Thursday, August 14, 2014

Passing the torch.

     The longbow makes a graceful arch as the boy draws back her weight. Barely making a sound, the worn, leather tips of his shooting glove release the bowstring sending the arrow towards its mark. The distinctive solid thud of the shaft striking the target plays out over and over on today's range...

      The woods are wide and open. Mature white oaks, pignut hickories, ash and tall pine trees are scattered throughout the property. The deep valleys and steep hills leave no doubt that we're in the Appalachian foothills. Far enough East in the Buckeye state that we might as well be in West Virginia. Either way, a long way from home.

      We hike our way through the archery range under the August sun. Last week's coolness has given way to a bout of high humidity and the muggy air can be wrung out of my shirt and wiped from my forehead...The shade of the trees is welcome relief. Each one in our group takes his turn and steps up to the stake. The shooters focus, take aim and launch an arrow, hoping for a good hit. I try not to stare ,try not to critique as my son sends an arrow from his longbow...but he knows I'm watching.

     His arrow hits pay dirt as the scores are called out and the shafts pulled. Solidly in the 8 and 10 rings for the most part. An occasional stray arrow, but few and far between for couple of the boys in our little group. On to the next target and much of the same...My 16 year old's arrows hitting where they are supposed to be while mine are smacking a tree or skidding through the dirt under the target, a clean miss...

     My frustration mounts and finally, I give in...at this point, I'm just happy to hit the target and not destroy or lose any more of my precious arrows. Target archery is as much of a mental game as it is physical, but today, my mental side isn't cooperating...The boy and I aren't in an “official” competition, but I know that he's watching my poor performance as much as I am keeping track of his hits. I can almost sense his sympathy for me with a hint of a smile at knowing what's coming...

      Almost to the end of the course and he hits a rough patch, but is able to shake it off and tighten back up. His lean frame pulls back the string one more time, the longbow shoots with just a whisper and the bright orange feathers of his arrow mark the spot on the target. Just behind the foam deer's shoulder, exactly where it should be. We gather the arrows and make our way off the range...

      The scores are tallied, but I already knew the result. I had given up keeping my score half way through the course...part out of frustration, partly to save myself from embarrassment. Regardless, it was bound to happen and somewhere deep in the woods of Guernsey County, Ohio, it did. The boy didn't just best his old man, he humbled him. No caveats, no excuses. No asterisks of shooting from the youth stakes, this was fair and square, all things equal. A good old fashion tail whipping...

      But rather than pouting or feeling sorry for myself, I was proud of the kid. Years of shooting traditional bows has paid off, not only in the field and hunting, but on the range as well. No sights, no releases, no mechanical aids. Just the boy's instinct and muscle memory. If I'm going to lose on the archery course, I can't think of anyone I'd rather lose too...Besides, I can still beat him at arm wrestling...for now.

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