What A Curved Stick Will Teach A Loud Man

I like gadgets as much as the next stubborn fool. Rangefinders that beep. Sights with wheels. Rests that cradle like a baby. All fine. All fun. Then every so often I pick up the Bear Super Grizzly and remember that most of what I thought I needed was just noise with good marketing. That little curve of wood tells on you faster than your buddy with a camera. It does not care about yesterday’s brag or tomorrow’s excuse. It only cares if you can stand still when the world gets quiet.

This hunt started because I ran my mouth. My pal said the oak flat on the far side of the swamp was bowhunters’ graveyard. Swirling wind. No cover. Deer that look through you like you are smoke. I said smoke is hard to hit and I went anyway. The Super Grizzly went with me because I wanted to feel honest again. I wanted to know if the problem was the wind or me.

I slid the boat across a run of tea colored water before sunrise and tied it to a root that had more stories than I do. The walk in felt like wading through the breath of a sleeping bear. Warm air from the swamp tried to rise and cold air from the night tried to push it back down. Leaves drifted in slow circles. The bow rode in my left hand with the string guard tucked into my palm. I had three arrows in the bow quiver. That number felt like a dare. It also felt like plenty if I kept my head attached to my shoulders.

The flat opened like a cheap curtain. Sparse cover. Oaks old enough to vote twice. Tracks everywhere and not a decent trunk to hide behind. I started to feel that little fizz you get when you realize the plan you sold yourself will need revision. I told the fizz to sit down and I did what a man should do when the world will not give him a blind. I became the blind. I stood next to a tree with the same lean as my spine and turned my body into bark. Knees soft. Breath soft. Face soft. The Super Grizzly rested against my leg and looked patient. If a bow can smirk this one did.

First visitors were two does and a button buck that had not learned the game. They walked so close I could smell acorns on their breath. My heart did its drum solo but my hands stayed quiet. That felt like winning even without a shot. The wind did its dance but I stayed on the down side and the deer kept feeding.

An hour later the woods went still the way they only do when a grown buck puts his mind in the room. Not a sound moved. Even the wind forgot how to talk. He came along the seam where the swamp breath fades and the ridge pull begins. The kind of deer that will never make a bow shop poster because his rack is honest rather than loud. Chest like a barrel. Ears nicked. Eye calm. He had no idea I existed and I wanted to keep it that way.

Drawing a recurve in open timber feels like stealing from a sleeping dog. You do it slow and hope the snore does not stop. I set the bottom limb against my leg and let my back do the work. The Super Grizzly came to anchor and stayed there like it was built to wait. The arrow sat where it should. I picked a place behind the shoulder and did not blink. The shot broke like a thought I had been trying to remember.

He kicked, ran a hook past a deadfall, and crashed out with the kind of finality that makes a man breathe again. I stood there and let the blood run out of my hands back into my arms. I listened to the flat regain its noise. Only then did I move. The arrow lay red in the leaves. The deer lay forty paces past it.

I do not do whooping. I do not chest bump trees. I put a hand on his neck and thanked whatever part of the world still allows men like me to feed ourselves with clean means. The bow leaned against a root and watched me work. Field dressing is not a chore to rush. It is a part of the hunt that deserves the care it demands. The blade moved the way it should. The cavity steamed in the cool. I set the liver and heart in a clean bag and tied it off.

Now here is where the Super Grizzly taught the loud man a quiet lesson. I had a choice. I could drag this animal to the boat like I was running from rain or I could honor the spot and eat here. Guess which one tastes better. I built a little fire in a sandy pocket where sparks would not wander. Pan on the coals. A little fat from the bag. Onion from my pocket. Heart sliced thin and in it went. I ate with my fingers and laughed at myself for ever thinking I needed anything fancier than patience and heat. I cleaned the pan with a piece of bread and watched smoke climb into the limbs like a prayer that does not ask for anything. Only thanks.

The pack out took a while because I gave him the respect of two trips. Boat rocked easy across the tea water. I loaded the quarters and sat for a long minute with the bow across my knees. I thought about all the shots I have rushed with modern rigs because the gear said I could. I thought about how this simple curve made me slow down and be a better version of the same stubborn man. The Super Grizzly does not punish you. It exposes you. There is a difference. Punishment makes you smaller. Exposure gives you a chance to get larger if you have the spine for it.

Back home I hung the meat and wiped down the bow. I rubbed a little oil into the limbs and checked the string with the same care I give the edge of a good knife. Friends came by and I told the story the way a man should. Straight. No embroidery. They handled the bow and smiled because it feels like a thing that belongs in real hands rather than behind glass. One of them asked why I bothered with a simple recurve when technology could make it easier. I said easier is not what I came for. Cleaner is what I came for. Presence is what I came for. A short walk back to myself is what I came for.

I will still shoot the fast stuff. I am not a monk. But when I want to be sure the hunt is about the right things I take the Super Grizzly. It demands a better posture from my body and a better posture from my mind. It puts the weight of the outcome where it belongs and gives me the gift of knowing when I get it right. That gift tastes like backstrap on a hot skillet and coffee you did not earn with money.

If you see a fool in red carrying a quiet bow and walking into a place the wind does not like, that is me. If I come out with an empty quiver and a grin, that is also me. The bow does not owe me anything. I owe it my best self. Some days I pay in full. Some days I learn what I still have to pay. Either way I eat well and sleep hard and wake up ready to do it again.

That is the truth a curved stick will teach a loud man. And I am still listening.