Arrow Paradox

 

When an arrow leaves the string in a forward direction, it flexes side to side. In slow motion, it almost appears as if the arrow is snaking its way towards the target. This is called the "archer's paradox."

As stated by Wikipedia: it is the "phenomenon of an arrow traveling in the direction it is pointed at full draw, when it seems that the arrow would have to pass through the starting position it was in before being drawn, where it was pointed to the side of the target."

Some bow makers have even gone to the extent to modify the riser of the bow to have a window directly in line with the arrow so as to limit, if not eliminate this paradox. 

Keep in mind, one aspect of this paradox is the flexing of the arrow's shaft. This, no matter the style of bow (excluding air bows) will still result in some flexing. The softer the shaft (the spine) and the greater the poundage of the bow, the greater that flexing will be. 

Yet for millennia, archer's have compensated. Regardless of the existence of the paradox, archer's have perfected their skills to compensate for this mysterious factor. 

Recently, as I prepare for opening day of archery season, I was studying arrow building and a YouTuber coined a phrase that intrigued me - impact paradox. 

To paraphrase, his theory is that an arrow traveling at speed will, upon impact with a target medium, flex much in the same way as when it released from the string due to the force exerted upon impact and the energy dissipated through the remainder of the arrow, reducing the effective penetration of said arrow.

My whole life I have been raised with the belief that we are born with purpose. Like an arrow fired from a bow we are on a journey to a target, a target we may not know or see, but are propelled toward nonetheless. The force of our sending may seem great or insignificant, but much of that may be effected by our character, our "spine" as it were.

Some of us are made of firmer stuff. Some have been honed and sharpened to be the best we can, much like Olympic athletes. The challenge is that unlike those who aspire to win precious metals, many of us are just trying to get there - wherever there is.

The idea of impact paradox is fascinating because unlike the archer's paradox, it has less to do with flight and more to due with the results of being sent. In life, we can practice to be precise, for our aim to be as true as we can make it. But ultimately is it not about how we are propelled so much as how, and where, we hit the target. 

In hunting, vitals are the only suitable target to aim for. Ethical hunting requires hunters to be precise and effective, hitting those points that result in the quickest and pain-less expiration as possible. If the arrow flies true, irrespective of the paradox, and hits its mark but suffers energy dissipation, the result may be a wounded and suffering animal. One never able to be harvested. 

So the build of the arrow then becomes crucial. And this is where understanding both paradoxes are important. There are several sections in arrow building that become essential: points, nocks, inserts, shaft, and fletching. And of those sections weight, length, quantity, form, installation all can impact the performance. No longer should it be acceptable to simply buy a set of pre-made arrows and points and shoot until you are "tuned" to the bow and able to hit your mark. Now it is about tuning the arrow, then skill. 

We can't always decide our destination. But we can hone our effectiveness to do what we need to do when we get there. In another post I talked about the Secret of Three. Where these cross is the build of the arrow. The point, the shaft, and the fletchings. Consider a moment the point is hope, the faith is faith and the fletchings are love. When our hope is strong, weighty and to the point, faith becomes integral, riding that sharpened tip towards its objective. With love, love of life, family, friends, God, the arrow stays on course, propelled to hit the mark. Hope is that thing that makes all the difference. Our faith may flex as we chase our mark. And love helps keep us on track. But without that sharp point, heavy with hope, we may just bounce right off the target.

You can have the strongest, stiffest faith and perfectly aligned and shaped love, but without the point, there's not much to be had. Hope isn't the thing that should drive us, it's the thing that should enable us to land our target. 

This is no different in hunting. My hope isn't that the bullet or arrow makes its way to the deer's vitals, it's that once it's there, it is severe and complete in its delivery. The impact paradox suggests that the target can affect the effectiveness of the arrow (or even bullet). A shoulder blade, a rib, or just heavy muscle can alter the impact. But weight your hope. Faith is good. Love necessary. But hope, that's the thing that drives everything home. With a proper build, there's no chasing the trophy - it's assured. 

Now I could get philosophical about all of this. But the importance should be evident. Life messes with our aim. That's where skill comes in. Our environment and circumstances (think rain and branches) can seem like hard obstacles to overcome. But it's been said - run the race to win, doing everything you can to ensure you finish the race. This is arrow building. Shooting for hours and hours to develop reflexes keeps you ready for the hunt. But having done everything, including the right arrow, will determine if you take the deer or wander through the thick looking for blood trails.  

The Greatest Catch

Originally from New York, I’ve lived in a few different states. For a spell, I lived near the Chesapeake with some roommates from out West. One beautiful weekend, the idea developed that we should go crab fishing on the bay. None of us had ever fished for crabs but somehow we came into the possession of some traps and a lead on a good place to round some up..

We set ourselves on a set of piers and tossed the bait-laden traps into the briny water. The sun was warm, the breeze refreshing and the company golden. All we had to do was wait. Unfortunately, the few crabs skittering around the sandy floor of the bay where we were showed little interest in the traps or the vittles they contained. So we chose to try our hand at “angling,” bobbing weighted fishing line with morsels of fish to lure the wary crabs into grabbing hold.

It was in the midst of this impromptu “fishing” that one of my roommates asked to borrow my pocket  knife to trim his line. Without hesitation I pulled the Uncle Henry stockman from my pocket and proffered the knife. No sooner did he cut the line than I heard a plunk a few feet below and beside me.

My roommate’s response was a mix of embarrassment, hopelessness, apathy and condolence. I could just make out the fading shimmer of the open blade as is passed into the murkiness near the sea floor some 15 feet below.

“Um, I’m sorry,” he said with a sheepish ambivalence. Under normal circumstances, this would be water off a duck’s back. After all, I owned nearly a dozen assorted knives. Some pocket, some belt. Some cheap bargain deals and others valuable either monetarily or for some sentimental reason.
The latter was front and center cause for my dismay.

I dropped what I was holding onto the concrete pier and trekked off to my ‘86 Ranger, shouting over my shoulder “Don’t you move!” with all the authority I could summon. Shocked by my demand, he held fast while I began scouring for something to retrieve the old knife. The nets we brought were only a few feet long and we had nothing to attach them to to reach the depth where the knife rested. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tore through the cab of my little pickup, mentally cobbling  together everyday objects, MacGyver-like, to rescue the treasure I feared would be carried off by crabs or the tide.

Leaning heavy on the open door under a brilliant and hot Maryland sun, I just about gave up when I realized where my eyes were staring - there in the door of my truck resided a large magnet in the form of a speaker. Sure, ripping out the speaker would mean no more stereo experience but then again, the amplifier had blown months ago so I had grown accustomed to driving around tunes free.

While the roommate who lost the knife to the water stood affixed in the same place he had been when the knife left his hand, my other roommate had abandoned his crabbing exploits to check on me.

“It’s just a knife, man.” His consolation fell on deaf ears.

“Do we have any rope? Nothing thick. Just big enough to tie this speaker off to?”  I asked.

By now, the intensity of a pursuit was questioned as either some form of temporary insanity or that they misjudged the value of the knife patiently waiting for retrieval. Ignoring the questioning looks of my friends, I yanked the cover off the speaker and used a rusty screw driver that had long rolled around the floor boards of my truck. Once I backed the retaining screws out of their holes, I ripped loose the speaker wires, grabbed the thin nylon rope my roommate had found, and made a makeshift fishing magnet (long before I knew that was a real thing).

I returned to my other roommate’s position at a sprint and asked him, forcefully, to point to where he dropped it. I ignored their doubt filled glances and began carefully lowering the magnet. Bobbing it ever so slowly in contiguous circles, I kept fishing for the old stockman, praying, hoping I would hit proverbial pay dirt.

After what seemed ages, while my friends began packing away the gear and hauling up pitifully empty buckets, I finally happened upon my target. Pulling the magnet clear of the bay and over dry land, the gleam of sharp steel glinted in the afternoon sun. Sure enough, with a grunt of victory and smile of relief, there stuck to the speaker’s driver was the knife.

So we didn’t succeed in catching enough crabs for dinner, nor did what we catch survive the trip home in a single bucket of warm water. Dinner was then to be takeout. But I had my knife.

Why all this about a knife? After all, this was a “fishing trip”, not hunting. There was no game to be had, no trees or wide open places. No peaceful hours in the woods. But there was the thrill of the hunt and the greater thrill of the “catch”.

The knife is a vintage stockman by Uncle Henry. $20 can get you a fair copy today. But a new one wouldn’t have the connection. See, this knife was carried in my grandfather’s pocket for years. He did all sorts of things with it I’m certain, just as my father did when it was gifted to him. And just as I do once it was handed to me. I have very few things that belonged to my father’s father. And only a few more that also belonged to my dad.

There are hunters who brag and boast about the Boonies they drop and the fortunes they pay to show them off to anyone who sits still long enough to hear about their victorious exploit. And there are hunters (and fisherman!) who understand sometimes it’s not the size or even type of game that makes the hunt, it’s the hunt itself. The trophy is more often the story and the emotions it evokes over that of the “ value” of the harvest. My first deer was a button buck taken with a muzzleloader after one of the first snows of winter. He wasn’t much. But I can tell where I was sitting, which way he came and where he ran and dropped after I pulled the trigger. I can tell you who I called to lend me a hand dressing the deer and how unprepared I was. I can tell you where I aimed and how true my shot was. And more.

The hunt is what draws us. Not always the game. Like the story of the pearl of great price, the moral isn’t is the getting of the pearl, it’s what the man went through to get it, the hunt if you will.

One day I will pass on this knife to one of my children. And be sure, I will tell the story of how I went fishing for a knife and what it cost and why it was worth it. And hopefully they’ll think twice about lending it to someone over open water!