THE BOWMAN LODGE BLOG

The Sausage Makers

paul.bowman — Fri, 19 Oct 2012 03:23:08 +0000

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.

Bittersweet

paul.bowman — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 22:33:46 +0000

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……

Christmas in Hell

paul.bowman — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 15:19:40 +0000

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…….

Mr. Metaphysical, bagpipes and E-tools…..

paul.bowman — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 06:16:59 +0000

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….

Brothers for Eternity

paul.bowman — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 04:46:53 +0000

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….

Pain….

paul.bowman — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 03:31:01 +0000

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.

A New Season begins….

paul.bowman — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 22:58:17 +0000

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

Ninja Tom

webmaster@bowmanlodge.org — Fri, 13 May 2011 10:34:13 +0000

Ninja Tom

This weekend was one of much change. A change of seasons, a smaller group of hunters, a short staff. We were hunting a different species with different weapons in different areas of the Lone Tree Ranch, filled with green grass, pollen spores and warm steamy mornings. It was turkey time at the Bowman Lodge and we were hosting a 4-man group of wounded U.S. Marines from Wounded Warrior Regiment (West), out from the coast. Allen Klark was back home in Texas, tending to his wife Linda who had a broken leg, leaving us slightly short-handed (for once). What’s more, Gunny Wittrock had to leave early on sunday, so this was the first hunt we’ve conducted where I would actually be guiding somebody.

There was a harbinger of all this change as we drove into the front gate of the ranch on friday afternoon– a lone turkey hen stood at the top of the hill to our left, as if to greet us in our hunt, almost on cue. Everyone took advantage of the pond next to the lodge and the fish seemed to eagerly chomp on spinners and spoons well into the evening. Wittrock, dutifully defying a state-wide fire ban, had his usual pyre out back. The beer and booze was flowing as well as the conversation, as always. We had another good group this time around– Ssgt. Rojas was a crazy Cuban with an accent stronger than the funniest parts of Tony Montana. Sgt. Lugo was a character, too, and the only guy around who talks more than Justin or me. Cpl. Culhane is a scrappy red-head who is mildly reminiscent of former Marine buddy Robert “Opie” Taylor who I served with. Culhane is a K9 handler with a solid black German Shepherd….a photo of he and his dog went viral online some years ago. Sgt. Broom was pure East Texas all the way. He’s missing nearly all of the meat on one of his legs, all the way up to his butt cheek, though you’d never suspect it with his calm swagger. All of them are awaiting a full medical retirement from the Corps.

It was fun telling storied tales of our collective adventures at Twentynine Palms Marine Base in the happy, happy high desert of California. The best thing about having fellow Marine hunters as guests is the instant bond by proxy; strangers all, yet brothers forever through our shared experiences in the same timeless hellholes. I like to hear how so many of those places have changed….and stayed exactly the same.

Starla made a delicious pork roast and strawberry shortcake for this hunt. Gunny Booth watched part of the Masters during a lull in the action. His son Connor entertained their dog, Bella, a beautiful and well-behaved blonde lab. This hunt had an easy going feel and an air of calm relaxation surrounding it, despite the howling Oklahoma wind. Saturday was a complete bust as far as hunting goes. Too warm, too windy…way too windy. This time we hunted down in the quarter section by Grave Creek, where the turkeys are known to roost. All the scouting, all the history and previous sightings and encounters of those crazy birds– nada. They weren’t talking. They weren’t answering. No gobbles. No tracks. Where the Hell were they? Out of 52 weeks a year when the often elusive turkeys could be described as a nuisance, they were now AWOL. The one weekend when it mattered, they were a no-show.

The heat but most importantly the WIND certainly had an effect. It was not for a lack of calling. Many a slate was rubbed clean and sanded and rubbed and scraped again and again…yelps, clucks, puts, the illustrious “Kiki Run”. The woods screamed with the sounds of pretend calls, but to no avail.

A friend, local Creek Indian Lonnie Hamilton, brought over some traditionally made long bows for us to try out saturday evening, which was awesome. Made from Osage Orange, cured and dried for months and made with hand tools only, they were both simplistically beautiful and dead-serious business in terms of accuracy and power. Folks fished some more and we did the ‘Warrior’s Walk’ and buffalo dinner a night early since Booth and Wittrock would be leaving on sunday.

So for the first time officially, I stepped into the role of hunting guide in Gunny’s absence. Such big-ass shoes to fill, literally. He is a turkey-callin’ fool, too. What’s worse was the shocking discovery that all my hunting boots were back at the house in Tulsa, so I’d be guiding in Saucony sneakers. I got a quick refresher course from Rock and borrowed his vest. Because Sgt. Broom has trouble sitting for long periods of time, we decided to forgo the hunting blind and start out at Buzzard Point and hunt on the move. After dawn, I yelped three times and then we heard the gobbles to our Northwest. It is almost indescribable to convey what that sound does to your soul in the early morning dawn. A strange, foreignly familiar sound that is loud when first heard like that. I yelped again. They gobbled back, a little closer. And so it went.

The humidity was effecting the slate calls, and I had no sandpaper to rough it up so I used a piece of rock. We decided to move closer and posted in the woods about 40 yards from the high fence. The gobbles were coming from two Jakes on the other side in the quarter section. It was fascinating to listen to an ensuing dance between the two Jakes and a hen just beyond our vision, down in the woods. We later learned it was Kevin and Cpl. Culhane, luring them in with expert calling like I’ve never heard. This went on all morning, and at one point I was able to bring the two jakes out into the open, walking along the fence right within our reach. A tough shot to be sure, but not impossible. We decided to wait and see if we could coax them over the fence, but that chance never came. We had one more chance encounter, but as all turkey hunters know, they move fast and often don’t offer you a good opportunity to shoot. At one point we even low-crawled to get into a good spot to no avail.

Unbeknownst to us, the real action was going on about 250 yards to our west with Kevin and Culhane. Now, Kevin Bishop has become almost legendary at his proclivity to nearly disappear all weekend with his hunter; often they won’t even come in for lunch, and when they do it’ll be at an odd time of the day. He’s almost always the last one in, and they rarely hunt from the blind. They were the only team that had a run-in with ANY turkey on saturday, and it was also the only real tom in the entire area. Apparently he was so cunning and sneaky that they dubbed him “Ninja Tom”. But Kev was undeterred.

I don’t know how, and details are skimpy at this point but along with skirting around with the two jakes Sgt. Broom and I saw, they somehow were able to get the drop on Mr. Ninja himself early Sunday afternoon. A single 3 1/2 inch 12 gauge shell did him in at 30 yards. The tom weighed 23 pounds and had a 11 1/2 inch beard….one nice bird! Culhane was elated, which made me happy as Hell.

Broom and I spent the rest of that afternoon scooting around the entire 160 acre quarter section after that, calling along the way. We earned two hens who called back from a thicket, but that was the end. The woods had fallen silent except for the warm southern gales slicing through the oaks. We walked in all of the bottoms, and Broom found the skull of an infamous Whitetail buck I had named “Lefty” a few years ago for his long single spike antler aside a perfect 8-point right side rack. We scurried along the bone-dry creek bed, chatting about future plans, his life back in Texas, and yelp calling, jumping a couple of deer along the way. The birds had gone to bed, or vanished completely. Or perhaps not. One can never tell what’s in the mind of a turkey, other than sex, food, and crazy-talk.

That last night we ate Starla’s awesome meatloaf, drank 18-year Scotch (Highland Park) and shot some pool. A brilliant electrical storm lit the western skyline for a few hours. A perfect wind-down to an exciting and rewarding weekend. We made 4 new friends. I even suspect a few might be back our way someday, not as guests but as guides…as brethren.

This morning while leaving for the airport, that same turkey hen was waiting for us near the gate. It was as if she was there to bid them goodbye. But not farewell.

Hell Night, 1991

webmaster@bowmanlodge.org — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 18:14:17 +0000

Several vet buddies have been posting on Facebook what was one of the most terrifying nights of my life. 20 years ago this week, anyone who was in Desert Storm will likely remember what universally became known as “Hell Night”. We were on the march towards Kuwait City, and we had several small engagements along the way. As evening approached a strange, dark pall began to descend over the entire theatre, a thick, grayish-black fog that hung heavy in the air. It smelled of diesel, smoke, cordite and burning rubber. Occasionally we’d overtake a pocket of Iraqis wanting to surrender, throw them some MRE’s and point south and tell them to haul ass. We encountered a field strewn with unexploded Rockeye missle bomblets, requiring a ground guide to walk us through it. Burning tanks and armor littered the desert around us.

Eventually it became impossible to proceed as night began to fall, and Capt. Espinoza gave us the news that a large column of Iraqi armor was advancing on us, attempting to split the two Marine divisions in half, and expect to be overrun sometime in the night. He had always been a bit dramatic, but this really sunk in as the sky grew black. Before long, the air became like ink, and it happened very quickly. I paced off about 10 steps from the corner of the Gypsy Wagon (our humvee) and started to dig. I remember digging a hole about 5 feet deep and barely wide enough for me to stand in. It was the fastest I’d ever dug anything in my life. I still don’t know how I was able to dig it so narrow. I could hear Johnson and Haase somewhere around me doing the same thing.

At some point, I stopped to pry out the “Christmas tree buggers” from my nose, which was a common practice over there in that dusty sand. I remember my thoughts like they happened yesterday: “this is it, Bowman. I am 8,000 miles from home, can’t see and will likely be overrun by tanks and maybe killed, they’ll bury me in this shithole, and I’m picking my nose.” The strangest, eerie calm came over me at that point as if it was all going to be ok, there wasn’t anything at all I could do to change my predicament, and I was ready for anything that came my way, including death. So I stopped picking my nose and continued to dig out my emergency hole.

After awhile I crawled towards the Gypsie Wagon, finally found it and climbed in the passenger seat. I sat there with Johnson for a bit, listening to the radio traffic, trying to figure out what the Hell was going on around us. We had been ordered not to use our flashlights out of light discipline, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I scanned what I thought was the horizon with a German night vision scope we had looted from an Iraqi bunker earlier in the day, and saw nothing. It didn’t work in the thick blackness with no visible light to amplify. There were Marine tanks to our left flank, and they were engaging the Iraqis at near point-blank range. We could hear their shots, and then the “splash” of their impact came immediately afterwards. We could feel the shock and concussion of their guns as they fired but couldn’t see a thing. They fired all night long like this. ’Boom–whack. Boom Boom–whack whack’. Every now and then, an occasional tracer round would flash past us or we’d hear machine gun fire behind us.

I have never, ever experienced darkness like that. I remember standing there in the night with my hand just inches away from my face, trying to see it. It was surreal. I knew that my fingers were just right there, yet they weren’t at all. I had to tap my nose just to convince myself that I wasn’t dreaming or I wasn’t mistaken. My eyes never adjusted. There simply was no light visible anywhere to adjust to. At one point I thought it was some sort of sick joke from the heavens, or that I had entered some alternate universe or the Earth has passed into a black hole. Maybe I was even dead. It just made no sense. The cold sounds of war all around us, Fox Battery squawking on the radio, my heavy, congested breathing told me that there was a world somewhere just outside this black curtain that enveloped my head, but I couldn’t comprehend it. How was it even possible? Was it just smoke? The fog of battle? I learned later that Johnson had flicked his flashlight on a few times, but couldn’t see what he was looking for. I couldn’t see him do it, either. Impossible darkness. Again and again, I checked my hands…it was like having a black mass of anti-matter between my nose, my mouth, and my fingers. I could open my mouth, I could pick the buggers out of my nose, I could wiggle my fingers or move my hands. Yet none of it was connected; they all acted as independent entities in that dark sludge, unrelated organs not a part of my body, lost in time and space, enveloped in nothingness. The tanks blasting off in the distance shook me back to reality, but I never could get used to that darkness. They might’ve been right next to us or 100 miles away– it was all the same in that soup. The tanks had thermal sights, and were really giving it to the Iraqis that night. Without those sights, they would’ve been just as blind as we were. Their booms comforted me. I could’ve slept all night long with those rounds going off, wearing them like a warm blankie. But I didn’t.

While walking down memory lane, going over these thoughts from 20 years ago, I came to a sudden and somewhat embarrassing realization that this is what every single moment must be like for a blind person. Guys like Cpl. Matt Bradford. At least my lights went out on Hell Night gradually over a few hours. His lights went out in a flash and he woke up to the same Hell and now gets to live it every second of his life. At the Bowman Lodge we’ve tried to give our vets the best of things– good scotch, bourbon, and beer, Cuban cigars, a luxurious bed, great food, and good hunting among good men. But I’d give every single bit of it back– the ranch, the lodge, everything…to restore Matt Bradford’s eye sight and to cure him of having to relive my Hell Night every day.

And Hell Night was just one night for me over there. It wasn’t the best or the biggest battle we fought during the “100 hour ground war”, but it produced memories of a sensation I don’t want to ever experience again. Give me a rifle, a knife, Hell– a rock, and I’ll fight to defend my own life and that of the brother next to me. But take away the visible means of defense, and the sheer panic and terror that it causes will immobilize you. You can stack up all the other vile memories– no showers for 4 months, the flies, dysentery, the damn oil fires, lack of email (didn’t exist back then) and little contact back home, all of it…and it won’t compare to what some of our vets have experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan in the past 5 years. Yes, all wars are different. And all wars are the same.

For some it may now be living without a limb. Or two. Or with no eyesight. Or no hearing. Headaches. Anger. Chronic pain somewhere…everywhere. Burns. The list goes on.

Man can withstand physical pain. Some say it makes us stronger. But what of those nightmare memories? What of the loss? It may all be relative. Everyone copes in different ways. To heal the spirit is our end goal, and it is a lofty one indeed. I believe this is the most difficult obstacle in a wounded warrior’s walk. They all live with their own private Hell Night somewhere in their mind, and it will always be there, that alternate universe of darkness that we wish didn’t exist.

Here’s to all my brothers from Battery F, 2nd battalion, 14th Marines, and to 20 years of staying alive. And here’s to all the other vets who’s eyes are still open, but only see night….

Endings and Beginnings

webmaster@bowmanlodge.org — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 10:24:00 +0000

Endings and Beginnings

The Lodge hosted it’s last deer hunt of the season this past weekend. It was co-sponsored by Perfect 10 and the Oklahoma Station Chapter of SCI. A hearty congratulations goes out to Sgt. Josh Wofford of Jacksonville, Fla., for scoring a nice little 8-pt buck.

It was a hunt of opposites, of dichotomies; warm and cold temps, new friends and old, great coffee and BAD coffee, the beginning and the end. It was a time of action and time for reflection. Improvements were discussed, plans were made. New ideas sprung to life as we all looked back to previous hunts and excitement brewed with our minds towards the future.

The first night was unseasonably warm, and all hands were on deck by the fire pit for cold beer, warm bourbon and humorous tales. Back-up guide Mike Mistelske joined us this time and regaled us with his many stories of hunting abroad. Another back-up guide, Jarod Lamborn, stopped by for dinner on Saturday with a special guest, “Junior”, who is a WWII veteran. I started smoking my homemade pipe again after a long hiatus on cigars. A Bald Eagle was spotted by one of our hunt teams one afternoon. One of our hunters had a miss, earning his service colors (U.S. Army) another “streamer of shame”. We got to borrow a hydraulic-lift “Huntmaster” automatic blind from the ODWC, which was awesome. There was a coffee ‘incident’ when the supreme roasts of Double Shot Coffee Company were accidently replaced by a batch of Folger’s, which resulted in an embarrassing tirade where I punted the Folger’s can out the back door. Britani and Lauren joined us for buffalo tenderloin on Sunday night. There were many laughs along the way…and some tears as well.

What struck me most about this hunt is how we reflected upon how much we’ve learned since our first hunt back in October. Obviously, each and every veteran has had different experiences, and they all deal with their issues in different ways. Combat stress is relative; severity doesn’t necessarily determine the ill effects on one’s psyche. From my own experience, I’ve come to believe that PTSD is still a misunderstood condition and civilians often don’t really grasp the emotional and physical toll it can have on our returning veterans. I think the biggest disconnect lies with the transition back into normal society rather than the actual stress of combat itself. I’m no shrink, but to experience the horrid sights, smells, filth, and complete assault on all of your senses…to see death and destruction, to cause it and feel it among your peers, how it effects children, animals, to live under these conditions for months on end— and then before you know it, you are back on the block again, amongst uncaring and unknowing Americans. Dealing with meaningless angst, complaints about everything from the weather, gas prices and your Grande Carmel Machiatto being too cold, and nobody around you, including friends and family can possibly understand what being in a war zone is like. Factor in a debilitating, life-altering injury, and you are ripe for some serious issues to deal with. How you reintegrate and adapt to a callous public is where the struggle begins.

Some of our hunters have told me that they don’t like crowds or being around people very much, and they’ve felt comfortable enough to unwind a bit at the Lodge. They feel normal again, they say. This isn’t something you can legislate, plan for, or design. This, I think, has been our greatest success so far. The hunting, though fun and therapeutic, is truly incidental. It could be better, to be sure, but that’s the nature of hunting and herd management. We can improve our food plots, blind placement, and rack size but we cannot make better the bonds of warriors. It just happens….or doesn’t. The vortex either sucks you in, or passes us by on a thermal of smoke and embers from our hottest fires. We plan. And we hope that the flame continues.

Expect great things from the Bowman Lodge in the months to come. Next on our horizon is a pair of turkey hunts in April, including one with the PVA. We plan to make some much-needed improvements to the Warrior’s Walk trail and an 8-mile, single track mountain bike course. A 3-D primitive archery course is also in the works. Be looking for a charity sporting clays event as well, and an awesome t-shirt designed by RangerUp is forthcoming.

This has been a most incredible endeavor…powerful, moving, emotional, and rewarding beyond words. I’ve got so many people to thank it’s not even funny…ALL of our guides and staff, donors, friends and family, and all of you who support us with great enthusiasm. Most of all, we thank all of our wounded veterans who have taught us so much about them, their injuries, and about ourselves.

Here’s to the 2010-2011 season of the deer!

Semper Fidelis,

Paul