Bow Hunting
Most of you will find it hard to fathom that I could describe a 6-foot 6-inch, 240-pound man as a “shell” of his former being. However, Luke Bowanko or “Bow,” as to which he is commonly referred, was just that – a shell. If in his prime he were Ronnie Coleman, then today his stature is more similar to that of Ellen The Generous, or any other slender lesbian of which you can think. Lean and mean, with a ‘stache stretching nearly the entire distance between his lobes, and big old fucking bearpaw-style mits that would make even the steadiest of pyromaniacs second-guess the lighting of a campfire, this new version of Bow certainly looked fit for a duck blind.
Cult NFL fans across the country may recall Bow from his playing days. Drafted out of the University of Virginia in the fifth round to the Jacksonville Jaguars in 2014, and moving around the league between then and 2019, Luke was a people-mover and an albeit pretty fucking funny X (formerly Twitter) personality. Playing mostly as a Center in the NFL, he had the pleasure of players ranging from Blake Bortles to Tom Brady with their hands deep in his gooch, twinkling the backside of his sack; and while he may want a re-run at Fletcher Cox, Bow largely handled his fucking business after the snap.
I met Bow at our first training camp in Charlottesville, Virginia. My slow, white, walk-on ass had no shot at playing time and candidly no business being in the same room as Luke or any of our other teammates. I am half-certain that the only reason Luke even talked to me our First Year was because he had publicly dubbed me “Shneck,” and if he wanted to perpetuate the nickname – which emphasized the minimal distance between my shoulders and my dome, then he would have to keep addressing me as so, even with others in the room. Our friendship certainly grew deeper than that over our 5 years at UVA and beyond, and while I should probably start a second blog revolving solely around the Walks of Bill and Bow, I will spare you all the titillating details of our college and post-college experiences – focusing more appropriately now on how I was able to get him into becoming a game-chasing enthusiast.
In 2021 it was mid-season in Kansas, and I had just picked-up the sport myself. My comeback calls sounded like an Alvin and the Chipmunks kazoo concert, and my feeder was non-existent. However, at one point earlier in the season I had coaxed what I now believe to be the dumbest fucking greenhead that God ever created into my spread, and I was hooked. I would post a picture here or there, and talk endlessly about my experiences on the Kansas River in our former-teammate group chat to any one of them that would listen. It turns out, Bow listened. He lived in Colorado at the time and while his rapid weight loss would suggest his heavy involvement in early Ozempic trials, he had also gotten pretty deep into some granola outdoor shit and was seeking a new adventure. Aside from a pair of fly-fishing waders and a bit of disposable income, the guy had fucking nothing when it came to hunting gear.
I got a call from him as he was standing at the counter of a sporting goods store. “Have you ever heard of Benelli?” He said in a manner that led me to believe that he was about to do something. Surer than shit is brown, Bow bought himself an SBE 3 just before hopping into his truck and heading east on I-70. He got to Topeka shortly after dark where we sat in my driveway drinking Pre-Mulvaney Bud Lights, practicing the subtle art of rapidly pulling our shotguns up to our shoulders. We were ready for a limit-busting morning, and much to the chagrin of my wife, we decided to “pre-celebrate” said limit-buster with a multitude of cocktails that Friday evening. Rolling into bed around 0200 and back out of bed around 0500, we threw Weller in the truck and headed to the gas station for weird burrito nourishment.
Luckily, I had arranged to have our other buddy Doug meet us at the gate that morning. I figured it would not hurt to have someone with a fucking clue in our presence as we get Bow his first blood. After a muddy drive, which involved multiple “GFD’s!” we had gotten to the walk-in near the river. It was here where Bow realized he had left his waders in Colorado. Old-Bow would have likely lost his fucking bananas and broken something (I recall a Stanley Cup matchup resulting in the slamming of a TV Remote, effectively turning it into all-purpose flour); but new and improved Bow rolled with the punch and headed down the river bank in his sweatpants. Once to the bottom, we explained the importance of arranging the decoys to the wind pattern, and sighted in some distances so that he could familiarize himself with leading shots.
At first light, it was on. A small pack of Teal came screaming down the riverbank and Doug did everything in his power to slow them down. To no avail. I called the shot and Bow fired down to the plug. Those birds got off cleaner than O.J. Simpson, and like many of us waterfowl enthusiasts, Bow started his career off 0 for 3. I looked back at him to offer words of encouragement, but all I could really see in the pseudo dark of night was his caterpillar ‘stache stretching further than normal. The son of a bitch had this huge fart-huffing smile on his face, and it was at that moment that I knew I had developed a Blind Buddy for life.
Luke did eventually get his first blood that trip, but by that time it didn’t even matter. He quickly formed a deep appreciation for the process, the culture, and the experience - all of which paving the way for his newfound passion. None of us know for certain how the ducks will land, and we certainly can’t make them fly. Most of us are horrible shots, and the large majority of us buy expensive pieces of acrylic simply to make noises that don't even sound like fucking ducks. Luke is one of us. an interested outdoorsman with a hobby-turned-obsession, an average skillset, and big dreams.
Bow has returned to Kansas a number of times since that iconic first hunt. He always have expectations of limiting-out, but never gets discouraged when things go awry. And while we have had more proverbial Fyre Festivals then fire fests along the Kansas River, the proliferation of the sport is truly what TWOW&W is all about- and I believe that is what we have done here with Luke. While it is an understatement to say that the gas station burritos have put a beating on our plumbing, the larger understatement would be to say that it has been a pleasure Bow Hunting.