Sanity and Sambar
By David Tetzlaff

Louis L'Amour once said, "Adventure is just another name for trouble." These two words easily become synonyms when it comes to bowhunting. Reminisce through your personal hunt files and you will see the truth of that quote. Freezing weather. Cold Rain. Lost in the woods. Almost falling from a treestand. We have all been there. But scared or miserable, with time's gentle hand, can morph into a smiling, "remember the time that we…"

If past misery loves present company, read on. But first let's rewind to December 2000 when I hauled my kayak onto St. Vincent Island's white sandy beach. I could not help but notice the elk size tracks intermingling with those of whitetails and feral hogs. These prints belonged to Cervus unicolor, the Sambar Deer. These large animals are native to Southeast Asia, but were introduced to St. Vincent prior to its current status as a National Wildlife Refuge. Male Sambar are referred to as stags and females are hinds. Stags routinely weigh nearly six hundred lbs. The largest taken on St. Vincent tipped the scales at an astonishing 742 lbs.!

As my companions Ron Weatherman, Mark Normand and I scouted for whitetail sign, the evidence of Sambar was quite prevalent in many areas. More huge tracks and rubs, some higher than your head. Although whitetails were the objective, the Sambar sign was exciting nonetheless, just knowing these huge animals were about.

In the months following our December hunt we decided to put in for the special Sambar hunt in the coming fall. The Sambar population is strong enough to support an annual quota hunt. Nearly two thousand applications are received each summer and two hundred fortunate hunters are randomly selected. I compiled the information for our group that included Ronnie, Mark and myself and mailed it off. Also throwing in for the trip would be Mark's Louisiana hunting partner, David Hanson. With so many hunters vying for the coveted quotas, you honestly cannot expect to be drawn. I had heard a lot about guys who have put in for years and were never chosen. August rolled around and an envelope arrived with a St. Vincent NWR stamp on it. I slowly opened it with much trepidation even though I didn't have to guess its contents. If you don't draw, you don't get notified of your failure. I held in my hands a Sambar Permit. The impossible happened! I called Ronnie right away to make sure he got his also. We were psyched!

Now here's the first catch: Ronnie and I had also drawn on one the best Lake Panasoffkee hunts which coincided exactly with the Sambar hunt. There was no dilemma for me. Win, lose or draw you don't pass up a Sambar quota. That decision made, here came the second catch: Ron wanted to do the hunt by kayak. Every bit of it, scouting, hunting, the whole nine yards or in the case of St. Vincent, the whole nine miles. My kayak skills are minimal at best. But I went for it anyway. When you hunt with Ronnie he just gives you that feeling like nothing is impossible. He's like Mr. Nike, "Just Do It!"

'The Plan'
The Sambar hunt begins on a Wednesday. This was the official scouting day with hunt running Thursday through Saturday. Our scouting day would begin on Sunday. Ronnie's plan was to put the kayaks in on the west end of St. Vincent and paddle the length of the island and across West Pass on St. Vincent's east end (confused yet?) and camp on Little St. George Island. Camping on St. Vincent is only permitted during the hunt. We would kayak to and from Little St. George to St. Vincent for our scouting on Monday. The check station at Indian Pass is not open during this hunt, hence the need for accessing the furthest end of the island.

Tuesday would find us returning to Indian Pass to replenish supplies and hook up with Mark and David and determine their plans. David had planned to kayak back out to the island with us. Mark felt he would be arriving too late for the kayak journey and therefore had rented a charter with Captain Alex Crawford to shuttle him and his gear out to St. Vincent from Apalachicola Bay. This would be good as Mark could bring coolers and ice in the remarkable event that one of us actually tagged a Sambar or feral hog which are legal during all St. Vincent hunts.

Wednesday would hopefully find the whole crew setting camp and treestands out on the island. We as a group realized we were setting upon the impossible. Taking a Sambar with a bow has been done only twice in the last decade, by compound shooters, a miraculous achievement in itself. Most hunters use a muzzleloader as the hunt is labeled as primitive weapons only. Modern rifles are not permitted on the Refuge. The four of us would be hunting with traditional archery tackle and should we harvest a Sambar, it would be a nearly historic moment for stickbow shooters everywhere for the simple fact that it has not been done before.

At the simple mention of the scouting itinerary, some of my other hunting pals and friends would twist their faces in utter surprise, "you are paddling how far in what?" Its difficult to come up with an explanation of how contagious Ronnie's 'go for it' positive attitude is. I swear he could convince you to charge into Hell with a squirt gun. Or maybe I am just a sucker for a 20-mile, arm aching, back squishing kayak tour de force.

Fear of "The Plan"
While driving home from a Pennsylvania hunt my back started seizing up to the point that I could hardly walk. I injured it in the early eighties in the process of stopping a negative altercation between two sub-adult tigers. I literally pulled them, and my back, apart. Hey, when you're nineteen you are indestructible, right? So, occasionally I pay for my bravado (or lack of good sense.) This was a bad time for back trouble. I saw the big hunt fading away.

Hopefully a visit to my friendly neighborhood chiropractor would sort it out. It did. For two days. I then decided I was well enough for some yard work and while carrying a large bag of sand I collapsed. It was off to the emergency clinic. I practically crawled through the door. The doctor, bless him, gave me a generous supply of pharmaceuticals that kept me in a blissful, pain free state for several days.

Under normal circumstances, my daily routine flirts on the verge of hyperactivity. Not this time. I knew if I did not recoup soon, no Sambar hunt. Stay down. Stay calm. It worked. By the time the hunt came around, I was back to shooting my bow and pursuing my regular exercise regimen. Bring it on St. Vincent!

Execution of the Plan
We hit the tarmac at full speed Sunday morning from Ronnie's house and made it to Indian Pass in good time after a brief recon with Captain Alex Crawford in Apalachicola. We also reserved a night at the "White House". No, not that White House but rather a large white house that is rented out to fisherman and other vacationers at a great rate. We planned to crash there one night in between scouting and hunting.

Following the unloading of the trucks and loading of the kayaks Ronnie and I were ready to start phase one of the marathon paddle. Being more experienced in such matters, Ron loaded his kayak to a perfect balance. I did not. After rounding the point of St. Vincent the wind started its blustery game with my poorly loaded vessel and continued to do so for the next four and a half hours. The few adjustments that we made out on the water did little or no good whatsoever. Aside from jettisoning gear to the bottom of the Gulf, I had no choice but to fight wind and water for 10 miles. Eventually the eastern end of the island became larger and larger which meant we were almost to West Pass.

The last leg of the trip became a race against time to be off the water and set up camp before dark. I thanked Ronnie then and will do so here for his patience. I know my predicament added precious time to the journey. Finally we hauled up onto the shore of Little Saint George. Camp was quickly set and gear stored. A crummy little camp chair and tuna fish on saltines never felt or tasted better. It had been a long hard day. Sleep came easy accompanied by nature's evening symphony of waves lapping and the cries of night birds.

Daylight found us crossing the pass to St. Vincent. The hog rooting on the beach is unbelievable. We're talking excavations two feet deep and more as they search for various crustaceans. Ronnie had a great USGS map of the island that was extremely useful and was referred to multiple times during the day. We set a brisk yet calculating pace. Much ground needed to be covered and time was limited. A Sambar's lifestyle requires water. They feed on aquatic vegetation, but will also eat whitetail fare such as acorns. It was these areas we sought.

Mid-morning found us standing before a knee high wash out in the road. I looked at my Rocky hiking boots with a frown. Ronnie smugly looked at his LaCrossse rubber boots. Now, mind you, I will get wet, muddy and bloody on a hunt. But this was scouting and early in the day. Hiking miles in wet boots was unappealing at the time. Ron read my mind. The picture would have made the cover of STICKBOW News. Yep, Ronnie piggybacked my 6'4" 195 lbs. across the flooded road. Now that's a hunting partner for you! I was the St. Vincent Sissy Boy, but I was dry. Ron, you da man!

We found Sambar sign here and there and as we slipped along the edge of a large swamp a Sambar barked at us. Even if you've never heard the sound before, you just know what it is. Shortly thereafter we spooked two animals that appeared to be Sambar hinds. As they bounded away through the palmettos in front of us, their wide grayish brown backs were briefly visible. This possibly was a good stand site for one of us.

After a quick lunch break in some welcome shade, Ronnie got one of his sixth sense feelings and just lit off into the woods. As is usual, he found what appeared to be a great spot. It was a little ridge between two marshes and just loaded with signs of Sambar, whitetails and hogs. If no one else wanted this spot, I would take it without question.

By late afternoon we had covered at least ten miles of territory and called it a day. We scouted hard, which is never hard enough, but at least we had an extra day ahead of most of the hunters who would arrive in two days.

Upon our return to West Pass we fished a bit in the waning daylight, threw some supper together and crawled into our respective tents. I actually enjoy the bone tired feeling ones gets after a good amount of physical exertion. Sure beats the stress out tired that most of our jobs offer. I faded off to sleep but was awakened several hours later as the wind kicked up to the point of blowing my tent down on top of me. Not much to do about it, so I turned in my sleeping bag to face away from its force and fell back asleep. Not an hour later, Ronnie is shouting over the sound of the wind and now crashing waves that we have to move camp and now. Tents, kayaks and other gear had to be moved inland as the waves were eating away the beach in quick fashion. We hurriedly broke and reset camp in the shadowy light of our headlamps and attempted to get a few more hours sleep. Dawn would come all too soon and we had another long paddle ahead of us.

In the morning we walked back to our previous camp spot and found it sitting on a shelf almost two feet above the now receding tide. A few more inches of erosion and we would have woken up in West Pass. The adventure continued…

The waves in the Pass were rolling with ferocity. Launching the kayaks from our previous campsite on the north end of the island would have been nearly impossible so we hauled boats and gear several hundred yards, in multiple trips, to launch from the southwest tip. This would allow us to shove off into more forgiving surf.

I stood looking at the Pass and the distance to the calmer waters on the south side of St. Vincent. On the trip over I felt discomfort. Anticipating this crossing I felt fear. The waves were rolling 2-4 feet. This was not going to be a leisurely duck pond paddle. This could get real dangerous real fast. This was no trip for an amateur. Didn't matter. I had no choice in the matter. This was the only way home. I told myself, nothing teaches you better to paddle dangerous water, than to, well, paddle dangerous water.

Steeling myself up for the task at hand, I slipped into the boat, adjusted the spray skirt and Ronnie kindly pushed me off into what I thought could be the final paddle of my life. The waves were on my mind. So were sharks. I had heard two different opinions on that issue. One chap told me "don't turn over in West Pass, its loaded with bull sharks." Another self-proclaimed expert said the sharks have already migrated southward, following the kingfish schools towards the Keys. I subscribed to the first theory. It made for more careful managing of my small vessel.

I took the Pass with a diagonal tack. To me, it seemed like a good idea. This way the waves would be breaking somewhat behind me, rather than directly on the starboard side where I was afraid they would dump my gear and myself into the Gulf. Looking right, I noticed Ron was taking the Pass straight across. Whatever he was doing was probably the right way, but it was too late to change so I stubbornly continued on. Several times the larger waves tumbled across the entire kayak threatening to feed me to those nine-foot sharks that I just knew were hungrily lurking beneath me. To bring the severity of the situation to a fine point, Ronnie told me later he saw a clam boat approach West Pass, reconnoiter the waves and do a u-turn.

Eventually, with a generous portion of luck and the offering of many prayers to Neptune to spare this poor mariner I rounded the corner of St. Vincent and into calmer waters. I looked back to see Ron had also made the crossing safely. Now we just had nine miles of steady paddling ahead of us. Halfway back I receded into that exhausted state in which one becomes simply a machine designed for one purpose, in this case getting one kayak and one tired hunter to shore. I amused myself with off-key singing and reciting lines from my favorite movies. Thankfully, Ronnie was out of earshot. He would have deemed me 'certifiable' and relegated me to a white room in the White House.