The journey began innocently enough four years ago when a friend of mine from Wichita called with a question. A young man in his church was interested in learning to build bows. He had received some money for Christmas and promptly purchased a drawknife, a four-way wood rasp, some scrapers, and a couple of books about bow building.
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My friend Jason and I crept quietly down the sandy dirt road, listening intently for the subtle sounds that would give away the presence of the South Georgia pigs we were hunting. As the dirt road curved gently to the left, Jason whispered, “This is where I shot that huge hog last year. He was up on that rise when I saw him.” Jason pointed to the spot where the hog had been feeding when he crept within bow range. I scoured the ground, looking for any tracks or droppings suggesting the pigs had been there recently.
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When my wife walked in and asked what I was doing, a wise answer was needed. In front of me were a number of wooden arrows in various states of construction, an alcohol burner, glues of various persuasions, broadheads, field points, a digital scale, a note book and pencils along with rulers and my beverage. Having been married most of my life, I knew she was really asking why I was working on the brand new granite counter when I have been assigned other places for glue and flame. I quickly said, “I’m working on my FOC!”
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The surrounding timber is deathly quiet; a moment ago the creek bottom was teeming with wildlife and the sounds of nature. Since the release of my arrow into the rib cage of a beautiful mule deer buck, the woods have been silent. Mother Nature has a way of letting us know we have intruded upon the natural order of things, and as soon as the crashing retreat of the buck faded away, silence settled upon the land. I can still smell the pungent odor of the buck on the early morning wind, the only reminder of his passing.
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Jun/Jul 2015 Edition in this issue:

Broadhead Smoke and Mirrors Russell Thornberry

Gaelic Archery by Neal Matheson

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