There's something different about a traditional bowhunter. To him, it's not about matching camos, mechanical sights or high-tech gadgets. It is not an obsession, passion, or even an art.

To him, it's an existence. He longs for a place far away from the stress and chaos of modern society. A place where all that is seems to fade into a natural dimension somewhere between instinct and mind. A place where the illusion of distance between him and his surroundings is eased with the most subtle release of a hand and the graceful flight of an arrow.

He doesn't remember going there, but he knows when he arrives. In that place, he's in contact with his roots, of which he requires no further definition. In that place, he's perfect; if just awhile.