For the better part of this year I’ve struggled with something that is totally out of the ordinary for me: finding words to say. We had a very rough summer at the ranch– no rain, high heat, suffering animals. But from a larger perspective another thing was troubling me, and that was the war. I stopped and started this blog several times over the past few months, and was going to entitle it “One a Day” for the average number of servicemen (and women) who are dying in Afghanistan now. Our president tells us we are “drawing down” there, and we are out of Iraq (this is completely not true), which will come as no comfort for the families of those serving now. The media has all but forgotten the war, now that it is no longer politically expedient to focus on it with daily body counts. This and much more had caused me to question our mission across the pond, and frustrated my militaristic sensibilities even more.
Then a few weeks ago, I had a late night conversation with Mike Wittrock about a very tense discussion he had with an Egyptian-born American while sitting in first class on a flight home to Denver. His words to him– the concepts, were simple. Ever since the beginning of this country, we’ve taken the fight to whomever threatens our way of life. Usually this has occurred in faraway lands– Tripoli, Mexico City, Kosovo, Okinawa, the list is long and diverse. But whether we were fighting with muskets or with cruise missiles, we’ve bloodied the noses of every group of people that have put our citizens, and moreover– our interests, in danger. It’s what any father would do to protect his children and family from harm. The ugly part is, blood will be spilled. Men and women who join the military should have no question about their role in this sordid play and the blunt reality that they could die in the process of preserving and protecting the U.S. and it’s interests. We can argue about the process, the motivations, and the politics all day long but this is the reality of being American. We’ve stayed free, and hopefully will continue to stay that way, because of this principle. When the talking and arguing is done, and an impasse is reached, there is nothing left to do but to destroy your enemy and all that stands in our way. It’s just that simple…like it or not. 
We had our first hunt of the season this past weekend, and it was a good one. I had never even heard of MARSOC until late last year, and I really don’t have time or the space to describe who and what they are.  In short, they are special operations marines…they serve side-by-side with Navy SEALS, Delta Force, and Army Green Berets. They essentially fall under the same chain of command, and do the same sort of missions. Google that shit and you’ll see. Simply put: they are very hard men, doing very ugly things to very bad people in places that we probably aren’t supposed to be in. I was in complete awe of these men. We heard some of the most incredible stories and, out of respect for operational security and the fact that a few of them are still operating in the world of black ops, I will only refer to them by their first names here.
What I found most inspiring was that most of them were my age or even a wee bit older. They were senior enlisted marines. And most of them were broken in some way, shape or fashion, stemming from one particular incident where their column of humvees was hit by a massive IED. The center vehicle was blown some 140 feet upwards and over, coming to rest on top of one of their own. “Brandon” was pinned at his waist with a 3-ton vehicle laying across the bottom half of his body. Another had been blown through the air across a wall and into an enemy compound. They were an 11-minute flight away from their base but didn’t receive help or reinforcements for 2+ hours. The men were able to lift the hummer off of Brandon and began the fight to save his life. “Jake” was able to see all the way up into his chest cavity to his lungs….from what was left of his pelvis. “Brad” nearly bled to death from his wounds. All this, while under fire. In the middle of the night. And here they all were, back together again and at the Bowman Lodge.
It was also a time of reunion for all of our guides and staff.  We had a few new faces as well– Antonio, the former Green Beret, was on hand to assist us, as was another GB John Bruce. We also brought in former BL guest Jamie Lantgen as an additional guide. The temps were warm…too warm, and windy. The deer weren’t moving much but sometime saturday afternoon, Brandon and his guide, Justin Hill, caught a lucky break. A shot from Brandon’s .243 hit a massive 15-point buck that turned out to be a young but large 2-year old. They had to track his blood trail but eventually found him laying in the brush. Unfortunately it would be the only deer harvested this weekend…but not the only casualty. Later that evening around 6, a fierce lightning storm lit up the ranch from a rapidly moving squall line and cold front. The next morning we found 3 dead bison where the herd had been standing during the storm. It was Blackie (a nice 3-year old bull), a cow and one calf. The calf still had grass in her mouth. At least we were able to cape out Blackie and save him for a great shoulder mount to be placed with honor over the bar’s fireplace mantle. Blackie, we hardly knew ye…..but we’ll have a story to tell about you from this point forward.
Later that night a tense debate raged between me and my guys over our next planned fundraiser. It got ugly, folks. But in the end, Wittrock made a work analogy about how these types of things go– tough, often mean-spirited arguments ensue that end up resulting in large, productive accomplishments. “It’s how the sausage is made”, he said. Nobody wants to see that bloody, ugly process of how decisions, contentious points, and results come about, but the end product is delicious. 
After much rumination and thought, I harkened back to our discussion a few weeks back about America and our place in the world. It’s really the same thing. There are many dark, nasty things that go on behind the scenes, in dark alleys in faraway lands…bloodletting, things that some might call “torture”, killing of human beings. it’s sausage making– literally and figuratively. We don’t have to like it and most of us don’t want to know the process. But this extremely fragile concept we call freedom would not exist without it. Of this I am firmly certain. 
These men left their mark on us, on the Bowman Lodge. I’ve never met anybody quite like them. They are the real deal, y’all. Think “Jason Bourne” with beards. They were quietly confident yet somehow humble. They felt secure and comfortable enough to let their hair down and totally unwind with us. I was told on the way to the airport on monday that they truly had a great time, and felt a bit of healing along the way. They needed this trip, and we were able to provide in spades, if not in white tails. The very fact that we could offer such an experience to a young, injured PFC or Lance Coolie in his early twenties and then hear the same accolades from a seasoned, well-honed Master Sgt. who is older than I am made me feel immense pride in what we do. The best compliment, however, came when I was told that by what we are doing at the Lodge, I was still in the fight. This had a profound effect on me personally, for I finally realized that this is what I’ve been trying to do ever since I left the service in the first place. I sure haven’t seen it that way before. Now I think I’ll adopt the MARSOC creed and strive to be better every day. I haven’t been doing that lately.
We met men who help make the sausage, and I am extremely proud to call them my friends. The quiet professionals behind the scenes, doing our nation’s dirty work with no credit or appreciation from the outside whatsoever. They seem to like it that way.
There is that old adage credited to George Orwell about people sleeping peacefully at night because of rough men standing ready to do ugly deeds on their behalf. Well, I can honestly say that I will sleep better knowing that these men are out there on the fringe, getting it done and making things happen. I still hate the fact that we are losing so many troops, seemingly for nothing. But that’s how sausage is made.

It had just been one of those weeks. I was supposed to be on my way to Harlingen, TX., to see guide and Bowman Lodge staff member Mike Wittrock’s son Cole graduate from the marine Military Academy’s Plebe school. I got turned away and escorted out of the airport by TSA because I had left my pocketknife in some jeans in my overnight bag. After stashing it in my truck and round two of security’s stupid human tricks, I learned that my flight had been seriously delayed, causing me to miss the last flight to Harlingen. I would miss Cole’s graduation.
This frustration led me to think of another, more troubling situation that brought the close of the second deer season at the Lodge. At least I had my legs.  At least I didn’t have a piece of my skull missing from a sniper’s bullet wound that left me without the use of my arm. Sometimes…many times, it’s so hard to remember our blessings.
Alas, this bit of frustration involved Corporal Nick Perales and his deer hunt at the lodge. It was going so perfectly. The weather….the setting, the deer itself– likely the largest one taken at the Bowman Lodge to date, scoring somewhere in the mid 180′s. But as we know, true perfection is fleeting, and seldom permanent.
Nick was a Scout/Sniper who lost his leg while on a mission to hunt insurgents. He stepped on a pressure plate that took his leg just below the knee and destroyed his other ankle. Nick was hunting with Greg Horneber out of the blind in the southwest corner that we call “Hathcock”, ironically named for the famed Marine Sniper, Gunny Carlos Hathcock, due to some of the long shots it affords. They had spotted this massive buck some 200 yards out from their blind, bedded down in a small draw just beyond the steel feeder. They could only see it from it’s neck up, providing no shot. They radioed that they were watching a deer but we saw nothing from the lodge windows overlooking the meadow.  
After some time, I got more curious and decided to glass from the main room to see what was going on down there. After scanning the pasture, at last, I spotted the shiny white antlers glistening in the sun!  We watched the beast for what seemed like eternity as it lay there, still and serene.  As lunch time came and went, we decided to see if we could prod this buck to move a bit.  Guide Kevin Bishop put a stalk on him from the south fence, snaking through the same draw until he got within 30 yards or so.  The deer finally jumped while Kevin approached, trying to stay out of the line of fire.  As we watched with sandwiches in hand along the back wall of the lodge, the huge buck ran towards us instead of Nick, dropping farther into a defilade and eventually into the southernmost pasture.  Sgt. Mark Jaurez decided he could probably make the shot from right there near the grill.  He set up his rifle as we spotted for him.  Perales would have none of this and got  Greg to push him out of his blind, across the expanse of grass and stone in his knobby-tired wheelchair.  Jaurez would have a 400 yard shot, and he took it, missing.  Nick closed the distance and reached a small knoll from where they could see the buck.  He jumped out of his wheelchair and into a good, prone position with his custom .308 FN sniper rifle and fired a shot.  The deer buckled and swayed, staggering a bit.  However, he decided to make a run for the south fence.

What happened next was a desperate, ill-fated attempt to end the tracks of a wounded deer at the Lone Tree Ranch.  It was bound to happen eventually, I suppose.  It’s any hunter’s worst fear and an outfitter/guide’s worst nightmare come true.  That deer evaded all our attempts to track and find him, despite leaving evidence of being shot, and last being seen entering the woods just NE of the shop.  Greg and Kevin spent all afternoon and most of the next day searching.  I spent all of the following tuesday scouring the east woods and part of the northern section of the ranch, finding no sign.  The simple fact is that he is wounded; he will either survive or he will die.  If he dies, he will undoubtedly succumb to the buzzards and coyotes, and unless we can find his skull, his rack will become rodent food eventually.  We must find him, and right quick.  The search continues.

Meanwhile, Gunny Wittrock was having luck in the Three Fingers area of the ranch with Cpl. Neal Claar at the tower blind.  Claar, a Nebraska native, was leading a patrol near Sangin, Afghanistan when a teenaged boy on a motorcycle approached his squad wearing a suicide vest.  After ordering him to stop, Claar turned to shoot the boy and he detonated, injuring Claar in several places.  The pressure from the explosion destroyed one of his eyes and shrapnel left him scarred.  This day would prove fruitful as Wittrock spotted a nice 8-point just outside the tree line, about 190 yards away.  With an accurate quartering shot, Neal put the buck down with one shot. 

The rest of the hunt, and what was to be the last hunt of our 2011 deer season, went off without a hitch.  Airman Colyer regaled us once again with his glorious BBQ smoked ribs.  They literally fell off the bone, every one of them.  Linda Klark made us a pot of delicious homemade chili and peanut butter cookies.  There was a poker game.  I read one of Cole’s letters at the Warrior’s Walk and we toasted his endeavor at the MMA.  Fellow Marine Byron Cordell and Scott Kerr paid us a visit.  Byron brought another former Marine along for the ride, whom we shall just refer to as “Wild Bill”, and wild he was.  Allen Klark had to step inside for a breather from the fire pit, stating that his jaw hurt from laughing so hard at Billy’s deadpan, drunken off-color jokes.

By most accounts the hunt was outstanding, like all those before it.  However, I think I can speak for all the guides and staff and say that the loss of Nick’s buck is not only heartbreaking but bitterly disappointing.  We will diligently continue the search for his remains, though it is entirely possible that he will continue to live another day and show back up next season.  We will be inviting Nick back for the Bowman Lodge Shootout, as he seemed to really enjoy shooting skeet out back.  This hunt was a bittersweet end to a great season.  We made more friends this year, and we wish them all well along their road to recovery.  The quiet disappointment leads me to underscore the plight of the wounded warrior.  Their journey is fraught with many setbacks, delays, and long stretches of boredom, pain, and silent suffering.  Perales hit that damn deer…hit him well.  We all know it.  Snipers rarely miss.  But sometimes, their shots don’t score a fatal hit.  Likewise, the teams of doctors, psychologists, physical therapists, and panels of medical review boards don’t always fix the problems in a timely, well-deserved fashion.  These poor vets are stuck in a revolving door of appointments, meetings, and endless red tape just to find an often fruitless retirement. 

Yeah, a bad analogy I know.  We strive so hard to make things perfect for their stay at the lodge.  But life just isn’t perfect, not even in wooded paradise.  Even the best Marines and the most skilled soldiers get shot, blown up, and mortally wounded.  Sometimes, the biggest deer get up and walk away.  It sucks.  But we get up, dust ourselves off, and press ahead.  We move forward…because we have to.  Just like that deer.  Most of our guests don’t seem the least bit ready to throw in the towel, let alone leave the service.  They are in their predicament in the first place because they are true go-getters, motivated warriors at the tip of America’s spear.  Despite the rancid political environment of today and divided nature of our country, as long as we have dedicated men and women volunteering to put themselves in harm’s way for nothing but the honor of doing so, we will persevere as a nation.  Just as they do.

Adios, Season two.  We look forward to the 2nd Annual Bowman Lodge Shootout on March 31st, and on to turkey season.  New friends, and more hearts to heal……

21 years ago I was in a real sad state of affairs. It was one of the lowest points of my life, and sometimes continues to plague my memories during the holidays. I was at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, just mere days from deploying on what would be one of the biggest adventures of my life. It was Christmas eve in the Marine Corps, and not a happy time.
Most of my friends, actually all of my friends were out in town, staying in motels with their families that had come to visit. Some of my buddies had even broken rank and illegally chartered a plane and flown back home for one last visit. In short– I was alone. The heater in the barracks didn’t work very well so it was cold in my room. I remember sitting on my cot, listening to mix tapes on my Walkman. My roommates and even the guys next door were nowhere to be found. Britani was back at home, and had slipped on some ice at a Christmas party and suffered a concussion…she was asleep in bed. Besides, back then (long before emails, cell phones, and texting) you had to make a jaunt down to the Phone Banks and wait in line just to call home.
Up until that time, my memories had always consisted of meeting up with family at my grandparents on Christmas eve for food, fellowship and presents. Now, I was completely alone. I recall actually stepping outside my barracks every so often, just to see if anyone was stirring….yes, even an mouse. No one.
The next day was even worse. The place was deserted. I knew somebody had to be at the chow hall, so I made the shivering trek down there and stood outside in line, waiting to get inside to the lukewarm heat.  Alas, I recognized not one marine. How could an entire battery of jarheads just up and disappear like that? Strangely, most of the marines eating there that day were officers, and most of them had family with them. I sat and ate alone. It was such a terrible feeling, and one I’ll not soon forget. I trudged back to the barracks that Christmas day and sunk deep into my sleeping bag on that stiff cot, freezing from the chill and depression that had set in. A week later on New Years Day I was on a 747, en route to the Persian Gulf. 

Last night the line at Dick’s Sporting Goods was a mile long. Literally.  The customers in that line were mad (myself included) because they only had 3 checkers working, while other employees sauntered along the aisles, doing nothing. The checkers were grumpy from their 12-hour shifts on their feet, and the manager said they didn’t need to open any other registers that night. Later, while at Starbucks (yes, I was at Starbucks. Doubleshot is closed at 2100 hrs; what’s a coffee snob to do??) they had run out of Peppermint Latte’s, and had no salt for the salted carmel hot chocolate. Geez, did they even have coffee? I settled for a plain hot chocolate.  Traffic sucked.  And so it goes in Tulsa and around the country during the holidays. People get in a hurry, stand in long lines, and some decide it would be fun to punch other humans over a pair of stupid shoes or a fuzzy puppet. A general aire of rudeness settles over the land. People are out of work, having trouble making ends meet and they’ve been playing Christmas tunes on the radio since Halloween. Ugh!  So much to be depressed about this time of year.
Today, I have so much to be thankful for. I am so very blessed in my life. I have a loving wife, two wonderful girls, and a great family. The lord has bestowed me with many, many blessings, including my health and a great fulfilled dream of a ‘business’ that is the Bowman Lodge. I am allowed to do his work in a dream setting within his great creation of the beautiful outdoors. Despite my general curmudgeoness most days, I’ve had time to reflect on what this season really should be about. Yes, it’s definitely about Christ’s birth. But I’ll never forget those cold, lonely days back at Camp LeJeune and the worst Christmas of my life.

There are thousands of men and women deployed in forward areas of the world today.  Most of them are in very inhospitable places, and some of them include bombs, bullets, and IED’s intent on shredding their flesh and bones.  Thankfully in today’s day of technology and the information age, these servicemen and women can communicate with their loved ones back home to some degree, unlike the troops from the old days.  But even that doesn’t take the sting away that burns inside.  Every vet knows what I’m talking about.  Yes, it sucks to be away from family during the Christmas holidays, but somehow it’s even worse and compounded when you are deployed.  Your friends and buddies must do the things they can to calm the pain inside, even going their separate ways for awhile.  Cling to each other, dear brothers.

Moreover, there is a special group of veterans– it’s our wounded warriors who are struggling with the pain and suffering of physical injuries suffered on the battlefield.  Our mission at the Bowman Lodge has literally taken on a life of it’s own, and merely underscores the need these great Americans are in.  What most folks don’t realize is that they are not usually permitted to go home, even for the holidays, until their medical review boards are complete.  Sometimes that takes months upon months.  These guys have served dutifully and have suffered ungodly injuries, enduring months and even years of surgeries, rehab, and endless doctors appointments.  In some ways, they are in the same boat I was in that gloomy weekend 21 years ago.  How many of them are sitting in a chilled room, wishing they were somewhere else?  How many of them would gladly trade places with me so they could stand in a long line with their wife, suffering the injustices of retail hell?  How many won’t be with their families at all this Christmas time?  How many will have to eat chow hall turkey and gravy with strangers tomorrow?

So, in this time of uncertainty, holiday angst and tepid ambivalence, please be thankful for all that you have, even if it doesn’t seem like much.  You have so much to be thankful for.  You are alive.  Christ was born and has risen!  You aren’t sitting on an OP somewhere in the snows of Afghanistan, or manning a machine gun bunker on the 38th Parallel.  Somebody else is doing it for us.  Some men have traded limbs for the opportunity to serve our nation.  I’m betting most of them would trade places with any of us to be stuck in traffic or sitting in a crowded church pew with bickering relatives.

God bless America, God bless Christmas joy and God bless the American fighting man…….

The December hunt for 2011 is now on the books. The weekend was simply amazing. Everything just clicked. We had 3 out of 4 hunters get nice, nice bucks. Gunny Tony Webb was the odd man out, and that was the only downside. He had been taunted by the seemingly constant presence of our breeder buck, “E-tool”, and saw no other deer but him. The weather positively sucked, but the hunting was awesome.

"E-tool"

I had a good feeling about this one, for some reason. I just knew it would be successful. We had a camera crew from the Sportsman Channel filming a yet-to-be-determined episode. At first it altered the vibe and comfort level of the hunt, but only slightly. That first night, all hands were on deck around the fire pit…everyone! The stories quickly turned south, and the content was positively off-limits, even for cable TV. I became instantly aware that the cussing and the crass commentary and banter would render the entire video being shot at the pit by two separate cameras completely useless or left on the cutting room floor. Indeed….I knew then that no matter what happened, it would turn out to be a great weekend.
We also had a full house; a complete contingency of four hunters, two spouses, and three escorts. We also had two extra guides; Connor– son of Gunny Booth, Linda Klark to help Starla in the kitchen, the camera crew and their producer, Nick Davis, and special guest Cpl. Rory MacEachern, who joined us to lead the Warrior’s Walk with his bagpipes. VP of marketing for the Sportsman Channel, Ben Lines, also paid us a visit. An old friend from high school, Justin Ward, who just retired from the Coast Guard, and his father Tony, stopped by and joined us for dinner on sunday. I love weekends like this one!
The hunting was pretty horrid for the first day….until the long, cold rain finally lifted at dusk in a strange broken cloud formation, dripping with orange humidity. When I went outside to snap some photos, I thought the time was perfect for the deer to emerge from the wet, wasted day to feed. Sometime during that exact moment, Cpl. Rawlings made a 202 yard shot at a sweet-looking 10 point down at the blind we call “Hathcock”. The level of excitement always takes hold when word comes down that we have a deer ‘on the ground’, and life picks up with flurried activity. I rushed down on the quad to get some pictures, and it was nearly dark by the time I got down into the bottom where they were located. Earlier that morning, Rawlings told us, “I need to kill something. I am going to see a deer…and kill it.” His prophecy was fulfilled that night for sure. He is a stoic, stereotypical Marine grunt….but his shell broke for a moment down in that bottom as he assisted with field dressing, clearly pleased.
Starla’s chicken-fried perfection was outstanding as usual that night. We stayed up late by the fire. Fellow Marine Jason Albro had hooked us up with a batch of Cuban Partegas for smoking, and, as if to not be outdone, mutual friend Rogers Shaw stopped by with some guide shirts and a half box of Cuban Montecristos. Oy! We did a ‘flash-humidifier’ trick and they were good-to-go.
Nothing, however, could prepare me for the biggest, broadest and toothiest grin the next night from Sgt. Brian McPherson when he shot his near 170-class buck. His face said it all. Within minutes, Gunny Jasper Heilig shot his buck in the Three Fingers area. An interesting parallel emerged when his deer was brought in, however. Last year, Cpl. Matt Bradford pleased us all with his native, young two-year old scrapper buck, a fighter with broken and worn-down nubs for tines. It was a perfect symbol for the young, broken but never defeated Bradford himself. Heilig’s buck was old…likely 5-years old, also a native. He had four broken tines and his main beam was worn down nearly flat in front. His body was riddled with bruises and wounds. It became evident that he was probably the most dominant buck on the entire ranch, and was fighting off all the new beastly bucks with racks twice his size. You all know I’m a sucker for symbolism, and here it was yet again.  Heilig had never hunted anything before, other than people.  Saturday was his first day to deer hunt.  Now on the second day he had killed a perfect emblem of himself and what it is to fight for your life.
My buffalo turned out perfect at dinner. The ladies (Starla and Linda) insisted I make my Squash Rockafeller, and it was good, too. We ran out of Shiner Bock at one point, but the coffee lasted through till monday, thankfully. I made a feeble attempt to memorize the Warrior’s Walk speech, and I damn near pulled it off without screwing it up. Rory’s bagpiping added a chilling, goosebump-inspiring jaunt down the path, and I hope he joins us again.
Something different occurred on this hunt, however. Something that we hadn’t planned on or could have created on our own. Greg and I sat down with the camera crew and producer Davis on monday morn. Equally we both spent around 2 hours each being interviewed. It was the first time I had ever had to pointedly consider some of the things we do here and are accomplishing with high success, I think.
McPherson had said that shooting a gun for the first time since he was injured had been a good thing, a good feeling again. That made me think about the notion of the potential psychology behind it all. You see, as cretinous as it may sound, Marines are trained to develop an intimate relationship with their weapon. We name it. We sleep with it. It becomes an extension of our mind and body. This is why we are so damned effective with them, period. When a soldier or Marine is wounded and taken from the battlefield, that relationship is either put on hold or severed outright.  One might even say it is an emasculating event deep down.  When that person is reunited with a rifle and is allowed to fire it, I believe it rekindles that lost bond, that connection between flesh and cold steel.  Call me Mr. Metaphysical, but I think it’s true.

Further, it dawned on me upon being forced to answer a question from Nick (thanks, Nick!) that, quite obviously the business of killing is one of the most horrific, serious, and peak events of humanity.  It’s the biggie.  The taking of a life is, for all intents and purposes, evil.  It is bad.  A bad, bad thing.  Sure, our servicemen are doing their job, and must kill to defend themselves and one another.  But that isn’t what I mean….Marines are trained to kill people and destroy things.  Period.  And they are quite good at it.  When one pulls a trigger of a rifle or machine gun, and unleashes a torrent of lead downrange into the enemy, they are acting out the biggest taboo among human kind: taking the life of another.  At the ranch, we hunt animals for trophies but also for food.  For nourishment of ourselves and our families.  Killing for food and hunting in general is as primal as it gets.  We’ve done it for survival since the very beginning.  I firmly believe that the act of reuniting our guests with a rifle and using it for a more positive thing has got to be therapeutic in some way.  We are flipping the evil intent of killing into a good event.  I think it somehow releases them, it gives them a new paradigm to use for good.  They can now repeat this act with positive, tangible results every time they hunt.  They will forever be reminded with the tokens of the hunt– the actual animal’s head on their wall, and their nourishing flesh in their freezer.  Maybe I’m wrong.  But more than once have we seen a catharsis occur once that trigger is pulled again, only with a Whitetail deer in the crosshairs instead of another human being.

I also was forced to consider our entire mission at the Bowman Lodge.  I realized how crucial the immense sacrifice is that it takes to serve this nation.  These concepts are nothing new to us, really.  I’ve never had to sit down and articulate it on the fly for a camera, though.  And the Lodge has truly become a transformative place, and not just for our guests.  We all get a little something each time we have a hunt.  We learn things.  We are illuminated.  Though I hate cliche’s, I use them often because they work.  In short, the Lodge is a magical place.  It has a life of it’s own now.  Things happen there as if they were scripted, meant to be.  We facilitate the trip, but the vortex takes off on it’s own course and all we can do is hang on for the ride.  That force was strong last weekend, and I know I wasn’t alone in feeling it.

I broke down a couple of times during the interview process.  I think it really hit me hard of the serious endeavor this has become for me and all my staff.  It’s changing lives, most of all our own.  I have essentially lived a life of service and sacrifice of one form or another, but I’ve never looked at it like that before.  I love my country.  And I love my job.  It is my new calling.  We take time away from our families and other commitments to serve these wounded warriors.  I’ve said it a million times that it is the least we can do for them.  But the Bowman Lodge has become a force to be reckoned with emotionally for us, I think.  It is a respite for me, for my guides, for our visitors, and for our veterans.  I don’t really know how we made this happen.  I only hope we can continue this mission until there are no more wounded servicemen and women to try and help heal.

I want to personally extend my deepest gratitude to Rory MacEachern for driving down from Ft. Leonardwood, MO., to come pipe for us.  He resolutely refused any form of renumeration from me, so I must figure out how to repay him.  I think he thoroughly enjoyed getting to hang out with other Marines in such a fun setting, though.  I also want to thank Nick Davis for inspiring me to think, to cry a little, and to ruminate on exactly what it is that we are doing here for our wounded and disabled vets.  I know that we will meet again someday.

During this holiday season, please remember that the war is not over.  It will never be over until they all come home.  Only then can the healing begin.  Be thankful for the men and women that put themselves in harm’s way for all of us, for our way of life.  Semper Fi, Mac….

Another hunt under our belt.  Another group of incredible heroes whom I can now call friends.  Another 10-point Whitetail buck down.  More stories to share and remember, more memories made for me and my crew.

But these hunts are so specifically different from one another, it would be extremely misleading to label them as “starting to run together” and looking the same.  They are quite different.  And quite the same.  I learn something every time I meet these men.

We hosted another group of wounded Marines from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.  We had a slightly smaller group this time around.  Some were gunshot wound victims.  Some got blown up, which seems to be the predominant injury suffered by our servicemen in the 21st century.  One Marine, Andrew Cagle, had fused vertebrae from L1 to S1.  In non-medical terms that means that his entire lower back has been fused together so he has limited mobility there and suffers from pain, most of the time.  Cagle was blown up in an Amtrac and his weapon slammed into his nose, breaking it severely.  His dad is an   Oncologist in the Houston area, and he seemed highly intelligent.  Yes….even for a Marine!  I enjoyed having conversations with him into the night.  One of our back-up guides, fellow jarhead Sam Stewart had the pleasure of guiding Cagle on this hunt.

When they returned from the field on saturday, Sam told me that they walked most of the entire day, describing geographically the course they took around the ranch.  He secretly confided that Cagle wore his ass out (sorry, Sam…ain’t a secret no moe!).  Moreover, he stated that Andrew told him that he had already defied what the doctors had told him; he walked over rough terrain all day long, something they had said he would never be able to do.  The next day, he was definitely sore, but he seemed to have a little extra pep in his step afterwards.  His accomplishment appeared to be a huge boost of confidence for him, despite not getting a good shot at a deer.  I consider this a huge success in it’s own right.

It always seems that we have a major character on these hunts.  Not to outshine or overshadow the other hunters…quite the contrary.  Every unit seems to have one or more of these individuals.  For this weekend, it was PFC Aaron Shaffer.  I am almost speechless on how best to describe him.  He hails from West Virginia, and has somewhat a checkered though colorful past, both in and out of the Corps.  The first night, he had picked up my Taylor guitar and started picking ‘Wildwood Flower’ while sitting at the fire pit.  I knew I was in for a treat.  Cold Warrior Daryl Colyer brought his Taylor as well once again, and the three of us sang and played well into the night.  It was exciting and so much fun for me.   We only paused once during the 5.6 magnitude earthquake…we all cheered, high-fived each other while the windows flopped like sheets in the wind.

Early sunday morning, Shaffer and guide Gunny Wittrock had been in the blind all of 8 minutes when a nice 10-point walked into view, affording him an 80 yard shot from his .243.  I’m not even sure he was awake yet.  Gunny had had to “motivate” him out of the rack earlier with threats of violence and severe guilt trips, which worked.  Good thing, too.

Shaffer has that sort of dead-pan, down home country sense of humor, somewhere between Jeff Foxworthy and Jerry Clowers, with perhaps a wee bit of Rodney Carrington thrown in.  I don’t know for certain if he realizes how damn funny he actually is, either.  Late on saturday evening, I came outside in the middle of one of his stories.  Like his pal Sgt. Nathan Harris from last month, the details were so raunchy, so vile and disturbing that it would be highly inappropriate to convey them here, in writing.  All of his stories, though, had the common theme of motorcycles, state police, and being tased. Four times.  One involved a firearm.  All were so incredibly funny, funnier still with his straight-faced delivery. I laughed so hard my neck hurt.

Later on, Shaffer told me of his incident and his injuries.  He spoke of the pain and suffering he feels on a daily basis.  But this alone stuck with me: “I try not to complain.  I know so many guys….so many….that are way more messed up than me.”

It has become obvious that the key to success at the Bowman Lodge is the common bonds of military service me and my guides share with our guests.  The camaraderie is contagious, and I cannot underscore it enough.  I know by now it must sound cliche’, but it is absolutely 100% key to what makes things tick at the lodge.  These men simply cannot or will not open up to strangers without such a bond already built in place.  I never imagined that it would be so crucial to making a successful hunt, regardless of whether anybody actually shoots a deer.  It has caused me more than a moment or two of pontification.

Military service…more specifically, combat, is exciting.  It is the ultimate rush of adrenaline and as primal as life itself.  It is also incredibly terrifying, and the most horrific experience that can be had by human beings.  Far better essays have been written on this subject, and I don’t mean to sugarcoat the matter at all.  It changes people. If it doesn’t add immediate perspective, it will at some point in a veteran’s life.  The one thing that I have found so intimately common among the guests of the Bowman Lodge is that nothing is more valuable, more lasting, and more sublime than the bonds of friendship made under fire.  I often find myself regretting getting out after my contract was up.  It’s funny that I do not remember all the bullshit and stupid games the Marine Corps is well-known for placing upon it’s members from time to time.  I also don’t remember the hectic set of life changes befuddling me during that time in my life.  I just know that I sure do miss it.  Upon further reflection, I realize, as most vets do, that it wasn’t the service, the locales or even the surrealistic memory of being in a combat zone.  It was the men.  The friends.  The bonds made under duress.  This is what all veterans of war seem to crave and miss the most from their service.  Nothing else compares to it.

I had lunch today with an old vet buddy, and we discussed how some guys we served with just moved on without ever looking back.  When he held a reunion last summer, several guys showed up that we hadn’t seen in 20 years.  Some of them were overcome with such emotion and they seemed very surprised at this.  It was if they had walked back in time to the Kuwaiti desert in 1991, and nothing had changed.  They had missed out on that connectedness, those bonds, for the last two decades.  I trust now that the sense of brotherhood….that which was never really lost, will burn bright once again.

Although I know I probably don’t rate it, I’ve often wondered about being buried in a national cemetery when that time comes.  That way, my withered corpse can lie with the old ones, leaching out the camaraderie of wars and battles past, straight from their soil, the dead communing with the dead.  Meanwhile, our souls will toast to the heroes of our memories, and we’ll break bread together while U.S. Marine grunts guard the streets of heaven.  We will toast them, too, and offer them a dram of the angel’s share.  Wishful thinking, perhaps.

I know this will be the case with our guests at the Bowman Lodge.  They speak of the men they led, or those who saved them, dragging them out of the fire, plugging the bullet holes with their fingers.  Friends for life.  Brothers for eternity.  Damn right.

Happy belated 236th birthday to all Marines, past, present, and future.  And today is Veteran’s Day.  But every day is veteran’s day at the Bowman Lodge.  Here’s to all that came before us, and to those who will later come to serve our wondrous union….

Our first deer hunt of the 2011 fall season was a great success! We had three out of five hunters get nice bucks. Not to take anything away from the two who did not, but I feel it safe to say that a good time was had by all present, most especially for me and my guides.
As usual, this hunt was more than just the hunting of whitetails. It was powerfully moving and emotional time. It was good.
This was another all-marine hunt weekend. I was in complete awe to be in the presence of these men. The short time spent with them I will cherish for the rest of my days. My one regret is that I did not have enough time to spend with each one of them like I should….like I want.
Unlike many of our hunters that visit us, most of these were gunshot victims. This presents different issues for them than the usual traumatic brain injury (TBI) suffered from IED blasts. But one thing remains the same and is a common denominator for our returning injured vets, a thing that was glaringly present this hunt– pain. Lots of it. Chronic pain that will likely last their entire life.
Lcpl. Hamilton was in the fight for Marjah, Afghanistan. Perhaps you’ve heard of this place on the news. However, I’m assuming most folks don’t pay much attention to names like this. But for Marines, these worthless pieces of real estate are etched in blood on the annals of Marine Corps history. Names like Tarawa. Belleau Wood. Hue. Fallujah. You don’t know Bob Hamilton and his wife, Liz. But now I do. And Marjah changed his life forever. He was shot by a sniper while on patrol in this stone-age town, hit in the gut. The large caliber bullet blew out the top of his ass, and he unabashedly showed us his scars. He returned fire with his M-249 SAW and laid there in the dust, bleeding profusely. He told me that he reached around and his entire fist went inside his back, and that’s when he knew he was in deep trouble. If he could last an hour, he told himself, he might live. Two of his best friends ran through heavy fire to him and administered first aid, packing him full of gauze and applying pressure on both wounds while sizzling tracers blazed past them. It took the chopper just under an hour to pick him up due to the ensuing firefight, and he made it. A score of complications from surgeries left him with no feeling in his right leg, and he walks with a cane. He’s now 25. 
When Ham got his first whitetail buck on saturday morning, he said, “I know how he feels…getting shot sucks!” His spirit was bright, exuberant, even.
Then there was Sgt. Jamie Lantgen. He got blown up by an IED that crushed and collapsed the entire right side of his face and destroyed his right arm. His body is still riddled with shrapnel. He shot a nice native buck just before dinner on saturday night, after much walking about the ranch with his guide, Kevin Bishop. We talked quite a bit throughout the weekend and shared some tequila shots on the last night.
Randy Curtis brought his dad along for the hunt. Incredibly, Randy got shot by a sniper in the throat with a 7.62×54 Russian Dragunov. It tore out most of his carotid artery and blew out the back of his neck.  Another vet who should not be alive, yet here he was, smokin’ and jokin’ out back.
Gunny Wynn was blown up by an IED and was a bronze star recipient. He joined the Corps back during my days and also served in Desert Storm.  He was acting chaperone for this hunt, and about to retire.
Then there was Nathan Harris. What a character. Ssgt. Harris is the subject of a new documentary movie entitled ‘To Hell and Back Again’ (http://hellandbackagain.com/), that has created a bit of controversy for a variety of reasons. He brought a copy with him and we watched it sunday morning in the living room of the lodge. The film is very well done and paints a pretty accurate picture of what is going on in Afghanistan and the struggles our troops have there. Thankfully, Harris was able to walk us through not only his engagements portrayed in the film but also pointed out several editing ‘liberties’ the film makers had with some of the scenes that were taken out of context. It was amazing and profound to have the stars– he and his wife Ashley, sitting right there with us to talk us through it all. It will be tough to watch for some of you….but I highly recommend it. It will be shown on most PBS markets on Veteran’s Day (November 11th for those who don’t have it stamped on your brain yet).   
Harris is a very funny, gregarious guy who loves to tell stories. Dirty ones. He regaled us with stereotypical tales that seem somehow ridiculous but commonplace for Marines. They are far too raunchy to tell here, but we laughed into the night at the fire pit, laughing to tears as the smoke stung our eyes. Harris was shot in the hip and leg and has to use a special walker to get around. When he killed his deer on sunday, he ceremoniously threw his cane out of the way to have his picture taken with his deer. His guide, Justin Hill, told me that Harris was emotional while he prepared to take the shot. He had to wipe away the tears and was shaking. He pushed through it and dropped him with the first round.
This was an issue that we’ve heard of before but it was the first time we had to deal with it at the Bowman Lodge. Many of these men have not fired a weapon, let alone killed something since their incident occurred. I don’t know whether to call this a special kind of therapy or not…I’m no head shrink. But they sure seemed at peace afterwards…the look on their faces burned in my memory now.
These men all deal with the pain. They struggle. None of them desire to be hooked on pain meds for the rest of their lives, but know it will never go away. Some don’t sleep well. Sometimes the drugs they are on make them loopy or just plain sick. One told me he was seriously struggling before he came to us, and our weekend had lifted his spirits. That was pure music to my ears, but I feel much sorrow that I cannot lift him every day henceforth. This actually saddens me. Who will be there for them in the dark night when their demons come?
Ham told me that he would do it all over again if he could. His life has been forever drastically changed with an uncertain future…how many of us can say this?  He also said that survival is in your mind.  He prayed, and truly believed he would live while bleeding to death in the dirt.  He knows that frame of mind helped save him.
Make no mistake: these men are not bleeding and dying for Afghanistan, or even our freedom. The Afghans will never taste freedom with the Taliban around, but for our servicemen over there today, they are fighting for their mere chance of freedom. They represent it. They stand for the principle of freedom, whether it’s welcome or not. .45 percent of our population is willing to fight and die for a principle. Do you realize how freakin’ amazing that is?  Mostly, though, they fight for each other.  That’s the way it’s always been.
I want to do more. I struggle sometimes with our project at the lodge because I realize how feeble the attempt is to help these men in their battles. I admire their sand and grit, their resolve, their ability to fight through the pain. But I know it isn’t easy for them. I simply feel like there will never be enough deer, enough raucous story telling by the fire, or quiet chats at the bar to stave off their pain. We are doing what we can for them. We owe our brothers that much.  
Sammy the Wonder Dog made his debut this hunt. He was a huge hit, I think. That damn dog will chase tennis balls into the woods until the cows come home.  My good friend, Cold Warrior and former Air Force linguist Daryl Colyer came to help out, too.  He sang and played guitar while I backed him on mandolin one afternoon.  I know he’ll be back for more.  Another friend and former Marine, Denton McDonald, helped us out immensely with acting as a fifth hunting guide.  And, we did not run out of coffee, for once.
I also debuted my new Utili-kilt in Marine Corps desert digicam. Alas, to much fodder. What did I expect? Of course I’d be snickered at. But it felt good when Sgt. Lantgen told me they wore them all the time on OP’s, and said he wished he’d brought his. Maybe he was just making me feel better about it. It seemed appropriate on the Warrior’s Walk, though. I think I’ll keep it.
The vortex was strong, once again. You just have to feel it. It sinks into your bones and fills you up with emotion. It can be exhausting. I want to stay up all night with these men…soak in their tales, feel their pain for them. But I also want to sleep. Nobody ever wants to leave the lodge. It’s so tough on mondays on the road to the airport. I only hope they take a piece of the lodge with them inside their hearts and it somehow carries their memory to a more peaceful place.  Where the pain subsides for a wee moment in time.  Pray for them, please.  Pray for their pain.

The Bowman Lodge had what we would term a successful first year!  All in all, we averaged a 50% success rate for our hunters, which is pretty much exactly what we were striving for.  If every hunter got a kill, then it would possibly diminish the overall hunting experience.  We aren’t a “killing” retreat….we like to keep it real.  And hunting isn’t always easy, or at least it shouldn’t be.  It needs to be challenging, exciting, and unpredictable.  That’s the way we like it, and we think our hunters liked it that way, too.

In June we had a very successful charity sporting clays event entitled the Bowman Lodge Shootout.  It consisted of a 30 bird 5-stand shoot, and an 8 station sporting clays course along our Warrior’s Walk.  We had 85 shooters total, and at least 30 guests who were in attendance to watch, drink, and be merry.  We gave out several nice firearms in drawings and the winning teams walked away with gift cards to Academy Outdoors.  A chuck wagon caterer made for a nice touch and some awesome home cookin’.

We also hosted a team of wounded Marines from the west coast to participate in the shootout.  It gave our donors a chance to meet, hang out with, and shoot next to our very benefactors that visit us at the Bowman Lodge.  They stayed the weekend with us as if it were a hunt.  One of my fondest memories of that entire weekend was watching this wee band of wounded warriors riding my Honda Recon quad runner….together, hanging off of it as if it were a dusty old jeep from the Desert Rats.  At first I was nervous to let these guys on such a craft in that manner but I know they’ve seen much worse.  They made it work, they improvised.  I know it’s so cliche’ with the Marines….but it’s totally true.  5 “devildogs”, one four-wheeler built for two.  I couldn’t help but laugh.  And be proud of the tradition.

More comically, and perhaps appropriately, was the sight of two of these men wearing dirty old cowboy boots with their khaki shorts during the shootout.  I told them, “only Marines….”.  I thought it was a southern style sort of thing, or a bold new fashion statement of ‘I don’t give a shit what you think’….turns out it was because they both forgot to bring their “go-fasters” and had no other shoes to wear.  Figures.  Like the fellow Marines on weekend liberty wearing their combat boots with their shorts!  Either way, it was an awesome spectacle, one that only a serviceman can appreciate.  After the shootout, our guest veterans wanted more, so we moved a couple of skeet machines around to the back of the lodge, and continued an impromptu shootout of our own.  Those guys shot until the sun went down.

We raised over $30,000 for the Talley Bowman Foundation, and expect to have many more shooters and sponsors for a repeat event next year.

Now the peas are carefully laid in the ground, the blinds are in position, and the deer have shed their velvet.  The temperatures are slowly cooling, and the leaves are beginning their transition to fall colors.  This can only mean one thing:  it’s once again time to hunt.  Season two at the Bowman Lodge will commence in a scant two weeks.  We are hosting a group of 8 wounded warriors from WWR (East) at Camp LeJeune, NC.  This time two spouses will be in attendance.  We have a couple of monsters out there, creeping around the ranch.  I feel confident that someone will go home with a sweet beast by the end of this hunt.  I am hopeful.

But it isn’t the hunting that I crave.  Nor the sweet taste of bison tenderloin, or the single malt or even the aroma of fine cigars and cedar fires.  It’s being with my brethren once again.  There is no greater feeling like it.  These weekends are not unlike storied conflicts; every hunt is different.  Every hunt is the same.  The names, faces, and injuries differ.  Their stories are as individual as grains of sand, yet familiar to any vet alive.  Each hunt weaves a tapestry of legends, large and small.  No matter your politics, or the purpose of our wars, we all owe these men our gratitude.  For it is they who preserve the principle of freedom for us all to enjoy.  I certainly hope we do not disappoint.  We may not kill deer on this upcoming hunt, but we will slay boredom and toil….at least for a few days.  Steadfast, my brothers.  It is almost upon us.

In case you haven’t noticed, we have changed web hosts, and the site has been altered slightly.  This is also a new blog format.  Please pass the word and share the link!  Expect another blog entry soon after this upcoming hunt.

Peace out and word to your mom-n-nem, y’all!

Bow-man