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Virgil Edward Joseph Groom I was a
man of overwhelming presence, a lean six foot two inches tall with
slightly greyed, coal-black hair accenting a brilliant ebony gaze which
often seemed to wander a thousand miles away. Looking into his eyes was
like looking through a window into bowhunting history. He taught me the
story of Pope and Young, two physicians who learned the arts and
traditions of bowhunting from Isha, the last free-roaming native American
in our country's history. He once said, "These two men were the first and
last white men to learn bowhunting in its purest form; never again would
our society be able to experience the philosophies, ethics or spiritual
meaning of the hunt the way Isha once had taught it. But even without
Isha's wisdom each modern bowhunter has a responsibility to try to
duplicate these values in every aspect of their own hunts."
Webster's dictionary defines
ethics as, "Principles of moral conduct; the study of morals, the good,
the right." Aldo Leopold states, "Voluntary adherence to an ethical code
elevates the self-respect of the sportsman, but it should not be forgotten
that voluntary disregard of the code degenerates and depraves him".
Nothing more accurately describes my uncle's hunting practices than these
two concepts.
The elusive Missouri whitetail, an
animal whose beauty is only overshadowed by its strength, has senses
sharper than any other animal's in the forest. The challenge it presents
a bowhunter is immense. One could only imagine what pressure and
temptation a potential record-book buck would cause to a bowhunter, even
one of the best.
The second week of November in the
fall of 1989 dawned crisp, clear and quiet - all the makings of a great
day in the southern Missouri swamps. Uncle Virgil had spent two straight
weeks struggling against bone-chilling winds and discouraging downpours.
The rut, or mating season, was in full swing, so he pressed on in the
hopes of Harvesting the wariest of creatures, a record-book whitetail.
After about two hours of treestand hunting sixteen feet above the forest
floor, a small doe appeared silently in the distance. She nervously moved
across the brush line directly in front of his treestand, stopping every
few steps to look over her shoulder, coaxing and teasing the
eagerly-pursuing buck to keep pace. Uncle Virgil recognized her
flirtatious behavior and prepared himself for the shot. The buck stepped
from the twisted, tangled undergrowth across the small clearing, oblivious
to anything but the doe. That clearing gave my uncle the opportunity at a
twenty-yard broadside shot - perfect for a quick, merciful harvest. As
the buck checked the slight breeze for human scent, he cautiously walked
into the open. Uncle Virgil steadily came to full draw and exhaled
lightly. He then allowed his top sight pin to fall squarely behind the
buck's muscular shoulder. Fummm, crack! The sounds of the release and
hit rang clear through the swamp. Yet Uncle Virgil questioned the shot,
he'd never heard an arrow strike a deer so crisply. Did he actually hit
him? The buck had bounded about forty yards out into the brush. There
he stood curious to the events that had happened. Did he hit him? Yes.
No. Confusion overwhelmed Virgil. Only an investigation of the ground
would show the truth. Suddenly it happened. A different buck came
through the thick brush directly behind Uncle Virgil's stand. The buck's
antlers were ivory white with each point at least the length of a man's
forearm. The buck's neck was swelled and muscular. All signs indicated
that he ran the show and no weaker buck would have this doe today.
At ten yards the monster stopped
and looked away. Chances are one in a million that Virgil Groom would
ever get an opportunity like this again. His thoughts ran wildly: "Did
I hit the other buck? Nobody would ever know if I took the shot. He's
the biggest son-of-a-gun I've ever seen." But these were fleeting
thoughts. Uncle Virgil knew he owed it to the first buck to find out
whether he was wounded or not.
As events would show, the first
deer was completely missed due to an unseen overhanging limb, and the
monster buck was never seen again. Thanks to the strong moral character
of a great man, he would live to see another day. I don't think I've ever
been so proud of a man as I was of my uncle that day.
"Ethics in the world of the
bowhunter could possibly be the single most important aspect of the sport"
(Steve Schimsa). Nobody knows this more than a bowhunter education
instructor. These are men and women who teach the traditions, arts and
ethics of modern bowhunting to the next generation of avid outdoorsmen.
Virgil Groom became one of these dedicated people to pass on the
knowledge. I remember him once saying, "the young are the key to
bowhunting's future. Without them we are nothing. Our stories,
experiences and joys of the hunt will die with us if we don't take the
time to pass them on to the children. Only then may we live on in their
memories." People of all ages came to him as pupils and left as
bowhunters. This middle-class disabled railroad worker, at first glance,
seemed to have little more to offer than a red flannel shirt and faded
blue jeans. But while men were judging him by his cover, he was reading
their inner souls. "I felt like bowing my head to a great master. He's
forgotten more about bowhunting than I'll ever learn" (Mike Schimsa).
Sacrifice is a word often spoken
but rarely performed. Virgil Groom paid his dues as a bowhunter, giving
every year all he had to give, and in November of 1990 he was rewarded
with a record-book whitetail buck, not without sacrifice. Virgil had
overlooked a small infraction, a rule on the state land we all had been
hunting, that a hunter could not use a screw-in step device to get into
his tree stand, somewhat like a ladder would. Although never formally
cited for the small infraction, Virgil would not allow the buck to be
officially placed in the record books saying, "If anyone were to find out,
I would lose all credibility and I will not be considered a hypocrite of
the tradition and sport I love so much." For the remainder of Virgil
Groom's life he paid penance, in his mind, of not properly harvesting an
unofficial record-book deer. Some called it foolish. Others admired the
decision. But everyone respected the stand that he made and the values he
stood for.
On February 3, 1995 Virgil Edward
Joseph Groom I died in the arms of his only son. He was 52 years old.
That night thousands of bowhunters felt the passing of a great teacher's
life.
In October 1995 I harvested my
first buck. The moment after my arrow had struck its mark I felt a sense
of pride touch my heart, and I knew exactly what it was: the presence of
a beloved teacher, friend, and father-figure telling my soul, "I'm proud
of you. You have done well." Now as I look forward into the dark,
uncertain forests of my life I no longer feel the empty void I once had,
nor do I wonder about my own fragile mortality. For a split second, alone
in the beauty of the woods, I was touched by the other side, and I will
fear no more. |
