Todd A. Kuhn - Shooters Bible Guide to Bowhunting

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It was strung with cotton cord spooled on a wooden spindle that had been bought from a dusty mercantile in upstate New York. The cord was destined for my grandmothers clothes line. My grandfather, an outdoorsman, squirreled away the remnant twine on a hand-hewed header in a tool shed hed built in the early 1920s. Its roof pitched and yawed, having grown temperamental, afflicted from decades of heavy snows and legume growth that enshrined the ancient structure. Teetering on its floor joists, its once firm stance had succumbed to the roots of a neighboring balsam fir. To a four-year-old, that shed held a unique fascination for a vivid imagination and a spirit for adventure.

Rusty tin-lidded jars of milky glass held untold treasures: snelled hooks, brass buttons, curtain rings, and a pocketknife that was bequeathed to me when I turned old enough to handle it with respect and care. On the front step of this shed, my grandfather spun dramatic tales of his adolescence and fascination with the bow. Once he finished, Id run off with that stick and twine in hand, searching for rabid grizzlies and other foe worthy of attention from my finely-crafted weapon. My first real bow was a Fred Bear. I remember it vividly. I stood tall in the backyard of our house in central Florida, my lemonwood Ranger a thing of beauty in the eyes of a youthful beholder.

It had its share of nicks and scratchesall badges of courage etched by mighty warriors from distant lands who too stood tall behind this bow. Mighty men of stern resolve whod fought hand-to-hand against overwhelming odds. Theyd been bloodied in battles, but had emerged victorious. The spoils of victory were theirs. Author on an early morning South Dakota turkey hunt. My knobby knees rattled as I strained to bend those limbs and stretch the frayed string.

I longed to be a warrior, too. Years later, my mom told me the bows patina wasnt earned in battle but from bouncing from one garage sale to the next. Nonetheless, for one scrawny kid, the seed was sown and the dream was born. Fast Forward Those who havent been exposed to archery often ask me why I shoot. For me, (and hundreds of thousands of other archery fanatics), the answer is relatively simple: I love it. For us, the bow and arrow are somehow addictive, casting a spell of intrigue and romance over those who shoulder it.

I consider myself an atypical archer, shooting around sixty arrows a day on weekdays, close to double that on weekends. For anyone who drops by my house, its immediately obvious that Im an addict. For starters, theres a hundred-yard range in my backyard. Well-worn bag targets hang on pressure treated 4x4s, arranged incrementally and staggered at twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred yards. The ragged target faces are testament of the hundreds, if not thousands, of arrows theyve been pounded with over time. Now that I live north of the Mason-Dixon line, there are occasions when the weather turns persnickety.

When it does, I move indoors to my twenty-yard range in my basement. While my wife isnt overly thrilled with the idea of arrows zinging around in the basement, Ive yet to hit anything down there of real or sentimental value. Archery has since morphed into a lifetime pursuit of perfectionperfection in the sense of the human machine (that of muscle, tendon, and bone) mastering the mechanical machine (the bows components). As I mentioned, I have a hundred-yard range. A bag target hanging 100-yards away is a daunting sight. For most visitors, it holds such intrigue.

Those uninitiated to the archery game immediately assume theyve stumbled on a neighborhood gun range. Once I explain the function of my range, visitors are stupefied. The first question out of everyones mouth is How far is it to that target down there, there being the farthest target. And so begins my sermon on the virtues of archery. Cause for Intrigue: 100-yard backyard range. You see, archery is an odd sportone of solitude.

Not unlike that of the long distance runner. Its a sport of seclusion and relative recluse for those who choose to participate. There are no referees, no umpires, or line judges. Theres no clock to run out other than when daylight recedes into night on a days hunt. Theres no overtimeno mulligan, handicaps, or cheering crowds. For team members, the uniform is a favorite brand of camouflage.

Archery is a sport requiring discipline of the hand, head, and heart. You see, to excel you must train the hand through much repetition and discipline the head through mental calisthenics. And to really excel, you must possess a heart whose desire is to achieve. In engineering terms, a compound bow is a simple machine. Its so simple, youll be hard pressed to name more than five or so components that actually move. In contrast, an automobile has more than 20,000 moving parts.

But how could this mechanical contrivance, one of such rudimentary intentthat of casting arrows downrangepossess such a degree of intrigue for countless generations of archery enthusiasts? Archery is a sport of solitude, not one given to crowds. A bowhunter's team uniform is his favorite camo brand. When the compound was first introduced, it was much maligned by traditionalists. It was, after all, like shooting a gun, right? Well, not so much. The modern compound, with its array of accessories, is at best only as accurate as the human machine throttling it. While the act of drawing the bow isnt too difficult, it is extremely challenging to do it with a complete concert of an amalgam of muscles.