Trying to get my new bow set up dialed in. I think I’m almost there but looking for some feedback/opinions. I shoot right handed and three under.. For anyone who bare shaft tunes; What yardage do you tune at? Do you tune for perfect level (not slightly nock high - again bare shaft - no feathers)? Do you keep your bow vertical for the tuning process for left/right spine check? I normally cant a little when I shoot but I’ve always read that you need to tune vertical for accurate assessment. Just curious what others do.

It has been a few years since I had built arrows other than fletching up carbons but after the last set I did a friend wanted a set so here they are. I will start the cresting process this weekend. More updates to come.

Happy Canada Day and 4th of July to everyone. This week's cold shot challenge is using something that makes an appearance at a lot of BBQS this time of a year, a red solo cup, and we're gonna fill it up...with arrows. It's a simple challenge to help us aim small, simple secure the cup however you'd like and walk back 10 paces and take your shot. If successful the next day go an additional 2 paces If unsuccessful you repeat the yardage the next day. Enjoy! I'll post my daily attempts for the coming week. Day 1 success. Tomorrow is 12 paces. If you don't have a cup simply make something similar in diameter.

I've been missing in action the last month--blame additional work and the end of school season. I'm finally getting a chance to share another poem. It's still rough, but I feel this one will resonate well with the Ethical Predator membership. Enjoy! _____________________________ 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙨 There was a time when the hunter moved like he was the land. His gear was born from my bones—crafted from the earth itself. His bow, carved from a branch that had fallen in a storm, shaped by the wind and guided by the rhythm of the seasons. His arrows, fletched with feathers he found beneath my trees, each one a quiet prayer to the creatures that roamed beside him. His cloak, sewn from the pelts of animals who gave themselves to him, soft with time, worn with memory. Every piece of his gear was a gift from me, crafted with care, worn with respect. Nothing was wasteful. Everything had a purpose. And he understood this. He knew that to take from me was to give back—always. The earth never gives without asking something in return. His scent? That was my scent. He moved through my trees like a shadow, invisible to all but me. His smell was of autumn leaves crushed underfoot, the rich earthiness of peat moss pulled from the bogs, the faint, smoky trace of a fire that had passed through and renewed the soil. These scents, warm from the sun, clung to him and blended with the wind. He didn’t try to hide his scent. He became part of me. Part of my cycle. I gave, and he took only what he needed, moving through my world with respect, never deceit. He wasn’t separate from me. He was of me. But now ... now I watch. I see him standing in my forests, a stranger wrapped in the cold, unnatural fibers of a world that doesn’t belong here. His boots are no longer soft leather or moss-covered soles; they are stiff, synthetic, designed to block out the very earth I gave him. His bow, once made of wood—shaped by the hands of a craftsman—is now a sleek, polished tool of metal and plastic. His arrows, which used to be fletched with feathers, are now cold, carbon-fiber rods, sharp and foreign to my soil.

Hope you get out to fling some arrows today!