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Ye Sylvan Archer Official Publication of the National Field Archery Association January, 1942

Vol. 13

No. 9

Published the fifteenth of each month for archers by archers 505 North 11th Street, Corvallis, Oregon J. E. DAVIS

Editor

Subscription Price ..................... $1.00 Per Year

Foreign Subscription .............................. J... $1.25 Single Copies ........................................... 10 Cents

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TABLE OF CONTENTS Page COME ON IN, THE WATER’S FINE By Erie Stanley Gardner ........................

RANDOM RABBIT RAMBLINGS By Dawson Feathers ............................

ARCHERY DURING THE WAR By A. J. Michelson ................................

EDITORIAL ...................................................

LONGBOW ARCHERY CLUB By C. B. “Chuck” Young......... .-..........

NEW JERSEY TOURNAMENT By Dave Cartwright ................................

NFAA BULLETIN By John L. Yount ......................................

ARCHERY CLUB READY .......................

9TH NFAA TOURNAMENT REPORT By Karl E. Palmatier ............................. 10

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Come on In, the Water’s Fine By Erie Stanley Gardner Walther Buchen wanted to test the sights on his rifle. He and Dr. Hor ace Stimson carefully paced off a distance of seventy-five yards along the pebble-strewn beach of Rock Is land in upper Lake Michigan. They propped up a piece of driftwood and on top of it placed three cans about the size of condensed milk cans. Paul Klopsteg and I came strolling along at about the time they were ready to go into action. Paul had in his pocket a Colt’s “Woodsman” twenty-two automatic which had been pressed upon him by the hospitality of our genial host. Buchen threw the rifle to his shoul der a few times, squinted his eye through the telescopic sights, lay prone on the ground, and propped up an elbow. I’m always “razzing” Buchen about shooting distances. Up at the HF Bar when ducks would fly past Buchen’s boat, a couple of hundred yards away from him, I’d yell, “What are

you waiting for? Want ’em to knock your hat off?” So I surveyed the cans and started shooting off my face. “Why don’t you get right on top of ’em? — If the bullet doesn’t hit ’em, the powder gasses will blow ’em off.” “How far do you think we are from those cans?” Buchen demanded. “Seventy-five yards,” I said prompt ly, not having the least idea of the distance, but knowing that because Buchen was Buchen, it would have been accurately paced off, and that seventy-five was about the distance he would be apt to pick. The silence from Stimson and Bu chen convinced me I was right and tempted me to stick my neck way out. “Gosh all mighty,” I said, “at that distance, I could take Paul’s twentytwo automatic and knock ’em off just like that,” and I snapped my fingers. The trouble with that BuchenKlopsteg combination is that they

Dr. Paul Klopsteg — a bit of rest after lunch. Note the satisfied, re laxed features as his mind slips the load of his biisiness cares and his Washing ton responsibilities. ■

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think in terms of great accuracy. When you stick your neck out, some thing is apt to happen to it. I was, of course, talking in what I would call “general terms.” Those guys don’t know there is such a thing as a general term. When Klopsteg says 6, he means 6.0000000, not 5.9999999 or 6.0000001. Buchen said, “Give him the gun, Paul.” Somewhat to my surprise, I found the butt end of the Colt twenty-two thrust in my hands. “Call out which can you’re shooting at,” Paul said. We had about two boxes of shells. I thought that it would be undigni fied to stand there and pop away all afternoon without doing any dam age, so I said, “I can hit that middle can once out of four shots.” That gave me an opportunity to “save face.” After firing four shots, I could gracefully acknowledge that I had lost, and change the subject of conversation.—maybe. I kept thinking one of them would say, “No, no, keep on shooting until you hit it.” But they didn’t, so I heaved a sigh and pulled the trigger. That was the first shot. I only had three more to go. Suddenly there was a sharp, metal lic smack. The middle can turned a few somersaults in the air and clat tered to the rocks. I was even more surprised than the can. For the only time in the entire trip, those other birds were speechless. I slipped the gun onto safety, and handed it back to Paul. Now, I contend that the birds who kill deer with a bow and arrow are doing just what I did with that can. They go out to kill deer with a bow and arrow. They have a bow, and they have an arrow. They see a deer. They pull back the’ “trusty broadhead” until the “barb pricks their finger,” and let fly. The arrow goes “true and fast,” and smacks the deer in the midriff. The deer runs a few steps, folds up. and dies. The guy goes up and has his picture taken. What I’d like to know more about is the fellows who get shots at deer and miss. How many hunters miss for the one who connects

January, 1942

I don’t know why we should feel there’s some stigma attached to miss ing a deer with an arrow. Probably it’s a part of our American creed of “getting results.” We manage to break away from it when we leave our guns at home and pick up our bows and arrows to hunt deer. The sport is what we’re after. We want the thrill of the chase, the companion ship, and all that goes with it, etc., etc. But when we finally get that shot at the deer and miss, we don’t rush out to break into print with a story of the excitement we had, the thrills, and all that. We sneak quiet ly home, hang our bow on its peg, put the arrows in their box in the corner, and say nothing. The ar ticles which find their way into print are from the pens of the ones who have pulled the “trusty broadhead” back until the “barb pricks” their fingers, etc., etc. For some ten years I had hunted deer in various and sundry places without getting a shot. I saw a few deer. Some of them were bucks. None of them was within what I con sidered bow-range. In short, I was hunting in the average sort of country which would be available to the aver age archer. Then I did a little mental arith metic. I knew that there were places where deer were a lot more plentiful than in the average sort of territory where archers hunted in competition with rifle hunters. It did, of course, cost more to get to these places, but why not get something out of life as you went through it? I think, however, it was “Doctor George” Cathey who first got me started on my gypsy hunting. That was about the time Oregon set aside a special territory for archers, and I took a trip up there and met Cathey. My Filipino houseboy joined us. We established a camp, and were later joined by Noyes Tyrrell. The ad ventures of that trip were so wildly exciting that I became an addict. My work is of such a nature that one of my busiest periods is around September and October. Usually, I have to wait until the latter part of October or the first part of November to get in my hunting. That’s made me miss several Oregon seasons. Last year, however, I firmly determined that no matter what happened, I was

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going to get back into Oregon and stay out at the Williams Ranch for a week. — However, there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip. I had a book to finish before I could make it, and while I was in the middle of that book, my chief secretary, who has been with me for umpty-ump years, became seriously ill and was rushed to the hospital for a major operation. I was left to dash back and forth to the hospital on daily trips, to battle with doctors over question of diag nosis, with my one remaining sec retary trying to finish the book against a deadline. Moreover, I was flooded with telegrams from editors and publishers who insisted that I let them “know about Jean. — Write me every day.” By the time the smoke blew away, the hunting season was over in Ore gon and also at the HF Bar Ranch in Wyoming. I didn’t think there’d be any hunting for at least another year. Then business necessitated a trip to New York, and I started getting things ready, keeping an eagle eye on Jean, hoping she’d be able to travel if we took the trip by easy stages. It was about that time the mail

brought a letter from Paul Klopsteg. C. H. Thordarson, who has prob ably the most complete collection of fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth century books on science which the world has ever seen gathered under one roof, was moving his entire li brary from Chicago up to Rock Is land, a little island out in Lake Mich igan in Northern Wisconsin. There were deer on the island, although hunting had never been permitted. Thordarson had invited Klopsteg to bring one or two friends and do a little hunting with bow and arrow. Would I like to come? Some rapid calculation convinced me that if all went well, I could keep my appointments with the Denver po lice (who were going to show me some new wrinkles in crime detec tion), and still get on to Chicago in time to join Klopsteg, Buchen, and Horace Stimson. I made it, and, out of a clear sky, ran into one of the most exciting and thrilling and perfectly satisfac tory hunting trips I have ever had. But to get back to my original contention. — Since “Doctor George” got me initiated into traveling around and hunting game where there was (Continued on page 11)

Left to right — Dr. Stimson, Dr. Paul Klopsteg, Walther Buchen

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January, 1942

Random Rabbit Ramblings By Dawson Feathers Someone should compile an archers’ “believe-it-or-not.” This Ripley-like incident which follows should be in cluded, not because I relate it, but be cause it truly falls in that category. The writer and pal, Joe Brooks, were partly responsible for the afore mentioned incident, which terminated one of the most pleasurable hunts I have ever enjoyed. We had left our dear homes in Northern California and braved the rigors of the Southern California climate just to go out on a rabbit hunt with our traditional competitors, “the Boys from the South.” “Osage Jim” Murphy of Ba kersfield, was our host—and kind is not a good enough word. We’re not forgetting Mrs. Murphy, either, who carried the brunt of the battle in the house like all good wives—only bet ter. We met, hunted with, and razzed back and forth with such other swell guys as Delmer Pletcher (I forgot the Dr., but I don’t think he’ll care), Ken Jones and “Indefatigable” Fred Gadberry.

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“Osage Jim** with the evidence

We had a Saturday afternoon hunt after (I suspect) the dear Doctor had drugged his dental patients into insensibility, in order to effect his escape, and also after.we had dragged Ken Jones out of bed. Yes, I said “afternoon.” Those Bakersfield guys work and sleep all sorts of crazy hours, but there’s nothing crazy about the way they can slip away to sneak off hunting. About the time we left the City Hall it started some of that weather for which S.C. is infamous. It poured all the way out to the hunt ing grounds and then settled into a gentle Oregon mist. But we were not to be undone. No, we slopped right out into the thick of it. But there was nothing sloppy about the exhibitions of footwork those jacks put on, whenever they could be in duced to run. Most of the rabbits had enough sense to stay in out of the rain, which just goes to show why more rabbits die of senility than from arrow wounds. Yes, sir, the bunnies were smart—and good. If you think your bow is fast, just try sometime to see if it can fling arrows out with enough despatch to overtake one of those leaping Lepus. Their performances are reminiscent of an arrow flight, but in just one respect. An arrow does have some sort of uniformity of direction—some arrows — but those rabbits! Boy! When I thought they were going to zig they always zagged—except once. Yes, I drew blood on one of them, but I don’t think it did any more than make him a little anemic. Pletcher did the same thing on another, and with that thought in the fore, I’m hoping for an anemic brood next spring. If I can locate some of that under par crop then, they may be a little slower (or less fast) and I will have a chance. Just. For one who doesn’t know that desert country, I’ll merely say that there is little grass, the soil is sandy, and the scattered quail brush is just large enough to form suitable cover for good old Lepus californicus, the California black-tailed jackrabbit, and his little cousin, Sylvilagus auduboni,

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the San Joaquin cottontail, long may their tails wave. And they are really plentiful, in spite of the' fact that we didn’t get any. There are just enough cottonwoods and willows to make the landscape more interesting and to provide roosting places for a goodly number of great horned owls. And last, and most exciting, there is always the possibility of encountering a coyote, bobcat, desert swift fox, badger, or hm-m-m-mmm, the lowly skunk. Of course, there are many birds, ground squirrels and several smaller mammals. A more ideal country to rove with the bow would be hard to imagine. Few arrows lost and practically none broken! The sand just polishes your broadheads nicely. Oh, me! I tried to impress on the boys that they are the possessors of perhaps the finest bit of bow country extant—and I have been around a bit. I think they are beginning to realize that they have a heritage that is something. When archers come from three hundred miles away to hunt in their back yards, and then come back for more, it must mean something—something more than just good hospitality. The weather was final victor in what had been a pretty hectic shoot ing fest. We had had plenty of shots at both the cottontails and the jacks. Back at Osage Jim’s we dried out our wet clothes and then stoked the old insides with plenty of good hot food. Then, of course, the gab-fest, which is so part and parcel of an archers’ gathering. It lasted longer than it should have, and finally we rolled in. Sunday morning didn’t dawn. It was just there. Scattered all over the place. You could actually feel it— especially if you turned your face up to the sky. Well, I started the wind shield wipers on my glasses and routed Joe out of hibernation. Jim showed up, we got in the car and went out to get some breakfast, giving that dear lady, Mrs. Murphy, a break for a change. Some coffee and fixin’s helped the interior if not the exterior aspect of things, and we drove back to Jim’s to suck nicotine and maul over our tackle. Well, we were pretty well into the merits of Osage—the wood, not the man—when Indefatig able Fred rolled up out of the fog. We potted the pasteboards on the

butt and sniped at the rubber apple until I got sick and tired of seeing Indefatigable plock it nearly every other shot. Delmer Pletcher finally loomed up and saved my face—or what was left of it. When we got out to Rabbit Haven, the fog was commencing to lift. I felt sorry for whoever had to do the lifting, but was glad to see it done. The sun finally gave us the nod, I peeled off my shirt. Joe Brooks did likewise, and we had at ’em. (I might mention that the Bakersfield boys did not take off theirs. I did not ask the reason why, being a naturally mild, inoffensive person, but suspect it was because they did not want to get sunburned from the unaccustomed sun). Did you ever try to corral a jack rabbit with only a few men? It al ways ends up with the men on theinside and the rabbits on the out. But we had lots of fun tryin’. And plenty of shots. It sure was fun to see ’em duck or swerve when a shot was right there. Most of our shots were pretty long, though, and alibi, alibi, alibi. The Bakersfield boys just clamped a stern jaw and carried on, don’tcha know. Joe and I didn’t even have to hold a reputation, so we just dropped everything and enjoyed our selves with choice cuss words and alibis. This continued until the sun was on the wrong side of the horizon and our stomachs groaned, our arms ached, and our feet protested. Delmer and I were together, dis cussing the relative merits of eating and shooting rabbits—pardon me, at rabbits — when someone at the car blatted the horn. The poor weaklings were hungry, no doubt; had to eat. Well, everyone couldn’t be rugged, like we were, et cetera. So hence we two in the direction of the car. And now, here it comes. The incident. First, a great bedlam of shouts of divers tones and vigor rent the peace ful desert air. Most unique, some of them were. Hm-m-mmmm, thought I, suspicioning grave suspicions, the kickapoo juice! Someone or ones have been into it and now it is into them. But I said nary word about it to Delmer (didn’t I say I was polite— and other things). We urged ourselves in the direction of the disturance and soon came upon (Continued on page 14)

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January, 1942

Archery During the War Period By A. J. Michelson, President National Field Archery Association

America is at war. How long the war will last no one knows. Our lives, our property, and our sacred honor are pledged to a successful prosecu tion of that war. Many of our arch ers are already in the service; many more soon will be. For those who are not called to the front there are many war time duties, not only in the pro duction of war materials, but in civil ian defense. A new call has been made on all of us for more of our time, our effort, to contribute our ut most to the service of our country. Our country has the first call upon all of us for everything that our en ergy, our minds, our means, and our capacities can contribute. War calls for sacrifices, and we will cheerfully give all that we have. For those who are called into the armed services their future course is plotted. Those who are employed in the factories, shops, and mills pro ducing the armaments of war have their war time duties clear cut. They must work harder and produce more. Professional men—lawyers, doctors, dentists, and others, must answer the call wherever their services are need ed. Millions of men and women en gaged in hundreds of different kinds of businesses and labor whose occupa tions have no direct bearing on the production of materials for war or in the fighting of the war, can help in home defense work and put their dol lars into defense bonds and stamps. Everyone can help to the full extent of his or her abilities. But what are these millions going to do whose work and occupations do not call for full time participation in the war effort? Are they going to put on sack cloth and go into mourn ing for the duration of the war? Is the home front going to sit with fold ed hands—-with ears glued to the radio waiting and listening for war news, good or bad? Are professions, businesses, and occupations who are not engaged in war production going into another depression? It is esti mated that this war may cost as much as one hundred and fifty billion dol lars. It takes taxes to pay the war cost. Are we going to saddle the tax

burden on future generations or ex pect to pay it only from taxes on war industries? Every business and in dustry must yield to the war effort, if a question of priorities in materials or men arises. But those at the fight ing front as well as those at home must still be fed, clothed, and housed, educated, entertained, and provided for. Those of us who are not engaged in the production of war materials or in the actual prosecution of the war still have a big patriotic duty to per form to see that business which does not conflict with the war effort goes on not only as usual but with in creased effort where possible. We must produce more and more not only for those at the front but for those at home. If we can increase our na tional incomes without conflicting with the war effort, it is our patriot ic duty to do so, for it is out of our incomes that we pay our taxes to carry on and pay for the defense of our democracy. In every line of business and labor we must work harder and produce more. But man cannot live alone by fight ing, nor can he efficiently produce by working without rest day in and day out. There comes a time when fatigue, mental and physical, slows up production. To keep our minds and our bodies healthy and at the peek of efficiency there must be per iods of rest and recreation. Rest and recreation are to our minds and bod ies what lubrication is to machinery. Without it they wear out and deter iorate. In war time sports are neces sary not only in the armed services but in the home front, to keep up morale, to take our minds for a mo ment from the thoughts of war, to relax tired bodies and release storedup nervous tension. From our sports we can return to our work with re newed vigor and energy. What of sports during war time? I think one of America’s foremost sports writers, Grantland Rice, an swered that question when he recently said, “It might be mentioned that those in charge of the administration at war time are highly favorable to any type of sport that means physi-

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cal fitness and national morale. The administration wants sport. But it will not support any form of sport that belongs strictly to the commer cial class. Sport for condition — sport for morale—but not for the purpose of any financial clean-up. The 1942 sport model will be all for public service, for national service. The big, money-making pageants are over—until after the war. From now on there should be more people tak ing part in sports than ever before— more players and fewer spectators. It would be a vital mistake to stop sport for those at present not needed in the war parade. This must come first, with nothing else close.” Even war torn England finds time for its sports, not much for the spec tator, but rather for the individual, for relaxation and diversion. In this, archery is taking its place with an increasing interest in field archery. We can take a page from the Nazi war book. With everything concen trated on war objectives, the Nazis recognize the value of sports in build ing their fighting machine and keep ing up the morale of their people. Our own government has recognized the need for sports in our army camps by the millions of dollars raised by the U.S.O. for entertain ment through various types of sports, of the men in our army camps. The need for entertainment, diversion, and relaxation is just as great among the millions whose war time services are called for at the home front. Just recently Ellwood A. Geiges, executive assistant to the United States director of the Physical Fit ness program, said, “We all know the colleges have been wondering what would be the government’s views on college sports. Well, here it is. The government not only wants sports to continue but to be increased five fold. We want everybody taking part. Sta tistics show that unless the nation’s deplorable physical defects are cor rected, our military, naval and air forces will be unnecessarily hampered in the creation of an efficient fight ing machine. There are millions of men who will work odd hours doing defense jobs. When they have free time they should have some methods of using it to improve and strengthen their health. The colleges could pro vide athletes who would help train

and condition them.” What sport more than archery gives one a better opportunity for re laxation of mind and body? An hour or a weekend spent in the woods and fields, stretching unused muscles, ex panding the chest, and breathing in fresh air, concentrating on your tech nique and forgetting there is a war will freshen your mind and body and send you back to your office and your shop better fitted to do your part in the war emergency. Archery has survived a hundred wars. But we regret to state that in the past archery has been a “slacker” during some of the wars. It has left to other sports the duty of condition ing and morale. We must not per mit this to happen during this war. We owe it to ourselves and to our country to be physically and mentally fit by continuing the practice of the sport that appeals to us most and making it available to thousands of former spectators who are now look ing for a wholesome, healthful recre ation. All sports are more or less affected by the present shortage of rubber. There will be fewer golf and tennis balls. Steel and aluminum arrows will be hard to get, but there is still a plentiful supply of American ar row woods — Port Orford cedar, fir, and birch. There will be fewer steel bows, but the government has made no call on yew, osage, lemon wood or hickory. Linen for bow strings will be scarce and more ex pensive, but there is at present no shortage, and there seems to be an ample supply of steel for piles and broadheads that should serve all our needs. There are plenty of plastics for archery purposes. Priorities have not interfered with the full play of our sport. If the time comes when bow and arrow materials are needed for defense, we will gladly give them up, but that time is not here. But where the shortage of rubber does affect archery is in the travel back and forth to our tournaments. In the demands made upon all people to save rubber, we must play our part. State archery associations should plan their next year’s tourna ments so that they wil be at central points where archers can reach them with the least wear on their automo(Continued on page 14)

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January, 1942

Editorial Had a short visit with our old friend, Grover Gouthier, not long ago. Grover is getting out Port Or ford cedar for an eastern manufac turer. We can be sure that those who get some of Grover’s Port Orford cedar will have good wood.

New Jersey Tournament

By Dave Cartwright For the third year since the organi zation of the New Jersey State Field Archers, the fall field shoot was held at the Hait Farm, in Hanover, New Jersey. The Morris Archers, who sponsored the shoot, laid out a fine We have never had so much good 28-target course in one of Mr. Hait’s material for publication on hand, and fields, using regular target bosses are hoping for the time when mone for backing the targets. tary receipts will justify an increased The day was bright and clear in number of pages. We hope the mate spite of the ominous signs the evening rial will keep coming, for later on before. About sixty-five archers at other activities may cut down the tended and the shooting proceeded time that can be devoted to writing. according to schedule. Following are We will get the matter out to our the scores: readers as fast as we can. Closed Championship MEN— Hits Score Longbow Archery Club 377 113 William Jackson ........ By C. B. “Chuck” Young 344 E. J. McCarthy ............ 99 The new officers of the Longbow 312 77 Archery Club, Newark, Ohio, took William Sidden ............ WOMEN — their chairs at the January meeting 400 91 Ann Weber ................... held on January 7. 212 Mrs. Dorothy Jackson 70 They were: president, Leo Schaller, 116 29 who succeeded himself; secretary Isabel Tidey ................. Open Championship treasurer, Margaret Schneider, who, MEN— while an older member of the club, 370 Edward Weismiller .......... 104 is holding her first office. Much is 338 Carl “Dutch” Weese .......... 93 expected of Miss Schneider, as she 305 Lew Lord .............................. 79 is a live wire. Kenneth Bending was WOMEN — elected to the vice-presidency. Mrs. Helen Van Der Refreshments were served after the 202 Kogel .................................. 87 business meeting. The social com 172 mittee misjudged the number that Dorothy Duggan ................ 42 164 48 Mrs. Helen Hait ........ . ....... would be present, and the ones who Group awards were given were there left with rather a stuffed to the following: feeling. All eating honors were taken 290 79 by Larry Staton, who claimed that Larry Morrison ............... 290 76 Marty Steenstra ............... his wife hadn’t fed him that day. 312 77 Wm. Sidden ......................... At the December meeting of the 233 Tom Coultas ...................... 65 club, the secretary was asked to make 236 61 application to the NA A for club af Don Albertell ...................... 154 42 Mrs. Jean Richards ........... filiation. This is something that has 83 25 Mrs. Joan Podlas ............... long been looked forward to by some 62 224 T. C. Davidson ................. of the members. 58 215 H. Strahman ...................... The club completed a very success 38 135 ful year, although activities weren’t Roland Abell Jr................... 137 37 so great as in other years, due to Dr. E. Mandell ................. 111 32 W. Labine .......................... the lack of time of many members. 196 49 Otto Gooss .......................... The club is looking forward to the (Continued on page 15) National, which will be held close

We acknowledge our annual letter from Miss Stella Ives. We are al ways pleased to hear from her—way beyond the dollar’s worth.

to our home, at Columbus, Ohio, this next year; if, and providing, that UNCLE SAM doesn’t call the arch ers to the service of their country.

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NFAA Bulletin OFFICERS

President—A. J. Michelson 610 F. P. Flint Bldg., Flint. Mich. Vice-President—Paris B. Stockdale, Univ, of Tenn., Knoxville, Tenn.

Secretary-Treasurer—John L. Yount, Box 383, Redlands. California. EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE

Western—H. C. MacQuarrie. 3400 Fruitvale Ave., Oakland, Calif.

Mid-Western—Fred Bear, 2611 W. Philadelphia, Detroit, Mich. Eastern—T. C. Davidson, 53 Mountain [ountain Ave., Springfield, N. J. —

By John L. Yount Yes, we have a war to win, and it is apt to be a dilly. We didn’t start it, but there is one thing certain, we are going to finish it. We in the West have seen enough already — black outs, enemy subs, etc. — to know that we are all in this war, and that we must all do our share if we are to win. To do this we must keep fit, and we CAN’T keep fit on a straight di et of work and worry, so keep the old bow handy. Remember that the harder you work the harder you should play if you are to remain an asset to your country. If you have a second bow, loan it and help keep another man fit.. The following have had their Art Young Award applications passed by the big game committee and will have their pins by the time they read this: R. John Mitchele, 69 Greville St., Toronto, Canada, who shot a fine 200-lb. buck; Lester L. Lawn, St. Helen, Michigan, who gathered in a smaller but very nice buck; Jerry W. Hill, Route 1, Boise, Idaho, whose game was a fine buck; Forrest Nagler, 212 King St., Toronto, Canada, who brought in the biggest game, a

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moose weighing over 1000 pounds; L. G. Vergara, 1203 S. 4th St., Al buquerque, New Mexico, with a bear; and Joe Cosner, now of Bellevue, Washington, but formerly of Phoe nix, Arizona, who last spring shot a javalina in the latter state. Applications have been received from the following and forwarded to the committee: Fred Bear, Michigan; Don G. Fawcett, Colorado; Tom Imler, Arizona; and Carl Oelschlager, Ohio.

Archery Club Ready The “Archers Anti-Parachute In vasion Squad” of St. Louis is ready to take its part in national defense in the event the United States is ever invaded from the air. The St. Louis Archery Club an nounced plans to practice for future services—in event of invasion—by puncturing dummies to be dropped by parachute over their target range. “This may seem somewhat foolish,” said Jim L. Gianladis, publicity chair man, “but it is exceedingly practi cal. The bow and arrow in the hands of an experienced archer is much more effective than a rifle in the hands of the ordinary citizen.” He said also that the silence and the killing power of the arrows also favored the archers. He said the or ganization was the first of its type in the United States, although there is an archers’ anti-parachutists home guard in London. — U.P. News Note

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9th NFA A Tournament Report By Karl E. Palmatier, Mail Tournament Secretary Actual Actual Actual 56 Han28 28 Target Target Target dicap Score Score Score CLASS “A"—MEN Score S. Leo Sipe, Los Angeles, Calif. 67-249 64-254 131-503 633 Delmer Pletcher, Bakersfield, Calif. 86-364 89-359 175-723 623 Kenneth Jones, Bakersfield, Calif. 69-275 79-307 148-582 602 Ken Moore, Los Angeles, Calif. 67-255 64-239 131-494 584 William Otto, Los Angeles, Calif. 60-234 60-220 120-454 584 Charles Ratcliff, Highland Pk, Mich. 99-367 567 51-189 48- 178 Bennett Gandy, Los Angeles, Calif. 50-186 51-189 101-375 555 Emery Watts, Los Angeles, Calif: 77-277 70-254 147-531 551 Robert King, Los Angeles, Calif. 58-220 59- 213 117- 433 513 Roy Hoff, Los Angeles, Calif. 55-197 54-212 109-409 509 Perzy High, Los Angeles, Calif. 60-216 60- 228 120-444 474 Franklin Jones, Everett, Wash. 35-125 40-138 75-263 473 Kore Duryee, Seattle, Wash. 50-176 44-156 94-332 472 Alfonso Gonzales, Bakersfield, Calif. 69-271 49- 187 118- 458 458 Earl Grubbs, Los Angeles, Calif. 73-261 431 50-180 23-81 Phil Conrad, Long Beach, Calif. 74-272 64-254 138-526 406 CLASS “B"—MEN Tiny Munson, Los Angeles, Calif. 54-200 51-199 105-399 Fred Brockhoff, Seattle, Wash. 37-141 44-148 81-289 A. T. Wallis, Seattle, Wash. 65-245 27- 99 38-146 Karl Palmatier, Kalamazoo, Mich. 28- 94 34-122 62-216 Jimmy Ratcliff, Detroit, Mich. 27-95 30-108 57-203 Con Caldwell, Seattle, Wash. 24-76 23-81 47-157 CLASS "C”—MEN Miland Elott, Seattle, Wash. 27-103 38-132 65-235 W. B. Blackmore, Marysville, Wash. 30-104 27-97 57-201 W. Hormon, Langley, Wash. 17-55 CLASS "A"—LADIES Frieda Hoff, Los Angeles, Calif. 45-183 39-143 84-326 426 Minerva Gandy, Los Angeles, Calif. 30-106 43-151 73-257 307 Kay Ratcliff, Highland Park, Mich. 24-86 52-184 294 28-98 Tiny Munson would have shot in Class “A” had there been another tournament. Miland Elott and W. B. Blackmore would have shot in Class “B.” States and archers that participated: California ............................................. 71 Pennsylvania 25 Washington ........................................... 45 Ohio .............. 5 Michigan ............................................... 37 Oregon .......... 1

Month

Tournament Number

April MaJune July Aug. Sept. Oct. Nov. Dec.

1- 68 2-75 3- 92 4- 67 5- 73 6- 58 7- 36 8- 54 9- 28

Archers:

551

Women

Men “A”

27 24 28 27 31 32 26 28 16

“B" 12 17 18 18 18 12 5 6 6

“C”

11 17 27 3 8 2 9 3

“A" 10 7 10 11 13 11 5 7 3

“B”

“C”

7 7 6 6 2 1

1 3 3

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The foregoing table shows that the earlier tournaments are the best at tended. Should we start in March and drop December? In 1940 there were five mail tourna ments. In 1941 there were nine. What would you suggest for 1942? In my last report I asked for sug gestions that would help to make 1942 a better year for field archery. Not a single letter has been received to date. Your idea may be worth more than you think it is. Pass it along to us, anyway. The final report will be ready for the February issue of this magazine. No report will be sent to each archer participating, because each of them is undoubtedly a member of the NFAA, and thus gets the official magazine. Have you found any objection to the 25-cent target fee? May I express my personal thanks to the secretaries for the fine job they have done with the scores. It has helped much.

COME IN—WATER’S FINE (Continued from page 3) lots of game, instead of trudging through the places where there were lots of hunters, I’ve been in some very unusual territory. Out at the HF Bar Ranch in Wyoming, an arch er can be almost certain of getting a shot, or at least having an exciting adventure every day he’s there. On Rock Island, while I didn’t get a shot, due entirely to my own fault, the others had shots and excitement a’plenty. I’m not much of a shot with a bow and arrow. I do fairly well, and that’s stating it rather optimistically; but I’ve hunted with some archers whom I consider a great deal better than average. I’ve shot quite a few times at bucks myself and have seen these other archers shoot a good many arrows. I haven’t yet seen any of those arrows bring down a deer. Horace Stimson, who had never shot at a deer before, went to Rock Island, and had the adventure de luxe of the entire trip. He is, incidentally, by natural aptitude and inclination, a marvelous stalker. It took him half an hour to get from a distance of a hundred yards to within about fifty yards of this big buck. He

launched one of those swift-flying shafts which leave the bow with smooth silence and hiss through the air on their deadly mission. The ar row hit the deer in the one place where apparently a big buck is ab solutely invulnerable—right on the thick part of the shoulder blade. The point, which had been sharpened ac cording to Klopsteg-Buchen specifi cations—which are at least equal to the Cathey specifications—than which there is no sharper sharpened broad head anywhere in the world, curled back on itself just as though it had hit a rock. It stayed in the deer’s shoulder for a couple of jumps, and then dropped out, a blood-stained relic of an adventure which brought no permanent harm to the deer, and left Dr. Stimson describing his symp toms with the attitude of a true sci entist. “During the half-hour stalk,” says Horace Stimson whenever he can get anyone to listen to him, and he didn’t have any trouble finding an eager audience until we knew it all by heart, “I was seized with an excite ment I had never felt during my gun-hunting days. I took occasion to estimate the rapidity of my pulse, which had jumped up to around a hundred and twenty. I think that my blood pressure was ’way up in high C. There was a dryness in my mouth, a peculiar feeling around my knees. Mentally, I was cool and de tached. I felt as though I were about to enter upon the performance of a difficult and dangerous opera tion, fully realizing the importance of what I was doing, but with my mind and coordination completely un der control.” I don’t know that anything has ever given me quite the same view point on bow and arrow hunting as the way Horace Stimson described it. After all, what the heck do we hunt for? If we’re hunting for the meat, the thing to do is to get the most deadly weapon we can secure, preferably a machine gun or perhaps an airplane and gas bombs. But if we’re hunting for excitement, for the sheer thrill of the chase, we get it with bow and arrow; and, as far as I’m concerned, I can get my share without a deer—sometimes without even getting a shot. I can still remember back in the

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thirties somewhere when George Cath ey took a shot at a running buck at about a hundred and twenty-five yards, and clattered an arrow off his horns—in fact, I can remember darn near every shot and every stalk I’ve ever made on deer. In many of the places I’ve hunted, it’s no particular trick to get within a hundred and twenty-five yards of a good deer, but to shorten that distance to fifty or seventy-five yards is a real problem. It takes about thirty minutes of care ful stalking, and during every second of those thirty minutes you’re getting more thrills than out of any other sport I know. I value, companionships pretty high ly. Even if I’d never been within seeing distance of a deer, the com panionships and friendships of the bow would still more than compen sate me for a lot of meatless trips. However, and I doff my hat to Walther Buchen, I’ve become a con vert on one thing—the utter useless ness of a meatless camp, If I’m staying at a dude ranch where there’s a good table and plenty to eat, I take my bow and that’s all. But I’ve. become an absolute realist on one thing—the next time I go into the hills on a pack trip, hunting deer where the limit is two bucks per hunter, I’m going to take along a rifle as well as the bow. I get a lot of pleasure out of bow and arrow hunting, but this business of sitting down to meals of breadand-beans, bread-and-bacon, then af ter the bread is used up, bacon-andbeans, then after the beans are gone, just bacon, and then after the bacon is gone, just odds and ends of what ever happens to be left—and all the time climbing around over mountain trails and pretending that your stom ach is happy, is just damned hypoc risy, so far as I’m concerned. — If someone in the crowd has a rifle and can bring in the camp meat, that’s fine. I have no particular yen to kill a deer, but I’m a meat eater, and when you come in cold, tired, and wet from a long hike over the hills, there’s nothing which quite takes the place of sinking your teeth into a piece of hot venison and feeling the life-giving energy spreading out through your blood stream. I suppose that when a man comes to take a trial balance of life, he’ll

January, 1942

find that the income tax took most of his money, that the responsibilities, cares, and worries of civilization took most of his nerve energy, resulting in sclerosis and general debility. But on the profit side of the ledger, he’ll have his adventures with the bow and arrow, the friendships he’s formed, and the hours he’s spent in various strange hunting grounds, swapping ideas with friends who are as com forting to his soul as a fine pair of boots that have been thoroughly bro ken in are to his feet. I know darn well that my loose thinking and loud talking irritates Buchen and Klopsteg; but every time they try to get me in a corner, I squeeze out of it by looser thinking and louder talking; and now I think they’re even beginning to derive some amusement from it. I was raised on the principle of never giving a sucker a break, and I see no reason for play ing fair with these birds in an ar gument. So I’m chalking up another mar velous trip on the credit side of life’s ledger. — There were adventures ga lore. Horace Stimson, after a halfhour’s stalk, hit this big buck in the shoulder. Walther Buchen missed a couple of shots by misjudging range in the forest. Paul Klopsteg made a beautiful stalk and got a shot at about fifty yards. I saw that arrow go whizzing over the deer’s shoulder so close that it looked as though it were giving him a haircut and a shave all at the same time. I personally made the most dumb play I have ever made in the woods. Having hunted deer for some fifteen years, passing up a lot of fairly good shots because I wanted to kill my deer clean with a well-placed arrow, I was caught napping when I had the shot I had been waiting for—a shot at an eight-point buck at about fifteen feet. — I was moving care fully and silently through a thick forest of second growth evergreens. I came to a place where the trees were so thick my arrow was knocking against the trees, so I slipped it off the string. Up until that morning, I’d been shooting with a string which only had one knot as a suport for the ar row; and Cathey and Tyrrell had shown me their method of nocking the arrow, purely by instinctive feel. This

January, 1942

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

morning I’d switched to a different bow which had a string made by a tackle manufacturer who prefers two knots close together. The arrow had to be nocked carefully, and by sight rather than feel. Suddenly I saw a shadow flitting through the trees. It was this eight point buck running down a trail di rectly toward me. I froze and tried to nock the arrow by a sense of feel. I realized I couldn’t do it. I lowered my eyes to facilitate getting the ar row on the string. The trail the deer was following passed through a little opening in the trees about fif teen feet from me. I managed to get the arrow on the string without any fumbling. I raised the bow, drew back the arrow— and saw that the deer had passed the opening and was trotting through the trees about twenty-five feet from me. I might have got a shot without the arrow glancing. I doubted it at the time, and I doubt it now. I held my fire and watched the buck trot away. Then I dislocated my right foot try ing to kick myself as hard as I felt the circumstances justified. When I got back to where Paul was, I simply couldn’t get him to compre hend it until I wrote it down for him, which I did in this manner: “Look,” I said, “Let S = the speed of the deer, II = the hunter, U can represent the dense undergrowth, C = the coordination between eye and hand; K = the kill I hoped for, and Si = the stalking I was doing. “Then on the other end of the equa tion, M = mad—so damn mad I can’t talk, and E = the experience. That gives us the equation of SHUCKS = ME “Do you get it?” Paul took my pencil and put a small “n” after and above the M. “You’ve got to raise this being mad to the n’th power,” he said. I thought so, too. But to get back to the idea I’m try ing to put across. — The chaps with whom I’ve hunted are better than average shots. They’re better than average hunters. I’ve loosed quite a few arrows at deer myself, and I’ve seen quite a few arrows loosed. I saw Paul Klopsteg make a beautiful hit on a buck at a hundred and fif teen yards. The buck was standing at an angle to him. The arrow hit

the shoulder and glanced. I was on this trip when Horace Stimson turned a stiff-bladed, sharp broadhead into a corkscrew on a deer’s shoulder. Aside from those two instances, I haven’t been on any trips where deer have been hit. Yet, I haven’t read many printed articles where deer have been missed. As far as I’m concerned, I’d just as soon read about a hunting trip where there was the excitement of stalking, the tense anticipation of pulling back a broadhead, letting fly and scoring a clean miss, as where the arrow made that unmistakable “thunk” and the photograph shows the author standing beside the fallen deer. Why don’t we have more of them? Are you guys afraid of being razzed? On the way back from Wisconsin, we ran over to Racine to say hello .. ___ ___ It was the first time to Roy Case. I’d seen him since the great Oregon jamboree in nineteen hundred and _.J.„ ' . Roy, in his inimitable twenty-nine. style, told us about various hunting trips in which he had participated. We sat in chairs. Roy acted out what had happened, at times stalking across the living room carpet, holding an imaginary bow with a rigid arm, at times brushing aside the overhang ing branches of mental trees and drawing back his imaginary arrow. Then he’d make great buck-jumps across his living room carpet, to show how the deer ran fifty yards, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder— but he also spilled the beans to the effect that thousands of archery li censes were sold in Wisconsin, that it seemed as though nearly everyone had a shot, but only a few deer were ac tually hit. Come on out into the open, folks. What’s there to be ashamed of? You went hunting for enjoyment, for ex citement, for companionship. Evi dently, a lot of you must have had it, even though you missed your shots. We’ve organized, in an informal way, a society known as the Associa tion of Buck Missers and Passers. About all you need to do to join is have a shot at a buck, miss it, and concoct a damn good alibi to tell the boys around the campfire or the kitchen stove when you get back to camp. I think a lot of archers who haven’t

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

as yet hunted big game with the bow and arrow, or who have hunted it unsuccessfully, and every one of those who have come back with a story of, *“Well, wen, yuu iu was wua ixivc wins, ” would you acc see it like this, like to hear about those misses. 'The archery magazines are in need of good material. What’s holding you guys back?

RANDOM RAMBLINGS (Continued from page 5) Fred and Jim running around in circles, for all the world like a couple of coon dogs nonplussed at having just lost the scent. They let out a couple of warbles about the time we hove in view and concentrated their attention on an old, rotting cotton wood stump of gross dimensions. We watched them rending great chunks from its massive bulk, nodded our heads sagely and watched some more. When they saw us they both started talking at once. We were practically flooded with a torrent of words, as they poured forth the tale. After ma ture and deliberate cataloguing of this verbiage, Delmer and I finally assembled the story. It seemed that, not having enough common sense to rest at the car, after tooting for us, they had commenced to pot around. Osage Jim had dared Indefatigable Fred to risk an arrow in a shot at a knothole in an old cottonwood log, which lay partly resting on the ground. The knothole was about five inches in diameter—the distance about 35 yards. Fred had countered and Jim had shot first, his arrow glancing off the top of the log. So, nothing daunted, old Indefatigable drew back and let fly with his lethal shaft. Of course, the damn thing went right into the center of the knothole, but, while Fred was taking a bow and receiving Jim’s congratulations, the arrow gave out with a few flirts of its tail feathers and did a Houdini into the dim and unknown recesses of the log. While our heroes stood with mouths agape, to catch what may, this precocious arrow burst into view at the far end of the six foot log, firmly attached to the rear end of a bouncing bunny! It was at this time that the de moniac screeches and yells had rent the air. The element of surprise must be great stuff. At least, it works

January,1942

with and on some people. Well, fig ure it out for yourself. Instead of nocking arrows and finishing the job in a dignified way, what do they do but dash madly after their prey—or what they thought was their prey— vainly endeavoring to clutch the poor thing to their bloodthirsty bosoms. Well, you know the rest. I’m not sure, but I firmly suspect, that dur ing the scramble their bows were clutched—not by the center as God intended—but by the ends................... (The better to club you to death with, my dear). I know of another time when Bill Holmes,------ but that is a different story. Well, and this time also you know the rest. The stump stood firm, as stumps will, and defied their clawings. The little bun ny was safe in his citadel. And now I suppose the little rascal is nursing a sore behind him. Anyway, I hope he is. My sympathies are all with the bunny. Suppose you were all cuddled up asleep somewhere and somebody shot you in the — well, never mind, but I’m still sorry for the bunny.

ARCHERY DURING WAR (Continued from page 7) bile tires. In some states it might be advisable for state associations to decrease the number of tournaments usually held. Archers attending outof-town tournaments can help by doubling up and taking one full car instead of separate cars, and better still, travel by bus, train, or interurbans. There should be more local tournaments and fewer state tourna ments. There is, however, no need to give up archery. Practice and play more at home and on your home course. There is no need to pass up the National Archery Association tournament at Columbus, Ohio, next year. The attendance should be larg er than ever. Travel by train or bus if you can, but if by automobile, be sure you have a full load. What will be the war policy of the National Field Archery Association? We will push archery as never before, because we whose hobby and recrea tion is archery, will need its steady ing influence more than ever. Arch ery must do its war time part to help sustain morale and condition bodies and minds so that we may better do

January, 1942

YE SYLVAN ARCHER

our part during this war crisis. There are no “slackers” in the National Field Archery Association. I am sure that these are the sentiments of the National Archery Association also. The National Field Archery Associa tion will go ahead with its planned 1942 program. With more archery played on home grounds, there should be an increased participation in the monthly mail tournaments. You can get national archery competition without traveling great distances. Above all, we want to avoid war hysteria. The question on everyone’s lips is “What can I do to help?” There is an anxious desire to sacri fice. But sacrifice without purpose is not only unwise but may be detri mental. Putting your bows and ar rows in cold storage for the duration of the war is meaningless sacrifice. Don’t lay them aside—use them more if they do not conflict with your war time duties. The cheapest health in surance you can buy is the time you take off to condition your mind and body. A body and mind kept fit by your recreation makes you more val uable to your country; enables you to put forth with extra energy that increased effort so essential during this emergency. Archery, along with other sports for individuals, has a job to do during these strenuous and nerve wracking times. Never again let it be said that archery is a “slack er” in war time.

NEW JERSEY TOURNAMENT (Continued from page 8) Ann Weber did the finest bit of field shooting that I have ever seen a woman do, her score topping that of our best male shot, Bill Jackson. Every one knows that she is one of the best target shots, but field shoot ing is supposed to be different ! ! I Mr. T. C. Davidson asked me, as a western archer (Seattle), to compare the types of field shooting. Here are some differences and, perhaps, ex planations. Field shooting in the East is confined to a few weeks in the spring and fall, if one is a, target shot and doesn’t wish to mix the two, whereas in the far West we can shoot all winter and have the chance to develop, perhaps, a truer type of roving or instinctive style. We use heavy hunting bows and[ birch

“blunts” and shoot at cardboard tar gets placed against earth embank ments. Our course is as full of sim ulated hunting shots as the landscape and our imagination offers. The eastern archer is handicapped by the fact that he hasn’t the time to ad just himself to the instinctive style at the end of the target season. Therefore, he finds that he is more proficient if he uses a mark or a sight on his heavy target bow, and shoots target arrows. The layout of the course depends upon the terrain and the preference of the builder. One might think that it is a lot easier with target equipment, but it isn’t, I’ve tried . . .

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