The Thin, Blurry Line

Steve Angell lines up for a shot with his longbow at hunting camp.

My friend Steve (Angell) in full draw with his Yew longbow made by Jay St. Charles.

I knew, in the very beginning, that my bowhunting journey was unique. At the age of 27 I had never shot a bow or hunted with a weapon of any kind. Still, when the bug bit me, it left a mark. As that mark scarred and I became more experienced, I grew very passionate in how I hunted and what kind of traditional tackle I hunted with. I established limitations designed to make bowhunting the challenge I thought it should be.

The moment these limitations were in place, a funny thing happened. I began to judge anyone who didn’t approach traditional the same way I did and became quite opinionated despite only being a rookie. I wasn’t always vocal with my thoughts but felt them just the same.

The truly humorous part of this transition is the speed of which it all occurred. I started out with carbon arrows and a takedown recurve. I then moved to aluminum because carbon was “too modern”. I switched to a longbow after that. Then wood arrows. Then a selfbow. This isn’t an uncommon path for the budding traditionalist exploring their new passion, but every time I made the jump, I envisioned myself at the head of the pack looking back at the un-enlightened masses in my wake.

I spent a great deal of time and effort thinking about the way things should be done and what they should be done with, going so far as to blog about the hybrid longbow and how it was an abomination that would ultimately lead to the death of the traditional stick and string as we all knew it. I began reading about primitive bow design shortly after and discovered this “modern” style of longbow had been around a whole lot longer than 2010. In fact, the roots of most of the archery “advancements” I witnessed reached back hundreds of years before I was born. I felt foolish.

That embarrassment would permanently change my perspective on all things bow, arrow, and hunting. The revelation of the primitive world was humbling. It didn’t matter how traditional I thought I was; there would always be a primitive archer taking it further than I was was willing to go. That bothered me and I began building selfbows soon after. I enjoyed it and was convinced I’d stay that course for the remainder of my bowhunting career. I learned to appreciate bows and arrows of all designs, but couldn’t help turning my nose at anything not backed by sinew, snakeskin, or air.

All of that changed the moment my daughter was born. Time became a valuable commodity with two young children at home. I didn’t have it to shoot, write, or hunt and I damn sure didn’t have time to build bows and arrows. I was in desperate need of balance. One of the above had to go, or it all had to go.

I decided I’d rather spend my time shooting and hunting and less time building and tweaking. My archery tackle shifted to reflect the decision. I needed something I could grab off the rack and shoot at a moment’s notice with little maintenance or thought. After a brief search, I was shocked to find what I was looking for, in a hybrid longbow and carbon arrows. The combination felt great in the hand and I was delighted to find my enjoyment hadn’t suffered in the least.

I had come full circle, in both gear and attitude.

When you have little time to dedicate to an activity you enjoy, you must learn to focus on what you love about it, rather than getting lost in the distractions that make it less enjoyable. I feel bowhunting should be challenging and will have limitations in place to assure it remains so, but accept that other archers do not have the same limitations. Spending time worrying about how other archers are spending theirs is a futile endeavor that will leave you pounding a keypad when you should be pulling arrows out of a target. One of these things is productive, the other is not. I’ll let you figure out which is which.

Ultimately, the “traditional” line is too blurry to stand on with both feet. All we can do, as traditionalists, is to continually limit ourselves in ways that challenge our own personal comfort level without sacrificing the integrity and ethics we value so highly, as a whole. Choosing challenge instead of a fight is always going to be the more productive option, especially when the Block button is the popular response.

Walk a path of your own, share the experience, and hope others follow. You will be surprised by the results.

Authors note: do I always subscribe to the above? No, but I’m trying really hard. 🙂

The Death of Dusty


My longbow died in August.

Odd to think of a longbow as a living thing, but I always have. So much goes in to the making of a bow – passion, anxiety, sweat, tears, blood – it isn’t a stretch to consider the result a spiritual extension of its creator. When you spend enough time working on anything, you cannot keep a part of you from seeping into it. I’ve always said you buy the bowyer when you buy a bow. That is the reason.

Dusty began life as a conversation. I had known Tracey and David Balowski of St. Joe River Bows for several years and wanted one of their bows. It never seemed to work out financially, however. I had a several longbows and there was no logical reason to buy another. But my relationship with the Balowskis grew and my wanting with it, until a used model popped up on their website and forced my hand. It was older (a Dick Swager bow) sculpted from a piece of Osage that had aged a beautiful burnt orange. They were kind enough to send it to me for a “test drive” and I ended up buying it soon after. “Josey” became my turkey bow and I carried her into the woods my first seasons.

We had a series of adventures together. Still, something wasn’t quite right. Tracey didn’t make Josey and that bothered me. Dick had done a wonderful job, but we had never met. Tracey was now extended family and I wanted one of her bows. She felt the same. We talked about my bow for several months before I decided to order one. I’d bring it up whenever I saw her and shot her a message whenever I got the chance. I can be terribly indecisive and often used her to talk me into a concrete decision. This went on for several months. When I finally gave her the “go ahead” to put my longbow into production, she had no idea what she was building. I decided it best to give her my specs and let her handle the rest. She seemed happy with the arrangement. She was an artist, after all, and people seldom let her have that freedom.

The waiting was painful, but a lot of fun. Tracey loved a good surprise and seemed to enjoy keeping me in suspense. David, on the other hand, was a little easier to pry information out of and accidentally leaked Tracey and her Mom had found a gorgeous piece of tigered hickory to work with while shopping for bow wood. I had never heard of such a thing, but it sounded good to me. He said something about giving it a “gray wash” but I had no idea what that meant. I envisioned him pouring a bucket of paint all over the bow and wondered why they would do such a thing. Still, I reserved judgement and let them work out the details as promised.

My bow arrived in a tube five months later. It took me far too long to unwrap the damn thing. I was excited and shaking. I was sweating by the time I freed the bow from the tube and pulled it from its sock. It was worth it. The gray wash was really just a stain of sorts and it made the grain of the hickory pop in a way I had never seen before. This gave the bow a dusty finish. Tracey chose Osage as the accent wood, which was the perfect contrast to the hickory. It reminded me of a gold nugget hidden amidst the silt in some crotchety miner’s pan.

I bonded with Dusty the moment I strung him. He went everywhere with me. We were inseparable for two years, culminating with the taking of my very first buck in November. I had finally found my bow, after years of looking. I had a connected with Dusty, just as Tracey had connected when she built him.

Sadly, nothing lasts forever.

August brought the Great Lakes Longbow Invitational, and a whole mess of archery-related activity. As acting president of the Michigan Longbow Association, I spent most of my time thinking about the event and little time worrying about shooting or the whereabouts of my bow. This year was no different, but the weather made it worse. Charlton Park was exceptionally humid. I arrived on Wednesday to setup and was miserable by the event’s opening on Friday morning. You couldn’t move without sweating and didn’t stop once you started. It rained on Friday afternoon and that didn’t help the situation. And by “rain” I mean “biblical downpour”. Members and council members were scurrying around like ants taking care of whatever needed taking care of.

Dusty was at camp during the chaos. I’d strung him up that morning to shoot an event and left him there to dry on the rack afterwards. I had intended to put him in the camper and out of harm’s way, but was distracted by the collapse of our merchandise tent. Thankfully, my Dad made it back in time to move Dusty and the rest of our bows to the only dry place he could find – the backseat of his car. I thanked him for his quick thinking and figured I’d snag Dusty when the rain stopped. It never did and my bow stayed in the car until the following morning – strung.

The sun heated everything up in a hurry when it came out the following morning. The family wanted to get some shooting in and grabbed their bows early. I did not. God only knows what I was doing, but Dusty remained in the car. Several hours had passed by the time I remembered. A wave of heat hit me when I popped the door open and my stomach knotted. Dusty was really warm to the touch and developed an area of foggy glass near each fade. “Oh God no…that wasn’t there before.” I said aloud. “This can’t be right. This can’t be right at all. I’m such an idiot!”

I felt sick. I unstrung him immediately and decided to leave him in the shade until Tracey had returned from her booth that evening. The damage had already been done and I didn’t want to bug her until then. I ran into David first and told him what happened. He told me Tracey would be down shortly. I handed it over – head hung in shame. Suddenly, I was 17 again and just about to show my Dad the aftermath of side-swiping his Durango against a tree after homecoming.

Dave looked at the bow and back at me. “Yeah, that’s not good Nick. We’ll see what Tracey says after dinner. I’ll show it to her then.” It didn’t matter. I knew what was coming.

I checked back later to find them hunched over a picnic table. Neither one of them looked happy. As I drew closer, I could see that Dusty was the subject of the hunching. Had it not been for the comings and goings of camp I could’ve sworn I had arrived at a visitation. Tracey looked sad. “I don’t know Nick…” she paused, gently rolling Dusty over. “I don’t think I can let you shoot this bow.” My heart sank. “That bad, huh?” I muttered. “I’m afraid so. The glass is definitely compromised. When a bow gets hot enough, things start to fail. And this is in a really bad spot.”

“Can you fix it?” I plead. She paused again, picking Dusty up and running her thumbs over the fogged glass. “I will try. I might be able to work the glass up and get some glue in there. I’ve only done this one other time and it really is a risk.”

“So even if you can repair him, theres a chance he’ll break again?” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “There’s just no way of knowing. You could have him for years or he could fail you on a hunt. I don’t want that for you.” She paused again and looked at me. “I think I need to make you a new bow.” Under any other circumstance, this would’ve been music to my ears. Not this time. I felt as if I had just lost a friend and let Tracey down as well. “I can’t afford that right now.” I said. “I’m finally taking the girls to Disney in the Spring and that is where all of my money is going.”Dave clapped his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll figure all that out later.” He said. “Why don’t you stop by our booth tomorrow morning and try out the bows in stock?”

“Sure…” I said. “That sounds cool. It’s something I suppose.”

“Good!” He said. “Do you have a bow to shoot this season? I know you were pretty dialed in with Dusty. We’d be happy to lend you one.”

“You’d lend me a bow for the season?”

“Sure. Why not? It’ll get you thinking about what you want.”

“I wouldn’t be comfortable with that Dave. I’d end up damaging it and feel terrible. I have another bow I can shoot.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Just think on it.” He said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

I popped by bright and early to choose a bow and get a round in before the activities of the day started. There were plenty to choose from, mostly the shorter “Torrent” model longbows that were now all the rage, but those didn’t feel quite right to me. I shot a round with one of them – a really smooth shooter – but couldn’t adjust to the shorter riser. Still, I was feeling better. The excitement of a new bow started to replace the agony of losing Dusty. Plus, the sun had come out and the park was waking up. Wet dreary faces were once again flush with happiness and purpose. Everyone was having a good time, including my family who had been dealing with a leaky, sticky, camper since we’d arrived. I realized that the event was a success. The membership had pushed through the weather and had a fantastic time. My stress was gone by the time I met Tracey at the booth.

“Well how’d it go Nick?” Tracey smiled. “Did you like that Torrent?”

“It shot really well – super smooth – but I don’t think these shorter bows are for me. Dusty was a classic with a longer riser and he fit me perfectly.”

She smiled. “Well, you’re a tall guy, and that style might be what suits you best. Why move away from something that works?”

“Awesome. As much as I want one of these new Torrents, I think the Classic is for me. But let’s do a takedown this time. I want to travel more.”

“We can do that. Do you have any woods in mind?”

“Well, this weekend was a rollercoaster for me. It started out rough, but got a whole lot better in the end. I was staring at the fire last night…everyone was having fun and I had this idea about a phoenix. You know…the flaming bird?

“Uh huh.” She laughed. “I’m with you.”

“Yeah. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Something good rising from something bad. Plus, Dusty was kind of ashy in appearance.”

Tracey lit up. You could tell the wheels were turning. “I love that idea.” She said. I’ve got some special pieces laying around I’ve been wanting to use. Maybe we could make it grayish, like Dusty, and work the brighter, fiery parts into the riser.”

“Now you’re talking.” I beamed. “Tell me more…”

Tracey is currently working on my “Phoenix” and I cannot wait to see the result. I can’t wait to share the results with you. Stay tuned! If you have a bow story you’d like to share, feel free to leave a comment. I may not always respond, but I read them all.