Slings and arrows
I have a new-found lust to sling arrows.
I went to target archery shoot Sunday at the local range. It was a 3-D trail shoot, meaning you walked through the oak-studded hills of the range and stopped to try and stick two arrows in each 3-D target from marked yardage.
All the targets had a Halloween theme.
There were 28 targets in all.
Now, I do not have a compound bow. They run like $500. And I’m left-handed, which makes buying one used all that more difficult. Do I want one? Hell yeah.
I am seduced by the power and the simplicity of the weapon system.
And I’m a natural.
While doing a story on archery in May, the folks at the range found out that I had “the eye.” They gave me one of the club’s children’s left-handed bow, a little teal blue number that pulls like 40 pounds of force on the string. No sights, you just have to go by feel.
I started sticking paper targets at 30 yards. Consistently.
"He's got the eye,," the 79-year-old instructor told me. "Kid, you're a natural."
Cool.
“You want to warm up?” the club president said Sunday.
“Naw, let’s just shoot.”
"Oh, that's right, I remember. You just like to pull back and let fly. Shit, this aught to be interesting."
I have a healthy respect for guns. I have guns. I shoot guns.
But there is something just sexy about standing 30 yards from a target – in this case a little three-foot-tall green blob creature, the booger-man, with eyes and a nose and a round white target on its chest – and drawing that arrow back to your nose. Letting go.
And sticking the little dude right in the chest with an aluminum-shafted target arrow.
We had scorecards, and actually kept score on the top half of the range, but kind of gave it up. We were bullshitting too much and started making up our own yardage on certain targets.
“What the hell?” my buddy said at one station. “That’s not very scary, or very Halloween, if you ask me.”
On the target station were the busts of four prairie dogs. The targets were maybe a foot-and-a-half tall. We had to shoot from 20 yards.
My buddy managed to place both his arrows into one prairie dog; I hit another – and a hay bale behind the targets (I got a little tired).
“Oh, see, they are scary,” I said as we pulled our arrows. “Dave painted the eyes red. They’re demonic prairie dogs.”
After the shoot, one of the “range ladies” – she ran the concession stand – said she had a left-handed compound bow.
“It was my brother-in-laws and he shot it maybe twice. You’re welcome to it, if ever you want to mess around.”
Ooooohhhhh, I’m all about messing around.
Especially with ancient weaponry made even more dangerous with the use of pulleys and carbon-fiber components.
I went to target archery shoot Sunday at the local range. It was a 3-D trail shoot, meaning you walked through the oak-studded hills of the range and stopped to try and stick two arrows in each 3-D target from marked yardage.
All the targets had a Halloween theme.
There were 28 targets in all.
Now, I do not have a compound bow. They run like $500. And I’m left-handed, which makes buying one used all that more difficult. Do I want one? Hell yeah.
I am seduced by the power and the simplicity of the weapon system.
And I’m a natural.
While doing a story on archery in May, the folks at the range found out that I had “the eye.” They gave me one of the club’s children’s left-handed bow, a little teal blue number that pulls like 40 pounds of force on the string. No sights, you just have to go by feel.
I started sticking paper targets at 30 yards. Consistently.
"He's got the eye,," the 79-year-old instructor told me. "Kid, you're a natural."
Cool.
“You want to warm up?” the club president said Sunday.
“Naw, let’s just shoot.”
"Oh, that's right, I remember. You just like to pull back and let fly. Shit, this aught to be interesting."
I have a healthy respect for guns. I have guns. I shoot guns.
But there is something just sexy about standing 30 yards from a target – in this case a little three-foot-tall green blob creature, the booger-man, with eyes and a nose and a round white target on its chest – and drawing that arrow back to your nose. Letting go.
And sticking the little dude right in the chest with an aluminum-shafted target arrow.
We had scorecards, and actually kept score on the top half of the range, but kind of gave it up. We were bullshitting too much and started making up our own yardage on certain targets.
“What the hell?” my buddy said at one station. “That’s not very scary, or very Halloween, if you ask me.”
On the target station were the busts of four prairie dogs. The targets were maybe a foot-and-a-half tall. We had to shoot from 20 yards.
My buddy managed to place both his arrows into one prairie dog; I hit another – and a hay bale behind the targets (I got a little tired).
“Oh, see, they are scary,” I said as we pulled our arrows. “Dave painted the eyes red. They’re demonic prairie dogs.”
After the shoot, one of the “range ladies” – she ran the concession stand – said she had a left-handed compound bow.
“It was my brother-in-laws and he shot it maybe twice. You’re welcome to it, if ever you want to mess around.”
Ooooohhhhh, I’m all about messing around.
Especially with ancient weaponry made even more dangerous with the use of pulleys and carbon-fiber components.
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