An old friend
I’d finally managed to wrangle some free time last Sunday away from the toils and tribulations of yard work. My game plan was to grab my Matthews LX and head out to the indoor range for a few hours of target shooting. I made my way to my “space” and was about to pull my compound off the hangar when I saw my Great Plains recurve hanging idly, covered with four years worth of dust. I felt a pang of guilt for having let the bow sit for so long unused. I walked over to the bow and gently removed it from the rack. The poor thing was covered in a blanket of lint and filth. I grabbed an old tee shirt and wiped off four years worth of neglect and decided I’d string the bow just for old time’s sake.
It took me another fifteen minutes track down the stringer. About thirty seconds later she was lined up, strung and ready to go. There was something warm and welcoming about this bow and I remembered how much fun I had at the traditional shoots with my friend Glenn. Glenn passed away tragically in 2004 and the bow simply sat on that basement bow rack since the funeral, a reminder of a friend that died too young and several painful memoires of that terrible loss. My finger traced the outline of the laminated riser and I gently grasped the bow in my left hand. I had forgotten how well this fine piece of craftsmanship melded with the natural curve of my palm. The string was in remarkably good shape despite the passage of time. I felt a pang of sorrow as my mind dredged up the memoires I’d come to associate with this weapon. I was about to unstring the bow when something inside me stopped. I glanced over at the Great Northern bow quiver and the four judo pointed arrows nestled in place. Maybe now was the right time to exorcize the demons I’d placed in this object. I dug up my bohning string wax and went to work.
After a liberal dose of wax and some elbow grease I was ready to go. I decided I’d go to the club and stump shoot til my fingers were numb. It felt weird not having a heavy bow on one arm and my other hand strapped to a finger release aide. Instead I was carrying a veritable feather in my left hand while three fingers of my right hand were getting reacquainted with a shooting glove. As I made my way into the woods I spotted my first target; about fifteen yards ahead lay a good sized, half rotted stump. I took a deep breath and drew back on the bow. The feeling was alien; there was no let off and no more peep sight or pin to hone in on my target. My body felt uncomfortable and holding the full 65 pounds was a sensation I’d long forgotten. I relaxed my fingertip and the arrow launched with a ‘thwip’ sound. My arrow sailed about two feet high and to the right of my intended target; this was going to be a long afternoon.
I found my arrow and walked another fifty feet or so looking for another safe shot. The next target was a clump of earth maybe ten yards off. I remembered something Glenn used to always say whenever we were shooting, “Relax, you’re too stiff; bend the elbow a bit and lean forward slightly.” It was the same mantra every time I took a shot.
I followed the instructions in my head and drew back. My fingers magically found their anchor point and before I even knew what happened the arrow was in flight. The judo point exploded in the dirt inches in front of my target, a far better effort than before. I could feel the excitement and anticipation build as I retrieved my arrow and looked for the next shot.
I saw another rotting stump and guessed this was about twenty yards or so out. I squared my feet, and then took half a step out with my rear foot, my knees bent slightly and I raised my bow. As my bow arm lifted I pulled back on the string in one fluid motion. I reached point and my fingers came to rest on the corner of my mouth. I relaxed my grip and launched the cedar arrow towards my target. I heard the satisfying ‘thunk’ as the judo point impacted with the stump.
“That’s more like it,” I whispered as I carefully pulled my arrow from the stump.
I shot that bow dozens of times that afternoon happily spending four hours in the woods shooting at old pine cones, stumps and rotten tree falls. For the first time in four years I wasn’t relying on a carbon shaft or an illuminated preset pin for accuracy, I was shooting instinctively and enjoying every second… like I used to with my friend. I missed as many shots as I made, but that wasn’t the point. I was having fun and rediscovering the joys of traditional archery. I looked down at my Great Plains Red River recurve and felt a tingle run through me. I wasn’t reminded of my friends tragic passing, instead I remembered all the days of shooting and hunting we spent together and this bow was a part of each fond memory. I hadn’t enjoyed myself like this in quite awhile and I’ve rediscovered a love for archery that I shelved for far too long. I know my friend is looking down on me and smiling from a happier place shooting his own bow in his little corner of heaven.