No Such Thing as a “Sure” Thing.

My southern luck has never been the kind I want.

I’ve always been somewhat of a homebody. I’ve often favored the familiar and embraced a routine. I’ve never had big bowhunting aspirations. Hunting throughout the state or in exotic places overseas has had little appeal to me. While seeing other hunters doing fantastic things in fantastic places has created moments of envy or jealousy, I’ve always viewed the adventure itself with a “wouldn’t it be nice” attitude.

Hunting out-of-state wasn’t a consideration early on. I could hardly navigate a small piece of local public land, let alone piece together an adventure in an unfamiliar area hundreds (or even thousands) of miles from my home.

Meeting my friend, podcast partner, and Georgia native Steve Angell changed all that. He invited me down to hunt with him in 2012 and we’ve been rotating ever since. Visiting Steve is like hunting with an outfitter. He scouts the locations and stays clear of them until I arrive to increase my chances. He makes ground blinds, hangs treestands, and does everything within his power to increase my odds at a hog or whitetail. Yet, despite all of his efforts, nothing has worked out.

My first trip included rain, hours of uneventful staring, and chiggers. My second trip was a hog hunt with frigid temperatures, cramps, and clustered pigs with little desire to move. The third trip, while much better, resulted in an arrow in a sapling and two flustered does I am certain are still sounding their alarm on their respective properties.

The worst of the worst was a special hunt on Cumberland Island — a historic and fairly remote place “spilling over” with deer and wild hogs. At least, that is how it was advertised to me. The island, while very interesting from a historical standpoint, provided the worst hunting experience of my life. It rained constantly, the bugs were terrible (ask me about my dung beetle incident some time), and I didn’t see anything save for the occasional wild horse and an armada of armadillos.

The hunting was so awful, Steve and I had all but given up the third day and decided to hike the four miles across the island and see the Atlantic Ocean. I can assure you this wasn’t nearly as glamorous as described. Our clothes were damp, we were exhausted, and my feet were blistered from heel-to-toe, as the result of an ill-fated decision to break in new boots without bringing spares. By the time we traversed the sandy trail and reached the beach, my feet were screaming.

“I cannot take another step in these damn boots, Steve!” I proclaimed, collapsing against the side of a dune.

“Well take ’em off then!” He laughed. “The beach might feel good on your feet. Do what you’ve gotta do, because we have another four miles back to camp!”

“Thanks for the reminder.” I quipped, stripping off my socks and working my toes into the sand. “At any rate, I’m sure this will all be worth it. I haven’t seen the ocean in several…YEEEOOOOOWWWW!”

My blistered feet exploded with pain. It was as if I’d just stuck them in a box of rusty treble hooks.

“What the hell is that!?” I exclaimed, falling back into the dune. “I feel like I have barbed wire in my feet!”

“Uh oh.” Steve said. “Sand spurs. Shoot. I should have told you about those.”

“Ya think?”

I picked up my foot and found several marble-sized burrs stuck to the bottom. Only, they were nothing like the burrs I was used to. The Michigan burr was little more than an annoyance with its velcro exterior. These were a completely different contraption — sinister and defiant — with long criss-crossing barbs that dug into your flesh with the intention of staying there indefinitely.

“Is there a trick to removing these damn things?” I spat.

“Nope. Afraid not.” Steve laughed. “You just have to give ’em hell and get through it.”

His words stuck with me the remainder of the trip. You know a hunting trip was terrible when the highlight was watching the place you were hunting fade from the deck of the boat leaving it. And I didn’t even mention the fact that my flight was delayed due to the aftermath of an actual hurricane.

I couldn’t wait to get home.

While not nearly as bad as Cumberland, my most recent trip was equally uneventful. Steve had access to prime hunting property on leases near his home and two hours South. He had abstained from hunting both (for the most part) and was confident they would at least grant me an opportunity based on his scouting, the sign, and lack of human interference. I was ecstatic the moment I got off the plane. I had several days of hard hunting in front of me and intended to make the most of every minute.

And I did. I logged over 40 hours on stand and saw a total of three deer — all at once with no shots. The weather was good, save for a little bit of rain at the beginning and end, the locations were fantastic, and the sits were enjoyable. Everything was in place with the exception of the deer.

Steve was flabbergasted. He was certain I would have an opportunity with all of the preparation he had put in. He was still droning on about it on the way to the airport.

“I’m sorry Nick.” I did all I could, Brother. There was sign everywhere, the acorns were dropping, the wind was fine for the most part. I don’t get it.”

“Well, that’s hunting I guess. These are still wild animals we are talking about.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m still irritated. I hate to see you go home empty-handed again.”

“There’s no such thing as a sure thing when it comes to bowhunting. That’s why I love it.”

“Well, I’m starting to think you’re just bad luck.”

“Could be.”

“Or that you smell bad. Real bad.”

“That is probably true.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing…we are never hunting in Georgia again. If you visit, you’re coming down to fish. We can hunt some other damn place.”

“Fishing it is.”

Luck is a funny thing — especially when it comes to hunting. Some people believe in it to the point of superstition and adopt rituals to preserve it. Others think it is rubbish. Then there are those who blame it when bad things happen but scoff at being “lucky” when it swings in their favor. I have spent time in every camp and am still not sure where I belong.

I’ve had good and bad experiences afield. I’ve been blessed and I’ve been cursed. I’ve been lucky and I’ve been unlucky. But I’ve always been fortunate. And I’ll never stop trying.

I’d like to wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving and pray that you find GOOD luck the remainder of this hunting season. In the meantime, tune in to the Traditional Outdoors podcast. Also, with Christmas around the corner, please consider purchasing a signed copy of my book Life and Longbows. You can find it here or on Amazon in both print and on Kindle. Good Bless You!

 

 

 

 

 

At Long Last

My love of literature began at infancy.

My mother would dispute anyone who dared challenge the statement. According to her, all three of us Viau boys latched on to specific objects around the house without any prompting or explanation. My brother Matt loved hammers and hitting things with them. My brother Isaac loved whatever he could find on the floor and fit into his mouth. And I loved books.

“My Nick always loved his books.” She’d say. “You shook whenever you’d see one and pretended to read them to me the moment you learned to babble.”

That love for reading grew with me. I looked forward to Book Order time and always had a pile on my desk the day they’d arrive. Mom never said “no” to books. She put a premium on them and it stuck with me.

The third grade was my first literary epiphany. I enjoyed everything I read, including youth classics like Charlotte’s Web and Jerry Spinelli’s Maniac MacGee, which is still my favorite youth novel of all time. It was during this time, I discovered outdoor authors Gary Paulson and Jean Craighead George. Their novels Hatchet and My Side of the Mountain, spoke to me in ways no other books had. I grew up in the woods and spent hours exploring, making forts, crafting weapons, and knocking over decaying birch tree stumps. The idea of kids surviving on their own in the wild was everything I’d ever wanted in a story. I was so infatuated with Hatchet, in fact, that I saved up the $50 and bought a leather-wrapped Estwing. It hardly left my side for several years.

The seed had been planted and was cultivated in middle/high school through Richard Adam’s Watership Down and Brian Jacques’ Redwall series. While not “outdoorsy” per se, the animals were the main characters, and the storytelling was top notch. I had little issue relating to the characters or the world, in which they lived.

While my appetite was always there, my tastes changed in college. Giants such as Crane, London, Twain, and Hemingway changed the way I looked at literature. Reading it was no longer enough. I needed to participate and believed I could. The next few years were spent on songs and poetry with the occasional short story sprinkled over the top. But I was lacking a consistent topic and an outlet to share my work.

I found the topic when I discovered archery in 2009. The outlet arrived in 2010, when I discovered blogging and created Life and Longbows. Still, the education was far from over. The journey had just begun. My archery immersion led to my re-acquaintance with the outdoors, which led to further writing discoveries. Authors such as MacQuarrie, Ruark, Voelker, and Colonel Tom Kelly changed the way I saw the page. Gordon MacQuarrie, in particular, had a profound effect on me. He showed me the power of relationships, humor, and dialogue and how they could make a good hunting/fishing story a great one.

This changed the game completely. I no longer felt that my outdoor experiences were inadequate in comparison to other hunters. In fact, I realized comparing was silly to begin with. The value of an experience is subjective to the hunter. Some search for solitude chasing moose in Alaska. Others long for the romance of the Dark Continent. And some find satisfaction hunting whitetails in their backyard with a buddy or two. This is where the idea for Life and Longbows manifested.

I wanted to introduce you to a younger me, walk you through my experiences (good and bad) and show you how I got to this point — with as much transparency as possible. I am no expert. I wouldn’t even call myself a “good” bowhunter. But I do love bowhunting and the people I’ve hunted with.

All that being said, I hope you will consider purchasing Life and Longbows and will recommend it to your friends when you are finished. I hope you will enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

You can purchase a signed copy of Life and Longbows here.