FIELD NOTES / 01
FIELD NOTES / 01
IT’S CALLED BREAKUP
By Andri Elko
Today I pulled a treasure out from safekeeping. Its black matte glass felt smooth and flawless as I ran my hand along the upper limb toward the riser swell. My hand grasped the grip’s light bourbon leather wrap, and it felt like an old familiar handshake. My fingertips traced along its seam of baseball stitching that my friend sewed so perfectly years ago now.
He’s passed away since. Still, the marks of his life on earth live on in the bows that he made and in the memories of the lives that he touched.
Handmade hunting tools are priceless. Wooden bows and home forged knives are my favorites. Heart and soul are poured into their making, etched into every angle and edge and underlying every choice of material. There is history in the methods used, some that stretch further back into time than others. Some even reaching back far enough to beckon forth the whispers of ancestors who call us deeper into our shared human story.
It is from those internal borderlands between the human self and the higher soul, where the unseeable and untouchable breeze of Spirit gently fans the flames of our eternal fire. Hunting, in its own and ancient way, conjures the proverbial act of setting out the stones and placing the kindling to be lit. It is a way to prepare and sit before that sacred fire, to wait, to witness, to partake. It’s that fire that gives meaning to experience and purpose to our presence. It’s that fire that feeds the soul of a hunter; that fire that warms us in this earthly cold; that fire that lets us know we are here for a breathly moment. It’s that fire that reminds us that all life — our life—is a fleeting gift tied to the passing of time and enfolded with layers of story.
A flemish-twist, a cedar arrow, a wooden bow. We may purchase these, but their value is so much more than their price. They carry the fingerprint of natural life and of un-urban legends. Within their grains and fibers waits a quiet longing, one that yearns for companionship. In that way, they are like us. These homemade tools invite us. They desire to enter into seasons, backwoods, valleys and mountaintops. They, in a way, become a part of us, helping us to fulfill who we are meant to be.
This longbow is a 61" Osprey of Holm-Made bows made by Chad Holm. Chad gave it to me after teaching me to build my own longbow over a weekend of backyard shop-time and Badlands shooting-time with Chad and his son and our friend Brad Davis. Brad introduced us and invited us all together to build bows and shoot for a few days. Brad helped me build my first bow, a recurve. Chad helped me build a longbow in Brad’s shop.
I will forever be grateful to the generosity of these two incredible men for their willingness to share their knowledge and for the gift of their valuable time. God crossed our paths and used traditional archery to do it — and it has enriched my life in all good and beautiful ways. They’ve become legends in my own tradbow story, giants who lifted me simply to share the wonder of their view.
In Bush Alaska now, it’s that in-between season. That stretch of Spring where the river ice is too thin to travel and bound by the river’s banks and borders. Our sea ice is almost a memory, some still clings to the coastal shores. It’s covered with glistening greenish-blue overflow and darkened “shadows” of water waiting just below. Seals lie beneath the sun, sleeping like oversized slugs. The loud cries of hungry seagulls shout the arrival of Spring. And the skies offer a welcomed return for birds migrating back to these lakes, muskeg, tundra tussocks and rocky cliff crevices of their birth.
This is the shortest season, but it feels like the longest — it’s called Breakup. It bridges winter-spring with summer-spring. It’s a time for preparing. It’s full of anticipation. It’s a time for gathering up treasures like this longbow. I string it, set the brace height, wax the flemish string and attach the quiver. I pull out my wooden arrows and sharpen broadheads. I wait, shoot and tune my tools and myself to what is true. The clock and clutter of urban life fades like sea ice swept into the horizon by unseen winds and currents. Time passes. Story unfolds.
