Dad Day: Chucking Tomahawks

What guy, in his right mind, having grown up watching westerns and revolutionary war movies doesn't long to know how to through a Tomahawk. Even if I wasn't raised in the mountains and didn't spent all my early years in the woods, I would love to know how to throw one  properly, accurately, and consistently. After all, what red blooded American Man hasn't thought of needing to go all Benjamin Martin if the red coats re-invade the states.

In our house we try to learn as much as we can about how things were done 100 plus years. They were geniuses back then and our thought is this will help learn creative problem solving, self sustainability and it's just flat out cool. We planted the "Three Sisters" Indian crops this summer, corn, beans and squash. They did amazing and we have enjoyed eating them. We have learned to shoot archery and guns. We learn to harvest woodland vegetables and mushrooms. We learned to throw Tomahawks.

Now I must admit, I have always wanted to learn to properly throw a Tomahawk. That is way up there on my list. I don't mind if my kids learn to throw them. I didn't expect it to be like this, however.

It started out as any family outing, setting up the tents, taking hikes, fussing about playing in the fire that only I should be playing in. We did the interpretive stuff around the park and had a great time. Friends that we like to hang out with were there. We ground cornmeal and got to take a big bag of it home. But the whole weekend was leading up to the Tomahawk throwing.

I thought there would be some beardy mountain man looking feller with a coyote skin hat, leather satchel, and lace-up buck skin moccasin boots.  I also thought there would be a safe distance, well marked perimeter, and guy that would DEMONSTRATE how cool he was by throwing tomahawks in dozens of different ways and distances never missing.

Elijah throwing and Caleb watching.

When I pull up in the truck from loading all our camping gear, there is one old man. I mean helped Daniel Boone blaze the trail across Pine Mountain and decided to just stay there old, with a string of 7-9 year old boys lined up with looks of pure exstacy and adventure in a trance as metal weapons sliced through the air in a terrifying dance of deadly summer-saws. Then just at the split second when you think the dance will end, they spring back through the air with an encore of misguided ricochets that reminds you of a Miley Cyrus performance. The weapon then falls into the leaves waiting for its little dance instructor to come and give it new life in its next chilling routine.


But there are two throwers, at the same time. As the little Mahican goes after his tomahawk, . . . you guessed it, the next kid releases his macabre dance of terror.

Gasps sucked the dried leaves from around the area as moms closed their eyes, babies cried, and men fainted. Actually the men didn't notice. We just wanted to throw, and we are coaching our kids to properly throw a weapon we have never attempted in all our live long days.

We wanted to get our hands on those little axes and release our inner William Wallace.

I would love to tell you this scene only played once, and some one went over and helped the little old guide control this band of blood thirsty woodsmen. No, it happened a couple of times, exactly like that. So, finally when my loving, caring, protecting wife had practically hyperventilated, and our friend was ready to scalp someone, I went over.

Lucas throwing and Mollie getting ready.

They were a good bunch of kids and we talked about safety and how it was like shooting a BB gun or archery. How we had to wait, watch and listen to everything going on around us. We had to watch out for others around us. How this was a weapon that deserved the same respect as other weapons. I was instilling in these strange boys life lessons that would make them better men and husbands.  I was shaping them into respecters of people and tools. I was the Jedi Knight training these young unknown padawans. Their mothers would thank me with words of undying gratitude. Their fathers would hear my prophecy and carry them on. It was a good day. Nobody had died, yet.

Targets were cross cut logs with 2x4's nailed onto it and one boy knocked the leg off. Some dads went over to pick it up and nail it back on, so the fun would continue. The throwers were all back were they were suppose to be. The hawks were pointed down. Everyone's eyes were on the dads who had stepped up to save the day. Then, it happened. The tomahawk came up and released into the air without anyone noticing. It's sick little dance was short and like all the others, bounced off the second log with morbid desire to take life and limb. It wanted to continue it's dance, not settling for the mere wood stump it was sent flying at. Oh no, it leaped up into the air cart-wheeling itself towards it's new destination and landed with a ghastly curtsy next to the leg of the dad of the thrower.

There was that movie perfect moment when every breath stopped and every brain had to process what had just happened. When time stood still as every person there locked eyes on that weapon that stared at the ankle it had so wanted to find.

It was a good weekend. Nobody died. Nobody was injured. But there was a lesson learned there that was not taught by me or any other dad. Lessons we learn the hard way. Lessons that teach louder than words and are carried on to the next generations. Lessons that as men are never chucked away.

We like learning new things, especially traditional hands-on skills. As for the Estep household, the kids did well, and listened as good as any other kid. They even made them stick a few times. I know what you really want to know, and I don't think we will be getting throwing tomahawks any time soon.

Go do something new this week.