or in my case the ninth opportunity, your heart races to its maximum. The first thing you realize about a predator is their general lack of worry, as they know that they are biggest, meanest animal in the land.

As the bear entered a car-sized patch of brush, I moved ever closer, and as it emerged I was presented with a quartering away, 22-yard shot.

Coming to draw, I anchored in, relying on the hours and hours of practice to take over. On the release I knew something was horribly wrong, as I watched through my sight housing as the arrow cartwheeled, sailing harmlessly over the bears back by an inch! Startled, it ran downhill, pausing to look back at what had made the strange noise. Nocking another arrow, I determined the bear to be at 30 yards and, as if on autopilot I drew back, releasing a perfect shot.

My PSE X-force propelled the arrow at 302 feet per second, covering the distance in a heartbeat and connecting with the bear, as it let out a deep roar. The bear wheeled around, traveling only 20 yards before expiring, but unfortunately gravity kicked in and sent it rolling downhill another 200 yards, where it came to rest on a small rock bench on the cliff face.

The feeling of approaching an animal you have worked so hard for, in my eyes, has no equal. Sitting on the rock bench, the cinnamon colored bear next to me, I looked out over the crystal clear lake a mile below, and was hit with a feeling of pride that only comes with the realization of a true self-accomplishment.

The pack out was everything I thought I would be, as Jim had warned me to watch for approaching bear as I cleaned my harvest. This rang true as I put the final game bag of meat into my internal frame pack and was surprised by rocks falling from the cliff face above me, signaling me to the approach of another bear to the kill site. Quickly assessing my situation, I shouldered my pack, diving straight down the treacherous shale slope for the “safety” of the alders below, as more rocks rained down on the kill site from above.

The descent was the equivalent of walking down a ladder facing forward, heels digging in every step. Despite adding some distance to the trek, and the 75-plus pounds of bear meat, the descent went off without a hitch and several hours later I was jamming down the miles of dirt road leading from the trailhead, my first high alpine bear safely on its way to the freeze and with a memory that will last a lifetime!

Hunting the Valley of the Gods

There is a certain understanding that comes from a perfect moment: a time when both hunter and animal understand what is truly happening. Regardless of the moment’s perfect simplicity, as I knelt beside the lush alpine meadow, arrow slowly creeping back on my rest, with a lone bull only yards away, I couldn’t help but think of the effort it took to reach that point.

Full moon nights meant the sweet September sound of rut-crazed elk echoed through the meadows and timber. Love struck bulls divided cows, fought one another and dug wallows, all within several hundred yards of our drop camp. This was elk hunting heaven.

Opening day of Washington’s archery elk season found a member of our camp, Rick Owen, knee-deep in elk, as he loosed a perfect shot at 36 yards on his first archery harvest. The shot sealed both the fate of the 6x6 bull and the memory for Rick, as he watched the 300-class bull collapse after only 40 yards. High-fiving, heavy packs and burning legs marked the occasion, as load-after-sweet-load of venison found its way to hang on the meat pole in camp.

Thirteen days of hunting the high country had produced a lifetime of adventure and close calls. Bulls continued their nighttime activity, screaming bugles with one another, but turning off the instant the sun hit the horizon. Seventy-five miles and more than half a dozen bulls worked within range, had tailored a foolproof technique of cow calling into dark, north-facing slopes used for bedding.

One great aspect to spending the entirety of elk season in the field is the chance to pattern particular bulls and two in the area had my full attention.

One bull dubbed “Glunk,” due to his inability to fire off a true bugle, worked his small harem of cows across a familiar drainage like clockwork. His 7x7, 350” frame, made him unmistakable, with 10-inch tines sticking strait out off each of his sword points; he truly was the master of the high country.

He exuded dominance as he stood in the meadow a mere 37 yards from my position, having just demolished several small trees and creating a new hot tub sized wallow, his actions rang louder than his bugle: he was the boss. With no shot opportunity, I was forced to watch as his head, adorned with massive, chocolate colored antlers, looked back and forth for the “cow” that had lured him into the open. Unable to find his female friend, Glunk turned back, walking slowly into the timber, destroying one more sapling as if to prove a point and becoming a campfire legend for the remainder of the trip.

Glunk was not the only object of my affection, as he shared what quickly became known as “the Valley of the Gods,” with another impressive 6x6 bull.

The bull had a system: spend the majority of the day high in the timber, wallowing and shadowing Glunk’s harem for cows coming into cycle, then dropping down to feed in the moon-drenched basins. Formulating a plan to intercept the bull, I found myself directly in his path on the evening of the thirteenth day.

My long, estrus cow calls echoed deep into the timber, quickly being returned by a crisp bugle from several hundred yards distant. The next set of calls were once again interrupted, as the unseen bull closed the distance on a run, crashing through the downed timber and blueberry bushes.

Adjusting my position, I carefully ranged objects along his expected route, making mental notes and visualizing his approach in an attempt to stay calm. No sooner had I finished ranging did he appear a mere 65 yards ahead, closing the distance to the basin opening and my ambush.

Sixty-five, 51, 41, 35 yards; the bull kept coming, entering the opening with reckless abandon not typical of a mature bull. Advancing head-on toward where I knelt motionless, I watched his legs, afraid to look him in the eye or to see the massive rack as he turned broadside at 10 yards.

Quartering slightly, the bull glanced side-to-side in search of the cow that lured in into the opening, turning his head to the right for a moment I took the opportunity to slowly reach full-draw. Anchoring in, my top pin glowing bright behind his shoulder, the bull turned and looked at me, his posture immediately showing a moment of realization, as my arrow released.

Crossing the opening on a full-run, the bull ran headlong into a small tree and expired within sight, having only traveled 90 yards in about 15 seconds.

I lay down in the grass, looking upward. My breath filling the crystal clear September sky as the last of shooting light faded away, I was filled with an appreciation for the time spent with friends, miles of hiking, hours of calling and days of dreaming for this exact moment.

Choosing the right tool for the archery job

For many archers the end of archery season signals a time to reflect on the past seasons hunts, evaluate their preparations, as well as begin to look at changes that can be made in gear.

With so many selections of archery-related gear on the market it is easy for shooters to look past the most vital element to success in the field: the bow they shoot.

The commonly used phrase, “there’s a tool for every job,” fits perfectly in the sport of archery. But how do you determine the right tool?

(Riverside Archery owner Gary Ludwig--right--with a 2012 Mathews Z7 bow).

The first step is to identify your price range and what your intended focus will be, with an emphasis on hunting style and venue. Do you spend most of your time chasing mule deer in open country? What about close-quarter backcountry elk hunting or Blacktail deer hunting in dense alder bottoms?

“As an elk hunter I like a compact bow, whereas guys from eastern Washington that are desert mule deer type hunters like the longer bows,” said Gary Ludwig, owner of Riverside Archery in Mount Vernon.

A compact bow, typically in the 28 to 31 inch range, is easier to maneuver in dense country, while a longer 33 to 35 inch axle-to-axle bow offers a more stable platform where long shots may be necessary, such as in open sage country.

Bow geometry—the limb and riser design—has a significant impact on the how the bow reacts, even more so than a bows brace height, says Matt Schmitz, owner of Bull of the Woods archery in Sequim. Limb geometry, whether the bow has parallel limbs or not, drastically changes the string angle when the archer is at full-draw and varies from bow to bow.

Issues arise when archer switch from longer axle bows to short ones or visa versa. Shorter axle bows change peep height considerably, and require a precise setup process.

Newer past-parallel limb bows continually decrease brace height—the distance from the “throat” of a bows grip to the string—in pursuit of more speed. This, however, is not a major concern, Schmitz said. “Depending on the manufacture, you can go down to 5.5 inches of brace height and not sacrifice any accuracy.”

“The biggest thing I have with brace height is if it gets down too low, they can catch on your clothing in certain situations. That can be an issue in the field,” Ludwig said.

Newer bows have pushed the envelope of arrow speed, typically advertising an IBO speed determined by a 350-grain arrow shot from a 70-pound bow. This speed thrill creates issues as archers, both new and veteran, quickly become “over bowed,” says Ludwig.

Just because an archer can shoot an 80-pound bow once does not mean that it is the right choice, Ludwig said. The key should be comfort; where you can draw the bow in one fluid, smooth motion.

“You got to shoot what’s very comfortable, because bows today have enough energy, even at 50-pounds, to drive them home on an elk even, and get the job done,” Ludwig said.

“There’s a bow to fit any body,” Schmitz said. The key to finding the right bow is to identify your price range, the game you intend to chase and get a bow fitted properly by a knowledgeable dealer.

The start of one amazing adventure

“There’s a buck!” Uncle Scott said, “ I think it’s a shooter!”

What happened next was a mad scramble for bows, releases and rangefinders, as our once well-organized gear became strewn about the ground.

The buck walked a mere 20 yards away from the outskirts of camp, watching us with an amused look on his face, his perfectly symmetrical 2x2 rack sticking out like a billboard saying ‘better luck next year!’

Having been in camp only 15 minutes, we all found this little guy pretty amusing and dubbed him “Leroy,” as he sauntered to the shade of a Sitka spruce only 20 yards from camp. The amused look on his face never left as he bedded and commenced watching us gathering our gear that had been thrown haphazardly around.

This was the start of our 2011 wilderness hunt.

Fresh off the excitement of having a “camp deer” and wanting to get a feel for the area, I quickly unpacked the rest of my gear and dawned my camo. Pete was the first to comment: so you’re going on a Jameson walk? It should be noted that a ‘Jameson walk’ has become synonymous over the years as either being filled with a. close encounters, or b. a successful harvest of an animal. Just the mere utterance means that something odd may happen.

This ran through my head as I eased my bow back down from full-draw. I had been working through the clearings near camp in hope that a mule deer or bear would take full advantage of the full moon phase and head for the open meadows. With the light fading quickly I progressed into the final clearing near camp.

Entering the opening I noticed the gray hind end of a deer not 20 yards to my left, half-obscured by berry plants. Quickly nocking an arrow I peered through the brush, looking for the signs of a shooter buck but all my binoculars showed was the perfect 2x2 rack of good old Leroy.

Another flash of gray caught my eye, as a deer fed away from the meadow to my right. Adjusting my Leupold binoculars once more I focused on another buck. He was a small-framed 3x3 with a small sliver of velvet hanging down on one side of his rack. My rangefinder flashed 34 yards, as he quartered away from me, his head lodged in the foliage.

Coming to draw, I settled my glowing sight pins behind the bucks shoulder blade. It was at this point a strange thing happened: I second-guessed myself. Easing my bow back down, still undetected, I thought of the 15 days of hunting yet to come and the realization that I had only been in the backcountry for a mere 5 hours and was about to release an arrow.

“Never pass up a buck on the first day that you would be happy to harvest on the last day,” was what Uncle Scott had told me not two hours before. ‘He’s right’ I thought to myself, as I eased my bow back, once again settling my pins on the buck, easing into my shot sequence.

In a flash my broadhead tipped arrow was in flight, contacting the exact point I had aimed for, connecting with a “CRACK!” The buck immediately sprinted for cover, lunging several times and crashing to the ground a mere 30 yards from the point of contact.

An incredible sense of relief rushed over me, as I replayed what had just transpired, pleased with the fact I had made a clean, ethical shot and would be able to fill my freezer with some amazing venison.

As we hung the buck in camp Uncle Scott, Pete, Rick and I joked about being in camp only five hours and having a 3x3 Mule deer down, and how it was sure to be the start of one amazing adventure. Little did we know what the very next day had in store…

Breaking the archery mold

In the ever-changing world of archery, whether your focus is toward tournament archery, hunting or you just love the 'release' of shooting your bow, it can be easy to find yourself becoming comfortable with a routine.

Since taking up the sport of archery I have found myself suffering from the stagnate feeling of routine. This became painful evident when friends started referring to my opening day hunting plans as "going back to your good ole' stomping grounds." This signaled to me that I need to break from away from the mold, so when my good friend and hunting partner Pete Joers offered the chance to join him on an epic drop-camp wilderness hunt I jumped at the opportunity.

It is a common for hunting stories to involve months of preparation, training and the days to crawl by as the much-anticipated trip nears. This story is no different as running, backpacking, and gear-refining took on an nearly manic approach.

I was not the only one affected by the upcoming event. Pete took this adventure as an opportunity to revitalize his life, shedding over 30 pounds and diving into the wilderness every chance he got. Connecting with each other between our off season excursions and comparing notes on gear while going over and over stories of the past season became commonplace, further fueling the fire.

I would like to present my hunting adventure as the days passed, giving a blow-by-blow account of what transpired as well as telling the road that led to such an amazing start to the 2011 archery season.

Like most hunters I prefer to know the area that I will be spending my time--in this case 15 days--wandering around. This entails bonsai scouting trips throughout the month of August as the late snow finally receded from my areas. This also meant that trips would serve a double purpose: scouting and bear hunting!

Snow has a strange effect on bear. This is attributed to the high country berries either taking up to a month longer to ripen or, as the National Forest ranger stated, not growing at all. This seemed to be a reoccurring theme throughout the state as my three-day weekends turned into a frustrating search for a bear.

Areas that, historically, held up to six bear on one hillside, at one time, were suddenly devoid of life. The lack of bear made my choice to scout my elk area that much easier to stomach, as I trudged up the trail in the hot summer sun. Accessing elk country has never been so crowded, I surmised, as I passed several groups along my route. It was in between swatting trophy-sized mosquitos, wiping sweat from my brow and dodging horseback riders that things started to get interesting.

I had just completely ate shit on my mountain bike--making sure to strategically land face-first to avoid buggering up my bow on my pack--and decided it was in my best interest to proceed from here on foot. Not a quarter mile from the scene of the crash did I come face-to-face with a black bear who was equally surprised to see me.

Rounding a bend in the trial, I had been admiring a rock formation that was dissected by the trail when I glance into a chest high mountain blueberry patch and noticed a 200-pound bear staring right at me. The bears surprise was evident as I--in plain view--proceeded to drop my pack, unhook my bow, strap on my release and open a pocket to get out my rangefinder. These are all points that I have stressed to others in the past: always have your gear on while hunting! So of course one of the few times I disregard my own rules it come back to bite me--not literally.

Ranging the bear at 28 yards but having no shot due to the hard quartering-to angle, we continued our stare down, that is until a man with two horses rounded the bend immediately to my right, sending the bear into a frenzy in the opposite direction.

The gentleman must have seen my adrenaline-riddled look when he asked, "have you seen anything yet?" I smiled and told him about what had just transpired and he apologized over and over which I still don't understand because, hey, crap happens and it was awesome anyways! So it was back on the trail in search of the next random adventure. This time my bow was in hand and my release securely attached.

The rest of my scouting trip was not quite as eventful and can be summarized like this:

*82 (number counted, there were more) mosquito bites

*only minor lacerations and bruises from my bike crash, no damage to my bow either, thank goodness

*1 more bear within 30 yards. It was only about 60 pounds, which got my blood pumping wondering where momma bear might be!

*20 miles covered with 4,000 feet of elevation gain

*No elk spotted or heard

*One mule deer

*One amazing night of camping under a true wilderness sky.

Oh, did I mention the mosquitos? EVERYWHERE!