Shortly before the hippies donned native American vests and wore feathers in their long-braided hair, I had the honor of being tutored in the art and skill of archery in GG Park, by a man I can only remember calling "The Chief." It was mythic to learn the ancient skills of the hunt from a red man decked out in white fringed buckskin. And while the arrows were store bought and metal headed and the kill was a painted piece of cardboard lashed to a few bales of hay, the feeling was primative:We young bucks were Lord of the Flies.
I remember a kid nicknamed Fuzzy who was able to draw a 35 lb fiberglass bow. No small feat for a youngster and the two of us took off one day into the woods, behind the archery range, to hunt rabbits.
Strange what zero's in on one's memory; however, I recall each of us starting out with reckless bravado and folding like a pair of duces when the first jack ran through our cross hairs. I like to think that rabbit went on to sire generations of park varmits who now sit around the campfire and tell the story of their great ancestor, who faced down the arrows of two fearless young hunters, touching their hearts enough to go kill a bale of hay instead. But more likely, they are hobbling around Fisherman's wharf, looking in vain for their hind leg, now died kelly green for good luck.