The Never-ending Countdown

"Well this sucks," is all my good friend and archery hunting partner Scotty could say after his fourth consecutive broadhead-tipped arrow found its way far from its intended mark. For Scotty, an archer who typically places five out of six arrows into a fist-sized target at 40 yards, this was borderline maddening. This feeling, a sense of frustration as archery season looms, seems to plague the working-class archer who often finds little spare time to shoot consistently.

So how can you make the most of your shooting time when time is running low? Here's a simple tip to curb your last-minute archery angst.

Focus on quality, not quantity. 

I, like most archers, relish the time spent at the range. In the not too distance past I use to find myself spending the entire day at the range. My time was divided between refining each arrow, chatting with fellow club members, even cooking up a lunch or dinner during marathon stints near the club house. On these days I could loose more than 200 arrows.
Fast-forward three years, a full-time job, college, and a shortening archery season and my range time has become a fraction of its former self.

Today, meaning an average workday, set the simple goal of six arrows.

And even six is a stretch. The goal should actually be just one. The first shot each evening should, in your head, be a play-by-play of your dream hunting situation. Visualize that monster mule deer feeding, or that rutted-up elk walking into your setup, standing a mere 30, 40, or 60 yards away, whatever your chosen distance may be, as you draw and anchor your bow. In archery you only get one shot, so make it count. On midweek days, shooting is all about reaffirming your in-depth weekend practice sessions--a chance to build upon quantity with the visualization of success.

This abbreviated practice can be accomplished with a standard block target or a full size 3-d archery target. The benefit of a 3-d target is the emphasis on shot placement, which can be adjusted to practice quartering shots. Just remember: be deliberate with your shot, because this season may boil down to that one well-placed arrow. Good luck!

Leave Nothing on the Table

Perhaps it was a moment of clarity or I had cracked, either way one thing was for sure: the brutal switchback was winning and my mind was wandering. It's during these moments of extreme exertion--in this case mid-race on a horrible ascent--that I was struck with a motto that has stuck: Leave Nothing on the Table.

Now, two weeks after that memorable moment I once again found myself toeing the starting line, only this time I was at the Mid-Columbia Challenge, a 5k go-for-broke event, which takes the racers over one of the most unique race environments ever, the Wanapum Dam.

Hours of event set-up had finally transpired into 189 racers rushing through the starting gate and up the dam. June 30, is one of the best times to be crossing the Wanapum Dam, as the run-off from snowmelt has swelled the Columbia River to near-record proportions, bringing spray and roaring echos over the dam deck. It also meant that I was weaving back and forth across the dam deck to see the massive amounts of water rushing off the dam only feet below me (think standing on TOP of Niagara Falls; pretty awesome power).

The Columbia River gorge lived up to its reputation and produced a monster headwind, which seemed to change directions just in time for use to double-back at the 1.5 mile turn-around. Regardless, my good friend and co-worker Scotty managed to buck the wind blues and steam ahead, finishing second in 20 minutes 22 sec., while I trudged in at 21 mins. 34 sec., to take third place. 

If you love competition and preparing yourself for the mountains is your goal you should really think about running races. I am a firm believer in choosing a race with a unique venue or one that will challenge you physically and mentally. The end result is one heckva workout where you've left nothing on the table and you'll be one step closer to being in tip-top shape for Washington's archery season!

When a Desk Jockey Flips...tires that is.

By Jameson

I honestly think that the idea of adventure is the thing that most excites the standard desk jockey athlete; that thing that propels you toward doing something far more than your standard day. The end result is fantastic, great water cooler talk to be sure, but it's the build-up that I have now while looking out at the big, stupid-crazy sage-covered hill behind work thinking 'hey, maybe, just maybe I should run that stupid thing tonight!?' that really drives me to find adventure.

Yesterday was a prime example of the adventure bug creeping into the workplace. Fresh off an epic 25k trail race the day before, I thought to myself 'now what?' and quickly found the solution in the parking lot of Anytime Fitness.

Tires. Worn-out, grimy, full of water and perfect for flipping end-over-end in the heat of the day, tires offer a great chance to feel like a beast. Ever tried flipping a 200-pound tire? I hadn't either until two weeks ago when I saw those ugly hulks steaming on the pavement. One flip and I was addicted.

For the archery addict striving to reach the mountain top there can be no better activity than flipping tractor tires. Strenuous? You bet, but you feel like a million bucks afterwards! This is just one of the ridiculous/obscene things I have incorporated into my archery season training, plus it's just fun throwing heavy things around! For more information on tire-flipping check out YouTube and learn proper form first.

Adventure Blog--Post Beacon Rock 25k race entry

By Jameson 

The ringing of the cowbell only furthered the feeling of accomplishment, acting as a shot pushing my worn out body into a newfound reserve to finish strong after 15.6 miles of brutal hills and valleys.

            A combination of the smiling faces of aid station volunteers and the never-ending motivation from fellow runners is the glue that holds you together as miles threaten to break down your body.

            The Beacon Rock 25k trail race offered this desk jockey athlete the perfect venue to discover the breaking point and paved the way for a new mantra: leave nothing on the table.

            This mantra was born on a jagged switchback trail where, calves screaming and heart pumping, the basalt cliffs and rolling Columbia basin views threatened to pull me off the trail with their beauty, I was hit by the simple philosophy.

            For fellow desk jockey athletes there is no greater reward than reaching a hard-earned goal and carrying that feeling home like a trophy. My true trophy 

            So I sit, empty can of salsa con queso still rolling on the floorboard, quad shot Americano's occupying the cup holder and Yellow Ledbetter blaring on the radio, setting the tone for yet another successful adventure.

            Finishing time: 2 hours 54 min., Scotty’s finishing time: 3hours 13minutes. 

The Adventure Journal...desk jockeys guide to aimless wandering

The Beacon Rock Challenge

A mixture of fine deluxe mixed nuts, empty salsa con queso rolling on the floorboard and a milk container-turned-spittoon and a solid left arm tan, mark our travels as rolling hills of golden grass and asphalt lead us to the starting line of the Beacon Rock 25 and 50K trail race. 

"Are you nuts?" was how the conversation about the race began, as Scotty, a hardworking desk jockey/casual runner, projected his concerns about yet another overzealous idea by myself. My sole defense was that adventure is the goal for the summer, as I work the desk as an intern with the Grant County PUD. One month of nudging finally broke Scotty’s resolve and he committed to the event, the Beacon Rock 25k near the Bonneville Dam in southern Washington.

"Training" had turned from that thing you did so you could justify the beer you drank afterward, to that thing where sweat was a currency deposited into a bank of preparation. I'm not saying that beer is not a vital aspect of proper training, as the photos show, stopping at an awesome freezing cold swimming hole requires carbo-loading with beer!

Distance has never been a factor for us as runners because distance has never factored into the equation. Maintaining a high standard of healthiness has always offered Scotty and I the ability to hunt in far-off places with relative ease, even as Scotty nursed a long-lasting achilles tendon issue. The prospect of pushing our physical abilities finally presented itself in the Beacon Rock race and, because we aren't too bright, the training mileage ramped-up immediately to near-dangerous levels.

So here we sit, stale coffee sloshing in the cup holders, Bush’s' "Glistering" being blared through the speakers as a leaky cooler threatens the back seats upholstery and a looming question, "did we train enough?" 

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!