Dart keeps falling off the atlatl as you throw: Don’t do this. You can ruin both the dart and the atlatl. You are not seating and holding the dart against the spur tightly enough or long enough.
Why did the bow and arrow take over in some cultures?
Velocity—A dart travels at about two-thirds the speed of a primitive arrow, one-half the speed of a 50-pound long bow, and one-third the speed of a modern compound bow.
Stealth—It is easier to launch an arrow with less movement at close proximity.
Release—The motion and effort needed to release a dart may spook the quarry. Compare this to an arrow which takes about two-thirds of a second for release.
Mastery—The body control, dexterity, and release are much easier to master with a bow and arrow than an atlatl and dart.
Accuracy—Success with a bow and arrow depends on good aim and gear. Success with an atlatl and dart depends on the complex coordination of many body movements, stealth and technology.
An Eskimo throwing board, Australian woomerah, Basketmaker, flexible atlatl, and a Northern Mexico fishing atlatl.
Why did the atlatl and dart survive in some cultures?
Momentum—A dart carries twice the momentum of a primitive arrow, and still greater force than an English long bow.
Kinetic Energy—A dart carries more energy than any other primitive weapon. The Spaniards feared this Aztec weapon as it penetrated their armor even when thrown from great distance.
Function—A bow takes two hands to operate. While duck or seal hunting, an atlatl can be used with one hand while the other handles the boat.
Stealth—Skill and knowledge let the hunter get so close there was no need to change to a new and unfamiliar technology.
Cultural Context/Tradition—The atlatl held a solid place in many cultures as a multi-functional tool. Fire making, woodworking, mixing pigments and tobacco, water dipping, chipping, chiseling, making music, clearing ground, and carving maps to water holes were all part of the functional atlatl.
Finger loops or holes may or may not be used according to preference. The size of the loop is determined by the type of grip you choose to use. Many atlatls provide notches, finger holes, or a narrowed waist that improves grip.
Larry Dean Olsen
Badgerstone
Miss Romain wanted my eyes on the blackboard. But out the window and westward across the desert lay the cave, and my eyes saw only the treasure in its deep floor. That day I formed in my mind an expedition to reach the cave.
It was spring, and I was aching for a plunge into the Stone Age. I was already making excursions into desert places to hunt and to find arrowheads, and I was learning many great things about hides, rocks and mouse digging. But I felt ready for the long trek, the quest for my “Wyakin,” for the feel of total Stone Age living-or something.
Then one day I saw it. I was staring out the window of Miss Romain’s class, and there it was, in my mind’s eye. A cave. Deep and hidden in a narrow twist of a lava gash that cut through the great Snake River plains. Below the cliffs base the talus dropped steeply to a creek I named “No Name.”
In my inventiveness I saw that the cave was large enough to sleep twenty people on its flat floor. Its amphitheater shape caught the winter’s sun clear to its back wall. The west wind was deflected around the living area by a narrow column of rock projecting neatly from the canyon wall.
Beneath the dusty cave floor I imagined buried ancient treasures of Anasazi living. It was a treasure of the greatest value to me. It was the proof of more than Paiute. It was Anasazi, unknown in these parts as declared in writing by the experts. It was something they believed but didn’t know for sure-but I knew I couldn’t have been born in a valley where Anasazi had not hunted!
Miss Romain couldn’t understand me, but she was hopeful for me. Spring vacation was almost upon us and my chances for an academic rather than a social promotion looked good. Ever since the day I learned to read, Miss Romain had tried to coax me into interesting grade-school-level novels. That was until one day she caught me engrossed in Julian Steward’s book, Basin-Plateau Aboriginal Sociopolitical Groups, an anthropological study of Paiutes. I had discovered the book in the Idaho State College library while on a trip to Pocatello.
In the basement of the local library was hidden a reclusive group of archaeologists and their artifacts. They ventured forth each summer to dig sites and get their names in the paper. They returned each fall with their treasures to spread on big tables in the basement. Then, during the winter months, they arranged, pondered and speculated on these tidbits of prehistory. This usually resulted in great pontification on the archaeology of certain sites, very technically written in ugly-looking journals read by a few devotees and then lost in the library stacks.
But I found the writings and I tracked down the lair of the archaeologists in the library basement and I boldly entered their domain. I was not welcome—but for two hours they tolerated my youthful questions and probing. I laid low over each long table and noted the minute details of each tiny flake and tool. The archaeologists and their student fellows kept their eyes carefully upon me and said many times, “Don’t touch anything!”
Then there entered into the lab another person who commanded the entire attention of the experts. It was as if he was their medicine man, or the Great One who gave meaning to their work.
I melted into the huddle around him and listened. He was Sven Lilliablad and he knew things like I knew them. It was instinctive knowledge supported by some pre-existent memory as if the ancient peoples he studied were somehow personal friends. This little white-haired man was intense but spoke softly, and ideas flowed from his experiences like a vision. He gently touched artifacts on the table and explained their intent and function as if he had made them himself.
When I left the lab and walked to where my Dad was waiting for me, I carried, tucked under my coat, Julian Steward’s book and a paper manuscript that Sven, my friend, had given me.
I had learned the difference between those who were academic professionals and those who also knew about the breezes. I knew then that I was not the only dreamer of Anasazi dreams who walked in the 20th century. It helped a lot to know this, and after that, when kids at school called me “Chief Oogie,” I only smiled and let them compliment me to their hearts content.