The BAREBOW! Chronicles: A Mexican Standoff
Dennis Dunn 08.12.13
I believe it was in the fall of 1986 that I received a phone call one day from my old friend, John Roser, inviting me and my two sons, Bryant and Reagan, to come up for the weekend to their summer home on Lopez Island, in the American San Juans. “And be sure to bring your bows and arrows with you,” he added, “because there are far more deer running around up there than Ellie’s flower garden can accommodate right now. Even though they do most of their damage at night, you might be able to ambush one of them in the early morning, or just before dark.” This was a most welcome invitation which I knew my sons had been holding their breath waiting for, so I accepted in a heartbeat, and the three of us started gathering together our gear for the exciting weekend ahead.
One year earlier, just prior to the start of school for the boys, I had driven them to Wyoming for an archery antelope hunt which produced—for each of them—their first harvest of a big game animal. Both of my sons were already darn good shots with a bow, and I was most hopeful that this weekend with the Rosers would provide them with another shooting opportunity or two.
Bryant and Reagan were pretty pumped as Friday afternoon rolled around, and our high spirits were matched by the bright sunshine that the Indian summer had summoned to guide our ferry across the sparkling waters of Puget Sound all the way to the dock on Lopez Island. John and Ellie had brought their three teenage kids with them for the weekend, too, so we all had a gay time and a great feed that evening, thanks to Ellie’s always-superb cooking. As usual, in such situations, bedtime came sooner than anybody wanted, but we all knew the early-morning alarm clock would grant mercy to no one.
I wish I could report that this hunt resulted in another “triple play” for the three of us bowhunters. Unfortunately, such was not to be the case. Although Bryant did take a spike buck two weeks later, when he and his brother returned to the Rosers without me for another try, this first weekend’s attempt on the life of a Lopez Island blacktail dumped all the good luck into Dad’s lap. I don’t believe either of my sons got any shot opportunities that first weekend. However, the shot I took on Saturday evening, just before dusk, arose from a little drama that I shall never forget as long as I live.
Not far from the Rosers’ summer home were several small fields—formerly cultivated—that had gone to seed, and these areas of September-tall, yellow grass were encircled by irregular hedgerows of mixed trees and brush. Within 20 minutes of sundown, I was “still-hunting” into the wind and creeping along the extreme edge of one of those open meadows, when suddenly I spotted a spike buck slowly feeding into the end of the clearing in front of me. After watching him for a minute or so, I realized his chosen path might bring him right to me—along the same fringe of the field that I had been skirting in the opposite direction. Since the wind could not have been more perfect, the prudent thing seemed to be for me to simply kneel down in the high grass and wait. With my toes digging into the ground, I settled backwards onto my heels, slowly took an arrow from my quiver, and nocked it in anticipation of an exciting “moment of truth” I felt certain would come. I was not disappointed.
The buck kept working closer and closer in my direction, feeding voraciously as if there were no tomorrow. He seemed to have no clue he was being eyed with loving “malice aforethought” by a foreign presence only yards away. Yes, I did, indeed, love this buck. I loved him for his beauty. For his innocence and naïveté. I loved him for the timeless symbol he represented in the eternal, never-ending drama of predator-versus-prey. And I loved him for the food he was offering to place on my table. Why should I not have the right to take his life, in order to provide for my own—and for my family? Was this not more honest than paying someone else to do my killing for me?
All of these thoughts were revolving in my head as I waited for my protagonist to notice me. Clearly, he was the central character in this drama, but his life was going to depend upon either the mercy or the skill I was about to show in the execution of my role as predator. Yes, he was a young buck, born in the spring of the previous year, and I did consider sparing his life. Had he been an old, trophy buck with impressive antlers, and approaching the end of his life, I would have welcomed with both gratefulness and humility the chance to send an arrow through him while he was still completely unaware of my presence.
Yet, somehow, with this young buck—not even quite fully grown—my feelings were different. I wanted him to see me. I wanted to learn if his wild instincts, once he knew I was there, would prove sufficient to save his life. I guess the bottom line was that I wanted a more equal contest with my young quarry. Only a human predator would have ever given him a break like that. Certainly not a wolf, a bear, a coyote, or any cougar.
So, I let him come closer…and closer…and closer. At 12 feet from me, he lifted his head, stopped chewing in mid-bite (with grass hanging out the side of his mouth), and proceeded to stare at me—as if seeing for the first time some creature from another planet. I was wearing a darkish, camouflage headnet covering my entire visage, and I had on camouflage gloves, as well. I could see out; he could not see in. I saw little or no fear in the buck’s face. I think the truth was that he had no idea what he was looking at. So he just stared…and stared…and stared! With the air currents moving in my direction, my motionless body was giving him nothing to process through the filter of his senses. No smells, no sounds, nothing!
I hadn’t moved a muscle for many minutes now. My feet had been completely asleep for some time. Other muscles that hadn’t yet gone to sleep were aching ferociously, but I was determined to win this Mexican standoff! I’m convinced the staring-down contest went on for at least 10 minutes—if not 15—without either of us moving a muscle. In the end, the young spike lost it by lowering his eyes, turning his head and shoulders, and proceeding to walk, slowly, straight away from me. He didn’t run; he simply walked straight away, through the tall grass.
As he did so, I lifted the lower tip of my bow off the ground and came to full draw. Because of the high grass, and because I was still frozen in place to the ground, I had only his long neck at which to take aim. Still, he was no more than 15 yards away, so I loosed the arrow—only to see him vanish instantly! Had he disappeared into thin air, or into thick grass? At first, I wasn’t sure. It turned out that his line of travel was straight down, perpendicular to the flight of the arrow. The buck had died instantly, with my broadhead passing completely through the precise center of the second neck vertebra below the skull. The predator had won. The prey had not suffered. The ageless drama had played itself out again for the bezillionth time. And as for Dennis Dunn’s good luck/bad luck chart on bowhunting Columbia blacktail bucks, my fortunes had definitely taken a spike upward!
Editor’s note: This article is the fourth of the BAREBOW! Chronicles, a series of shortened stories from expert hunter and author Dennis Dunn’s book, BAREBOW! An Archer’s Fair-Chase Taking of North America’s Big-Game 29. Dunn was the first to harvest each of the 29 traditionally recognized native North American big game species barebow: using only “a bow, a string, an arrow—no trigger, no peep sights, no pins—just fingers, guts, and instinct.” Each of the narratives will cover the (not always successful, but certainly educational and entertaining) pursuit of one of the 29 animals. One new adventure will be published every two weeks—join us on the hunt! You can learn more about the work and purchase a copy on Dunn’s site here. Read the third Chronicle here.
Top image © iStockPhoto/Jeff Goulden
Born in Seattle, May of 1940, Dennis Dunn graduated cum laude from Harvard University in 1962, with a B.A. degree and a major in Romance Languages. He became a middle- and senior-high-school French language teacher, while earning an MA degree from the University of Washington. He married the late Congresswoman Jennifer Blackburn Dunn in 1965 and fathered two bowhunting sons: Bryant in 1969, and Reagan in 1971. Intrigued with politics, Dunn left the teaching profession in 1970 to be elected Chair of the King County Republican Party. After six years in that post, he was elected as the GOP National Committeeman for Washington. He ultimately rose to be a Vice-Chair of the RNC, before leaving all Party posts in 1983 to become a securities broker.
In 1988, he moved to Vancouver, B.C., where he met Karen and married her in 1989. A year before returning to Seattle in 1999, Dunn accepted appointment as the Northwest Regional Chair of the Metropolitan Opera National Council. For ten years he served as a leader in that organization's quest to find and promote gifted young opera singers onto the opera stages of the world. He has been a Senior Member of the Pope & Young Club since 1985.
In September of 2004, Dunn completed a 40-year odyssey when he harvested a male Alaskan brown bear on Baranof Island in southeast Alaska and completed what has become known as the North American Super Slam-- the taking of all 29 huntable big game species recognized by Pope & Young. Dunn was the first to complete the Super Slam barebow--meaning no pins or sights, arrows guided only by instinct.
Of the 29 Pope & Young species, 17 of Dunn's original 29 have been listed in the Club's records. Since the fall of 2004, he has added five more species to the records and launched a brand new career as author and outdoor writer. His book, BAREBOW!, which recounts his 40-year odyssey of pursuing the Super Slam, won five national awards in 2010. In 2013, his BAREBOW! eBook series won a sixth national award.
