RUSSELL THORNBERRY OUTDOORS

Back to the Rockies

Pike’s Peak photographed from Woodland Park, CO.

March was a memorable month for my wife, Sharleen, and me for several reasons. First, we moved from Montgomery, Alabama to Woodland Park, Colorado – from the sultry south to the crisp mountain air of the Colorado Rockies and secondly, our daughter Michelle, her husband Barry and their four children live in this area of Colorado, so we get to be with family again and enjoy the daily panoramic view of Pike’s Peak. The first morning after our arrival we awakened to the company of seven docile mule deer does and yearlings nibbling away in our front yard.  What a welcoming committee. A day or so later a red fox cased our yard and front porch as if he were in charge of inspections. I’m liking this a lot.

 It was like ultimate mountain springtime when we arrived but within a few days THE storm that affected the entire nation blew in and dumped a big snowfall on us.  So for the first time since I lived in Alberta (19 years ago) I ended up on the business end of a snow shovel.  Hard work?  You bet.  But, I’d rather shovel snow any day than play roulette with the hail storms and tornados that were fueled by the storm as it made its way southeast. We are loving life in the mountains and I am keeping an eye on some promising trout streams that apparently need my undivided attention.  Hey, I’m here to serve!

Sportsmen’s Outreach Events
I was invited to speak at three Sportsmen’s Outreach Events in February and March and each of them were tremendous. I offer my sincere thanks to Gerry Calliouett of God’s Great Outdoors for including me in his Road to Adventure event at Santuck Baptist Church in Santuck, AL. It was great to meet men who desire to use their outdoors passions in Christian outreach. For more information see   www.godsgreatoutdoors.com

It was a pleasure to return to First United Methodist Church of Montgomery, AL, for their Annual Wild Game Dinner.  The food was exceptional and they were a wonderfully attentive audience.
My friend, Rod Kerr, of First Baptist Church, Salisbury, NC invited me to be the keynote speaker at their 7th Annual Sportsman Banquet.  It was like a homecoming for me since I was invited to their banquet several years ago. They have the proud distinction of feeding more people faster than I have ever seen.  This year they served the crowd of 500 plus people in a record setting 12.5 minutes.  If you’re planning a Sportsmen’s Banquet and want to know how to handle strategically feeding lots of people in a hurry, contact Rod Kerr.

In this year of return visits I was invited to speak at Bethany Baptist Church in Peoria, Illinois. It was my third invitation to Bethany, and while I accepted all three invitations, I only attended twice. On the first occasion my plane was delayed on the tarmac in Montgomery for seven hours and then when we boarded and started to taxi to the runway, the plane caught fire and we were returned immediately to the departure gate from which we’d come.  At that point there were no other flight options to Peoria.  On this last trip I missed my flight from Chicago to Peoria and finally finished the trip on a bus.  In spite of all the difficulties I encounter enroute to Peoria, I always sense that God has a special purpose for taking me there.  Thanks to Terry Setterlund and Pastor Steve Dietz for inviting me.

Big Surprise in a Small Package

“Shootability” defines the essence of BowTech’s new Admiral

Being a long armed sort, I have shied away from the trend of shorter and shorter compound bows. I have found them to be relatively temperamental and somewhat unstable. My rule of thumb in choosing a bow has always been that the axle length must exceed one’s draw length.  The closer those two measurements are to one another the less interest I have in the product – UNTIL NOW. Enter BowTech Archery’s Admiral, the big surprise in a small package. With its Center Pivot Riser technology, BowTech has produced a short bow that doesn’t feel short!  The riser feels like that of a longer bow, stable and steady in the hand.  Though I wasn’t overly optimistic before I shot the Admiral at the ATA show, the first shot had me from hello. I was shocked.  I suppose I could offer any number of technical reasons for why the Admiral has overcome what I call the “short bow syndrome,” but I’ll simply reduce it down to one simple word: “Shootability.”  It just shoots like a dream.

I can claim official senior citizenship, which comes with some drawbacks, like eyes that aren’t as sharp as they once were and less arm and shoulder strength as in my younger days. The result has shown itself in inconsistent target accuracy. I chalked it up to my age.  But when I started shooting the Admiral my groups tightened up and my effective range increased immediately.  So what about old eyes and muscles that I thought were causing me grief?  Shootability is the only conclusion I can come up with.  The Admiral feels comfortable and stable in my hand and I feel rock solid at full draw.  It fits me like an old slipper.  It just goes to show you –you can never say never.  The Admiral is the shortest bow I have ever owned and I’ve never shot better. For more information check out the Admiral, as well as the entire Bowtech line, at www.bowtecharchery.com.

A Year for Bargain Hunts
With the economy in such terrible shape, many big game outfitters are experiencing cancellations and are offering excellent hunts at reduced prices.  That means that you might be able to book that dream hunt at much less than the normal prices. I recommend that you review my list of approved outfitters by clicking on the Resources button on the top of the page.  Make some calls and see what’s available for the fall of 2009.  I expect you’ll find some real bargains.

A Weekend with Rock Stars

Master flintknapper, Stan Payne, displays one of his beautiful obsidian spearheads, which he made in the tradition of ancient Native Americans.

Ever been to a knap-in? Me neither until March 6th when my friend and flintknapping mentor, Stan Payne, of Slap Out, Alabama, (I’m not making this up) organized the First Annual Flint Stone and Bone Creations Knap-in at Southern Sportsman Lodge at Tyler, Alabama. Flintknappers from all over the country come for a weekend of making stone arrowheads, spear points and knives of every imaginable kind of exotic rocks.  Their work is captivating to observe and nothing less than an art form.  The event is free to the public who come to observe the ancient art of flintknapping and to purchase stone treasures made by the artisan knappers.  There is no greater opportunity for fledgling flintknapper wannabes like me to come and learn from the pros.  This unusual gathering of gentle souls is only too happy to share knowledge with anyone who is interested in learning. For more information about Stan Payne and flintknapping see www.flintstoneandbonecreations.com .

Modern flintknappers at work.

In addition to the flintknapping theme originated by Native Americans of days gone by, Stan Payne, the knap-in organizer, raffled off a set of incredible matching obsidian knives that he created.  The raffle proceeds were donated to the Cancer Society in memory of Stan’s mother and the memory of legendary flintknapper, Bill Metcalf, both of whom lost their lives to cancer.

If you get a chance to visit a knap-in in your area, you should go.  To see primitive Native American stone tool making being carried on with such passion is well worth the price of admission – especially considering it is free.

Old Contenders

Being longer of tooth and grayer of beard, the icy grip of this November morning chilled me deeper than it had in my youth.  That same wondrous flame of anticipation burned deep within my soul, as it had without flickering for almost 50 years.  But half a century had changed some things.  The desire was still there, but the walk through knee-deep snow was harder.  My feet felt heavier.  I was more aware of numb fingers and the sting of the icy air on my cheeks. 

Just being out of the woods wasn’t the same incentive that it had been in days gone by.  These woods were as familiar as my living room.  I knew them intimately.  I wasn’t propelled by the same fuel anymore.  Just seeing, or getting a shot at a deer wasn’t the issue.  It was the picture framed in my mind that lured me into the forest one more time--the picture of that great, ebony-antlered 10-point buck I had seen last year.  I rattled him on the last day of the season.  He came in quietly behind my tree and stood stone still for almost a half-hour.  By craning my neck, I could look back and see him standing there in the deep snow, only five yards behind me, like a bronze stature of the ultimate whitetail.  I scarcely breathed for fear he would hear me.  His body was immense and muscular--obviously in his prime--the unmistakable bull of the woods.  His heavy 10-point rack was perfectly symmetrical and laid out far beyond his ears; his times rose like swollen daggers.  Never had I seen such a whitetail!

Though I hadn’t seen him before that day, I knew he was there.  Two years of scouting told me so.  Huge aspens, as big around as my thigh, were rubbed raw.  Some of his scrapes were as large as pickup truck beds.  Finally he was in my sight.  My heart labored in my chest.  It was the ultimate reward for a lifetime of bowhunting.

I fought for self-control--no linger even daring to look over my shoulder at him.  I had to be calm and under control or all would be in vain. 

Then I heard the snow crunch under his first step.

Another step.

He was coming out under my left hand!  Rolling my eyes left, I waited for him to walk into view.   More crunching sounds and he was there--a mere 20 yards out--still slightly behind me.  He stopped again, and looked away to his left, allowing me the opportunity to lift my bow and draw.  For the first time I noticed that the tip of his right ear was missing.  Perhaps he lost it fighting.  I couldn’t imagine a deer brave enough to contest him. 

Anchoring the top pin in the center of his deep chest, I loosed my arrow, which clipped a tiny spruce bough I hadn’t even noticed.  The arrow took a downward dip and stuck deep into the frozen earth below his chest.  In two bounds he was gone.  My breath came in jerking gasps and my body trembled and felt suddenly warm.  Never had I been so close to such a magnificent deer.

Yes, that was the picture that lured me into the woods again.  It was the hope of another chance to see that incredible creature that inspired me to trade the warmth of my bed for 20 below zero.  I had seen thousands of bucks in my life.  All were beautiful, but none like this.

Plodding on in the snow, I was aware of aging bones, less eager for discomfort with each passing year.  I could foresee a day when the hunt would make way for easier pursuits.  But I had to try again.  The buck was still there.  His sign betrayed his reclusive nature.

I climbed the trunk of the familiar white spruce, wiped the frost from the seat of my treestand and sat down.  Once belted in, I raised my bow, nocked an arrow and hung it on a neighboring limb.  Last, I pulled my rattling antlers out of my daypack and secured them in place.  Now to wait for dawn.

It was a full half-hour before a rose-colored hue began to silhouette the treetops to the southeast.  The air was still and my breath rose as small frosty clouds, turning to silver upon my beard.  How many sunrises had I seen from a treestand?  Uncountable.  Still, it was new and fresh--almost sacred.  What a privilege to meet the dawn.  A chorus of distant coyotes broke the frigid silence.  I closed my eyes and let them sing to me.  It stirred something deep within.  This was very special.  I suppose there really was more to it than just that magnificent buck.  The sounds, the smells, the solitude.  The rewards poured out before my eyes in deep blue shadows bordered by sunlit diamonds glistening on the snow.  How wonderful it was to be alive--to see another sunrise, to breathe the frosty air.  How precious, this thing called life.  Perhaps even more precious as the beginning fades and the end comes into view.

When I could see well enough to shoot, I picked up the rattling antlers and tickled them together briefly.  I was amazed at how the sound sizzled on the cold, still air.  Ten minutes later I clicked the antlers together again, and as I did, I heard a crunch in the snow, deep in the dark timber before me.

Laying the antlers aside, I lifted my bow from its hanger.  A deer was definitely walking steadily toward me.  The dry snow continued to crunch and squeal beneath its feet.  Then silence.  I could almost picture what it was doing--waiting and listening for another trace of sound--another clue.

Long, silent minutes passed before the snow crunched again.  The deer sounded close.  My eyes strained into the timber, and I was suddenly conscious of my heart beating loudly.  The anticipation was the thing.  How incredible.  What was life without anticipation?  That’s what hunting was--a world of great anticipation.  It was the crucial element that so often waned as life slipped into humdrum routines.  But in the hunt, it was always there.  Every hunt was preceded by great anticipation.  That’s why I was there.  I had something wonderful to hope for and to anticipate.

Motion caught my eye deep in the green timber.  Small streams of golden light, prying through shadowed boughs, fell in stripes upon his back, as his form emerged from the depths of the spruce thicket.  He was coming in my direction with his head low.  Something was different.  With each step his shoulders seemed to sag.  He was limping.

I could tell he was a large-bodied buck, but his rack was much smaller than that of the old monarch I was after.  Now I had to make a decision.  There were still three days of the hunting season left.  Should I take this buck or continue to hold out for his superior?

At 30 yards the buck came to the edge of the spruce thicket and stopped again.  I could finally see his rack well.  He had four stubby points on his left beam, and on his right side the forward third of his main beam was broken off.  He appeared to have been in a severe battle.  Tufts of hair were ruffled or missing all along his right side, and his right foreleg was obviously injured.  He had trouble putting his weight on it.  I could see frozen blood on his right shoulder where it appeared that he had been gored by another buck. 

Eventually he took a few more steps in my direction and stopped, quartering toward me with his right side.  Now, at 20 yards, I could see that he had also lost his right eye in the battle.  The poor buck was truly in desperate shape.  A raven swooped over the trees above him croaking loudly, as if to prophesy his doom to the scavengers of the forest.  I resented the noisy intrusion.  The buck lifted his head toward the sound and shifted his weight again to relieve his injured leg.

Then I saw it.  Unbelievable!  The tip of his right ear was missing.  This was my buck!  I could hardly believe it.  He had gone downhill so dramatically. I was flooded with emotions.  Suddenly I felt overwhelming compassion for him, especially knowing what a majestic creature he had been.  I had seen him in his prime when he was strong and proud--when he would have sailed into the record books.  Now he was a broken down old man, blind in one eye and limping.

I felt a stinging of tears.  “What’s happening here?  Get a grip on yourself,” I said under my breath.  “Since when did you get so soft?”

As I considered his fate, I realized that being partially blind and having a damaged foreleg would spell almost certain death for him that winter.  Should I spare him the agony of starving or being ripped apart by wolves, and shoot him while he was standing there offering me a broadside shot?

I raised my bow slowly and put the 20-yard pin on his ribs.  He stood there with his blind side toward me, sifting the air for his next bit of information.  He was old and tattered; gray in the muzzle.  His breath flowed from his half-open mouth in short white puffs; his ears rotating routinely like radar.  He looked tired, but still the flame burned within him as he searched for the sounds of the fighting bucks, which I had imitated with my rattling antlers.  He was still a warrior at heart.  He still believed he could win.

He shifted his weight again, still favoring his damaged right leg and began turning away from me.  If I was going to shoot, I had to take my shot now.  He stopped again, now quartering away from me, and looked back in my direction.

I felt a strange kinship with the old buck. I wondered if he knew how close the end was for him.  Perhaps not.  I hoped not.  Maybe his world was simpler without the awareness of time and its passing.  The end would come for him without anticipation, prolonged fear or dread.  One day it would just come.

I eased my bow down and rested it on my knees, no longer wanting to shoot him.  In truth I wanted to help him.  Perhaps shooting him would have been a kinder act, but I couldn’t do it.

He reminded me of an old prizefighter who had been a great champion, but refused to retire.  How sad to watch an old champion sacrifice his dignity.  But the old buck had no choice.  He was programmed by urges beyond his comprehension.  Mother Nature provides no retirement plans for old contenders.  She alone would decide his fate.

He dropped his head and walked back on his tracks into the spruce thicket.  I wished him peace in his last days.  I was glad to have seen him in his prime.  That’s how I chose to remember him.  That’s how I would choose to be remembered.

A chill ran down my spine, making me realize how long I’d been sitting absolutely still.  My fingers were so numb I had to peel them from my bow.  It had been an unusual morning.  I felt again those urges beyond my comprehension, and experienced anew how wonderful it is to be living--to be alive.  No, not just to be alive, but to feel alive.  How precious, this thing called life, as the beginning fades and the end comes into view.

Playing 'Possum

My wife Sharleen and I were speaking at a church in Troy, Alabama, about a month ago.  When we finished the pastor asked if anyone would like for us to pray for them.  Several people came forward, some to Sharleen and some to me. The last person who came to me was a middle-aged woman who posed what is likely the strangest request I will ever encounter in a prayer line.

When she approached me I asked her how I could help her.  At first it seemed a bit awkward as she said, “ I thought you might know the answer when you came in this morning and I thought about asking you then but I decided to wait.”

“Okay,” I replied, “so what is your question?”

“Can you tell me how to trap a ‘possum?”

I can only imagine the look on my face when the question registered in my mind. At first I felt like I was on Candid Camera and then I realized the woman was serious.

“Uh, well sure,” I said, “here’s what you do. Bait the ‘possum every night in the same place with the same bait.  Get him used to the free lunch until it becomes a routine for him.  Then, after a while, set your box trap in the exact spot where you’ve been baiting him and put the bait on the pan that triggers the trap door.  It helps to put a little food just outside the door of the trap to help him overcome any apprehension he might have about the trap.  I guarantee you, the next morning your ‘possum problems will be over.  Then you can dispose of him as you wish.”

The woman thanked me and set out to relieve herself of one pesky ‘possum.

As I replayed that most unusual conversation in my mind it occurred to me that I have given the woman the same recipe for success that Satan uses to trap us in sin. First he baits us with something that he knows will get our attention.  Then he makes it easily available to us until we assume there is no consequence. Lastly we walk into the trap and he disposes of us as he sees fit.

No one, not even an opossum, would willingly walk into a trap if he were aware of the consequences. So Satan seeks to snare us when our guard is down.

This is what the Apostle Paul warns us about in II Corinthians 10:5-6:
We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ. 6And we will be ready to punish every act of disobedience, once your obedience is complete.

When we take every thought captive, we can easily identify if the thought (or temptation) is of God or not, and in so-doing we identify the source of the thought and thus avoid the tempter’s snare.

Big Rubs = Big Bucks?

Trying to determine the size of a buck by the size of the tree or bush he rubs with his antlers can be deceiving. The prevailing theory on the subject says that big bucks rub big trees and little bucks rub little trees. However, this theory is simply untrue.

When you see a tree as big around as a grown man’s thigh, that’s been stripped of its bark and the inner wood gouged away, you can rest assured the damage was not done by a small buck with spindly antlers. It was done by a mature animal. Conversely, when a small sapling the diameter of your little finger is rubbed bare but still standing, you can be fairly sure it was rubbed by a small, immature buck with very small antlers. So far, my examples favor the theory that I am disputing. But, here is the difference.

Mature, large-antlered bucks often rub on small saplings and bushes, too. But when they do, they do not leave them standing. They shred them and break them off or rip them out of the ground. The rubs of mature bucks on small shrubs are not delicate like the efforts of young bucks with dainty racks. The older bucks violently rip them apart. The key is in being able to differentiate between the evidence left on smaller shrubs, since both large- and small-antlered bucks are likely to rub them.