Ryan A

It was dead calm in the woods when a spike stepped out like he owned the place, maybe 11 inches of antler, standing way out there at a ridiculous 80 yards, and for some reason I decided this was the moment. No sights, no gadgets, just me and a recurve, so I drew back, picked a spot that felt more like a guess than a plan, and let it fly. The arrow arced forever, high enough it looked wrong, then somehow came down perfect — thwack — clean hit, mule kick, three bounds, and he was done. No tracking, no second arrow, just silence and disbelief, because nobody there could wrap their head around an 80-yard recurve shot dropping a spike like it was scripted