It's always fascinated me that we hit anything at all. The marvels of modern technology make this no less wondrous, watching slow-motion footage of a released arrow, seeing all those wildly oscillating bow parts, arrows coming off the string like wet noodles. I still can't shake the notion, no matter how modern my equipment becomes, that there's magic involved, directing that arrow into a wee little spot way out yonder. There's nothing so beautiful to my eye as that moment of arching suspension, a clean arrow spinning toward the intended target. Since then I've bowhunted with any kind of archery gear conceivable, from the most primitive to tricked-out, high-tech compounds, in locations as wide flung as Alaska and Africa. I acquired a 45-pound laminated recurve two summers later and killed my first deer with it by that fall. Shortly afterwards neighborhood rabbits remained in a constant state of terror nearby creek carp gaining newfound wariness.
I shot that bow until my fingers blistered. When 10, I mowed maybe 37 lawns to buy a Fred Bear fiberglass recurve with 30-pound draw, a boxed kit including cedar arrows, arm guard, glove and hip quiver. On more than one occasion as a youngster I found myself in hot water after hacking off a piece of family landscaping for yet another of my hand-hewn "selfbows." While other kids yawned during archery sessions down at the YMCA, I had to be dragged away when the boring swimming pool or arts and crafts followed on the roster. I've been fascinated by the flight of the arrow since childhood.
0 kommentar(er)
