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...
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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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