Guess I'm not.
Never was in doubt anyway.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704810504576307192623476856.htmlBy JUSTIN SCHECK
ALBANY, Tex.�Late last month, Mike Huston crouched in a prickly pear patch. His blood-stained quiver�sewn from the hide of a deer he killed�was full of arrows fashioned from turkey feathers, wild plants and sharpened stones.
Nearby, a half dozen feral hogs grunted through the West Texas dust. When they drew within a few yards, Mr. Huston laid an arrow against a bow of rough wood and deer sinew, pulling it taut. The black boar was oblivious until it heard the thwack of Mr. Huston's bowstring.
Mr. Huston, who goes by "Hawk," is at the forefront of a backward movement in the U.S.: Hunters are increasingly devolving, favoring crude hand-wrought weapons made with ancient methods.
As for high-powered modern guns and pricey carbon-fiber bows? "People are tired of that," says Randy Rifenburgh, a longtime primitive hunter who goes by "Rattlin' Randy" in his hunting-instruction videos.
"Technology has made it too easy for the real hunters."Some use flint-tipped arrows for deer and coyotes, while others fell wild boar and alligators with rudimentary spears. With weapons of his own design, Mr. Huston, 41, has targeted elk and deer and impaled stingrays in the Gulf of Mexico "They taste like scallops," he says.
Interest in the stone-age lifestyle has been growing. In recent years, archaeology buffs started arrowhead-making groups in places like Portland, Ore., and Pasadena, Calif. Other die-hards have adopted meat-heavy "paleo" diets, eating like traditional hunter-gatherers.
While there has long been a cult of hunters who use old-style rifles and bows, "bowhunting has picked up pretty tremendously across the country," says Mike Moore, chief executive of Primitive Archer magazine. The publication's circulation is up 25% over the past five years, to roughly 30,000, he says.
Prehistoric hunts are back partly because technology has made hunting a bit of a yawner, say some of the sport's aficionados. The proliferation of gear like high-powered sniper rifles and "compound bows"�which use carbon fiber, metal wire and a set of pulleys to fling an arrow almost as fast as a bullet�took much of the sport out of hunting, they say.
As a result, more people now want to hunt with "a piece of handcrafted artwork that's functional," says Ted Fry, the owner of Raptor Archery in Hood River, Ore.
Some states are curbing how far hunters may go. Massachusetts only allows spear hunting for eels, carp and sucker fish. Other states prohibit stone-tipped projectiles. In Montana, a state bill to legalize spear hunting died in committee after Gov. Brian Schweitzer in March called it "kooky."
Wayne Pacelle, the president of the Humane Society of the United States, says he worries about both ultra-modern and ultra-primitive hunting methods. High-tech gear, he says, can give the hunter an unfair advantage over prey. On the other hand, he says "archery equipment is very problematic" since animals are sometimes injured but don't die.
Hunters like Perri Smith, a 52-year-old factory worker, say they take care to kill animals quickly. He recounts having "a normal outdoor upbringing" in Danville, Ind., shooting small game with guns.
He later moved on to a 19th-century-type muzzleloader, which requires a hunter to pack old-fashioned gun powder and bullets through the nose of the rifle, and a compound bow.
About five years ago, he took a class on "flint knapping"�using a rock to shape and sharpen the edges of a smaller stone. He made arrowheads and knife blades that he lashed to bone handles.
Mr. Smith in February took one of those knives to Texas, where he chased and killed a wild hog.
Mr. Huston has been using ancient tactics to take wild game since his childhood in Montana, when family friends, one of them a Lakota Indian, taught him to make arrows and stalk game. Recently, he has been working as a car crusher for a steel-recycling company in Texas. In his spare time, he pursues wild hogs with his friend Mr. Rifenburgh. Mr. Huston says he only kills animals for food.
Mr. Rifenburgh is the gamekeeper of the Newell Ranch�a 20,000-acre property near the tiny oil town of Albany, Texas. As part of his job, Mr. Rifenburgh must keep the ranch's deer well-fed. That means controlling the feral hogs that eat deer food. Texas has no hunting limit on nonnative pigs, so the 50-year-old has honed his skills stalking them through the brush.
On a recent Friday evening, Mr. Rifenburgh, dressed in deerskin-fringed camouflage, jumped into his five-seater Toyota pickup with Mr. Huston, Mr. Huston's wife Stacey and their son Tyler, 19. "Let's get going so we can shoot some stuff," Mr. Rifenburgh said.
The hunt began when a pack of pigs came into sight�and well within range of a modern compound bow. But the hogs spooked before they could be reached with the primitive bows shaped by Mr. Rifenburgh.
As dusk approached, they spotted another pack. The hunters crept from the truck. Mr. Huston, throwing a piece of grass into the breeze, said a prayer for a successful hunt, giving thanks to the animals. Then the group stepped over a cactus and crouched under a bush.
Six hogs approached slowly, snorting. Mr. Huston drew back. His arrow flew over a young pig, hitting a large black one in the side. The swine scattered; the hunters sprang up, fanning into the mesquite brush to find the injured animal.
Mr. Rifenburgh spotted the boar in a dry streambed. It ran into the trees. Darkness descending, the men looked into the brush. "There it is," Mr. Rifenburgh said, pointing to a lump about 50 feet in the distance. When the hog took off again, the men drove four more arrows into it.
The men crouched over the felled pig, gutted it and said another prayer before dragging the roughly 150-pound carcass back to the truck to transport it to Mr. Rifenburgh's meat cooler. "It's not pretty, but it's primitive," said Mr. Rifenburgh.
