Spears fly at 12th annual atlatl competition

Author: Kelly Janis

On Saturday morning, on the banks of Lake Champlain, turkeys, deer and even the odd mammoth succumbed to the savvy blows of an ancient hunting weapon. The fact that the critters were painted targets propped up against bales of hay on the course of the 12th Annual Northeastern Open Atlatl Championship and Festival of Nations at Vermont's Chimney Point made the scene no less compelling.

According to the World Atlatl Association, the atlatl (aht-laht-l), which preceded the bow and arrow and is considered one of humankind's earliest mechanical innovations, is "essentially a stick with a handle on one end and a hook or socket that engages a light spear or 'dart' on the other. The flipping motion of the atlatl propels a light spear much faster and farther than it could be thrown by hand alone." For thousands of years, the instrument was used by cultures worldwide to hunt game. It was prevalent on every continent except Antarctica until the advent of new technology spurred its decline. In the past two decades, however, hunters, recreationists and craftspeople have breathed new life into the atlatl as a tight-knit community has cropped up around the relatively obscure sport.

An enthusiastic cross-section of this community turned out en masse for the three- day event at Chimney Point, a destination described by the Vermont Division for Historic Preservation as "one of the earliest, most intensely settled and most strategic sites on Lake Champlain" and among "the most dramatic gateways" to the state. The historic site, which in its museum highlights Native American, French colonial and early American presence in the region, is located at the intersection of Vermont Routes 125 and 17, at the foot of the Champlain Bridge linking Vermont to New York.

The competition, co-sponsored by the Vermont Archaeological Society as part of Vermont Archaeology Month, consists of distance and accuracy contests based on an international standard. Participants are divided into four groups based on age and gender.

"The top person in each of the four categories has a shoot-out for overall champion," explained Elsa Gilbertson, Regional Site Administrator at Chimney Point. "The winner gets to wear the laurel wreath."

Participants can also amass points which precipitate world rankings and permit them to advance to further championships.

"We usually have people here who get to the top levels," Gilbertson said.

Though the atlatl is easy to throw, truly mastering the technique requires serious investment.

"The only time I don't throw is when the windchill gets down past 20 below. Then I just wimp out," 68-year-old contest entrant John Morris said, with no hint of joking. "If it's in the nineties and hot and humid, I don't spend too much time out there. I do it just to say I did."

As ruthless as his practice mentality may seem, Morris's attitude toward the contest is considerably more laid back.

"I like the competition, but I like the people," Morris said. "If you look around, you'll see people of all ages, men and women. There are lots of archaeologists and anthropology types, but then there are restaurant workers. There's everyone, and they're all having a good time."

Morris was introduced to the atlatl four years ago, when he attended the event at Chimney Point for the first time and tried his hand at throwing with borrowed equipment. "I fell in love with it then," Morris said.

Now, when he is not busy competing, he and his wife, Bette, teach lessons. The most rewarding part of doing so, Morris said, lies in introducing children to the sport.

Rutland High School history and anthropology teacher John Peterson shares this sentiment. Each year since the event's inception, his 12th grade students have constructed their own atlatls in conjunction with the course's curriculum and traveled to Chimney Point to compete.

"There have been Rutland High School students here every year, unbroken," Peterson said.

The contest's atmosphere is what keeps Peterson coming back year after year. "The sun is shining," said Peterson. "We're on the shores of Lake Champlain. It's a great setting. The kids get excited about what they're doing. What's there not to like?"

"I'm horrible at it, but it's still fun to try it," Rutland High School senior Tara Fothergill said as she awaited her turn to throw. She pointed to her classmate, Corey Gibeault. "She's good at it, though."

"Not really," Gibeault laughed.

The event was fodder for plenty of banter among the high schoolers - everything from the run-of-the mill "I'm gonna own you" to the less likely "those are some sweet feathers on your atlatl."

When one student's dart sailed well beyond the target during the accuracy event, a classmate was quick to respond with a playful taunt: "We're not going for distance yet!" he shouted.

Most students were not particularly intent on clinching the glory of the laurel wreath. Gibeault was not even sure whether prizes would be awarded at the event's conclusion. "I didn't look it up. I didn't plan on winning," she admitted with a smile.

Winning and losing aside, the project was particularly meaningful to Allison Gee. A former student of Peterson and now a site interpreter at Chimney Point, she returned to the competition this year as a judge.

"It's funny to come back and be on the other side of it and see that, nine years later, students are still doing this great activity in the classroom," Gee said. "There are even a couple of kids who used the atlatl I made in high school in the competition."

Gee regards participation in the event as worthwhile on several levels. "It gives the kids an opportunity to do something that has historical meaning but is also so hands-on and something they wouldn't otherwise do," she said. "Like, who would think, 'oh, let's go out and do some spear throwing?' It's unique enough, and it's also a great educational opportunity."

As atlatls sailed by on the field below, vendors and demonstrators of everything from porcupine quill embroidery to flint knapping assembled outside the museum.

Archaeologist Charles Eaquin set up shop on the front porch, encouraging passers-by to sculpt pinch pots in the tradition of Middle Woodland Native American pottery. He used commercial raqu clay, which he characterized as "very forgiving for firing outdoors."

The clay was not quite as forgiving of this reporter, whose creation Eaquin eyed with amusement.

"It's interesting how there are different aptitudes for this stuff," he said, diplomatically. "Some people are so good at it right from the start, and others, well Ö you can start another one, or fold that one in, or call it good enough, or whatever. I've never been daunted when I've tried something and it didn't really work out. I've just kept with it, and at some point, it falls into place."

Life in the atlatl business has more than fallen into place for Bob Berg, who drove nearly five hours from their home in Candor, N.Y. to be a part of the weekend's festivities at Chimney Point. The couple owns and operates Thunderbird Atlatl, a family business which has specialized in crafting the instrument ever since Bob Berg grew tired of making office furniture.

Though Berg travels to similar competitions nationwide, he has a special fondness for the one at Chimney Point.

"We've been loyal to them, and they've been loyal to us," Berg said.

For Berg, atlatls are more than just a means of making money.

"Events like these are a way to keep the knowledge of this kind of thing alive," Berg said. "It was almost lost to the world. There came a time, maybe a century ago, when no one knew about atlatls. And just from analyzing various archaeological finds people determined what an atlatl was. In the last 20 years, a lot of people started fooling around with
them and solved a lot of puzzles about atlatls and figured out how they actually work. And it ended up being a nice piece of sporting equipment, way more fun than bowling or golf."

This spirit of preservation is anything but lost on Alicia Cook, a member of the Mohawk tribe who was on hand to sell jewelry, baskets, animal skins and other assorted Native craftwork which she noted "you can't just pop into Wal-Mart and pick up."

Cook gazed at a cornfield in the distance.

"I look at that corn and I see the husks and in my mind I can see myself braiding the husks for a mat at the entry of my door," she said. "You don't usually see that today. But when you come to my house, it's like coming to a museum. I try to stay as traditional as possible. I keep it that way so we don't lose who we are. That's all I can do."