I’ve spent more hours than I can count with a bow in my hands. I’m constantly tinkering and chasing that perfect shot. As a bowhunter, my world revolves around getting close. I want to get close enough to hear a bear’s breath or see a deer’s ear twitch before I loose my arrow. It’s not like rifle hunting, where distance can mask your flaws.
With a bow, you’re in the thick of it. You are exposed. There’s no shortcut to success. The real lessons archery has drilled into me go well beyond the hunt. These are lessons that’ve seeped into my bones. They’ve shaped how I see patience, effort, and what it means to earn something in a world that hands out too much for free.
My grind starts months before I ever step foot into the woods. Archery isn’t a pick-up-and-go type of gig. It’s tweaking draw weight until I get a buttery smooth draw, swapping broadheads to find the one that punches through hide like butter, and weighing arrows to balance speed and lethality.
I practice constantly, working on my anchor point, my release, and my stance. I’m chasing that perfect moment when the arrow thwacks the target dead-center, again and then again. Usually, it feels like I’m chasing an ever-receding horizon.
It’s not glamorous. Most of my shooting is done either in my cold garage or at the local spot on public land where people shoot guns. Bullet casings and other trash are strewn about everywhere. And I’m mostly alone. But that’s where the magic hides: in the unglamorous solitary repetition.
Most of life these days feels canned. Modernity is pre-packaged, instant, effortless. Need money? Just make a few bets on FanDuel and get rich quick. Have a problem? ChatGPT is just a click away. It’ll know what to do. Have a pain point in life? Just pop a few pills and it’s fixed! Convenient, no doubt. But it’s hollow.
Archery’s the opposite. You get better through effort. You earn it through calluses and misfires, through tinkering and failing. You earn it late at night because you can’t sleep until everything is perfect.
There’s no app that can make you lethal at 40 yards. It’s just time, sweat, and a willingness to fail until you don’t. I’ve often thought about hucking my bow into the woods.
That’s a lesson the modern man is starving for: the slow, stubborn joy of building something real.
Out in the field, it’s even rawer. Bowhunting demands you close the gap between you and your prey. It’s usually 20 yards. Often less. You’re not sniping from a ridge; you’re sneaking through the autumn olive, reading swirling winds, counting steps. One crack of a twig—one misstep—and it’s over.
I’ve had a turkey bolt because I moved a finger. I’ve had deer vanish because I shifted my weight the wrong way. It couldn’t be more humbling. It’s taught me patience.
Not the sit-and-scroll kind, but the kind that stills your pulse when your legs burn from crouching and your shot window’s shrinking. It’s focus, too. Tuning out the ache in your knees to lock onto that one spot in the vitals you’re aiming for. Life’s full of cheap and easy noise; archery strips it down to what matters.
There’s a flip side, too. You gain a respect for the moment. When you’re that close, you feel the weight of what you’re doing. A broadhead’s edge isn’t just a tool, it’s a pact. A bad shot means a slow death that leaves a stain on your mind and soul.
Caring for my gear, sharpening blades, truing arrows, it all mirrors that. It’s not about ego; it’s about honoring the animal and the craft. In a throwaway culture, archery has taught me to value what lasts.
Maybe the deepest cut is how it’s shown me my limits: I’ve missed chip shots, watched arrows sail high over bucks after months of prep. It stings. No matter how hard I try, I can’t blame the bow or the wind. I have to own it. And then I go back, adjust, shoot again.
That’s not just hunting; that’s life. We’re softer than we should be, cushioned by handouts and quick fixes. Archery is my reminder that struggles aren’t a curse. Struggle is a teacher.
Every bullseye, every clean kill, every quiet morning with a bow in hand, I’m proving something to myself that real things take work.
James Zandstra is an experienced outdoorsman with a passion for the Mitten State. Follow his work on X @TheFairChase1.
