By the power vested in me by the great state of Missouri…I know pronounce you husband and wife.  Let’s seal the deal with a kiss!

During the 1850’s and 1860’s the Navajos found themselves at war with US frontier troops. In 1863 Kit Carson invaded the Navajo’s homeland and by 1864 8,000 Navajos surrendered.  They were condemned to a 300 mile march to the Bosque Redondo prison camp in eastern New Mexico.  Here they sat under constant guard and contemplated how they could return to their homeland.

Glancing at my watch I realized I had five minutes of shooting light left.  I sat in my tree stand as darkness started to surround me thinking “what the hell is going on.” 

The adrenaline wore off and I found myself in bow hunter purgatory.  That uncomfortable time between letting an arrow fly and getting down to look for my target.  Excitement, anxiety, confidence, and self-doubt were racing through my mind.  The flight of the arrow looked good and I heard a solid “thwack.”  However, I have been on blood trails that ran out and learned nothing is guaranteed.  For now I would have to wait to find out if I hit my mark.

Reaching into my pocket I felt the last bullet.  I jacked out the spent .243 shell and chambered my last hope.  The wind was howling and Rod whispered, “Hold on his back and to the left.”   Lining up the cross hairs on my target I squeezed the trigger and watched my prey disappear behind a rise in the terrain.

Perched above a drainage Dad and I watched antelope graze.  The range finder indicated they were still over 400 yards out, but it appeared they were working towards us.  Glassing the herd with my Vortex binoculars, I identified three bucks.  The wind was in our favor and with a little luck, the antelope might wander into range.  Right now, it was a waiting game.

The phrase “it’s like shooting fish in a barrel” is often used to explain an easy task.  The phrase “it’s like shooting a flying fish with a bow and arrow” should be used to explain an activity that is challenging, frustrating, and is a boat load of fun.

The first breath of fresh air after the thought of never getting another one is better than anything I have ever experienced.  Although my head was above water I still didn’t know what was going on.  Did a hook go through my finger?  Had something bit me?  I was safe, but I wasn’t out of the hot water.  Both literally and figuratively.

Methodically casting a fly rod in a mountain river has always raised my curiosity.  Couple this desire with my tendency to take people up on offers to experience the outdoors led to an adventure of catching fish, getting lost and a love hate relationship with casting a fly.