Despite my evolving appreciation for talking to strangers, the quiet rhythm I had been experiencing at the archery range quickly became my ideal baseline experience. It was easy to slide in and out of a row of archers, each just enough aware of the other to be safe and respectful, but mostly concentrating on their own business. The SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. of an afternoon bow & arrow session could be going before you arrive and continuing after you leave. There was something poetic about it.
The absolute worst case scenario was being one of only two archers. Whether rolling up to find a sole companion already in action, or having your peaceful range time disrupted by an arriving stranger - both were helplessly awkward. Either small talk had to commence or chilly silence would prevail, and neither lent itself to the tranquil state I was after.
One afternoon, I was the dreaded second to arrive. I felt particularly self-conscious because I was definitely interrupting something. The first Archer's bow would be more accurately described as a contraption. It was a compound bow, all pulleys and strings and circular shapes. It appeared to be metallic - maybe aluminum or carbon fiber. It sat stock still atop a carefully balanced tripod, with all manner of sights and counterweights and other attachments I didn't recognize. Removed from context, I would have assumed this was some sort of surveyor's equipment.
The archer was kneeling on the muddy ground, twisting some screws and turning some rings. He noticed me arrive and we silently nodded to each other as I staked out a spot a few foam targets down from his science experiment.
While my trusty recurve was modern and sophisticated, it was still essentially a few sticks of bent wood and a string. Sturdy, but decidedly primitive. Swallowing my reservations, I drew back and let my first arrow fly. SLAP. It hit the foam target in a spot that wasn't embarrassing. I glanced slightly to see if the noise had disrupted the scientist. Nope. I'll go again. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
I was about to draw again when I heard an unexpected metallic ZIP and a SLAP from the contraption's direction. The scientist had loosed his arrow, and the calibrations had paid off. He hit the center bullseye with pinpoint accuracy. I paused momentarily in amazement, but then continued emptying my quiver. Another ZIP and SLAP later, and the archer sent another perfectly calibrated arrow towards a secondary circle on the dense foam block.
The scientist apparently only had brought a couple of arrows and he had loosed both of them. He stood up and crossed his arms in assessment. I knocked out the rest of my set, faced him and gestured towards the targets in a "shall we retrieve" motion.
As we walked towards the targets I was suddenly struck with the observation that this man may have been my complete physical opposite. He was lean, athletic and at least seven inches taller than me. He was clean shaven with a razor-bald head and dressed head toe in hi-tech performance fabrics.
I am short, fat (generously described as stocky) with wild wavy hair and a scruffy face. That day I was wearing a hoodie, cheap cargo pants and muddy hiking boots. Sturdy, but decidedly primitive.
"Well" he said, gesturing towards my bow. "That's a bit more genteel, isn't it?" He had a mellifluous British accent.
"Pardon?" I said, immediately recalling from an old episode of Seinfeld that this is what the Brits say instead of 'what?'
"Your bow," he clarified. "It's very elegant, isn't it? Very sophisticated looking. Much more old-world romantic than that piece of machinery of mine."
"Oh." I was taken aback. Humbled even. "Well, I guess I just wanted something simple and physical to do..." Sensing this was a compliment I should somehow return. "But I'll never get that type of accuracy." I gestured in deference towards his target, still pierced with his pinpoint shots.
"Eh well," he cocked his head to the side a bit "I imagine that's not the point, is it?"
My complete opposite or not, this man understood me. Or at least, what I was doing.
We chatted for a little bit after that. He was indeed from England, but had moved to the U.S. and lived and worked previously in Ohio or North Carolina or some other place that for some reason I can't picture there being British people. But he had always wanted to be a hunter and Pennsylvania was perfect for it.
Strange, I was a lifelong anglophile, and always wanted to be Robin Hood, or at least Friar Tuck. Somehow we both ended up here.
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