The title of bowyer means more than just someone who makes bows; being a bowyer means to be someone who devotes days, months, even years of their lives to the art of traditional archery. What sets these select few apart from other ‘traditionalists” is the fact that a bower makes his own equipment. Bowyers put their heart and soul into their craft, and refuse to give up until the splinters start to fly- then they pick up the pieces and start over again. Being a bowyer isn’t about just making bows; it’s about the passion we feel as we make the bows and the anguish we feel when one of our babies breaks. Being a bowyer is about loving what you do, and bowyers love to create masterworks. This is the story of my journey into the world of bowmaking. This is my bowyer’s journey.

Bowmaking’s addiction set in at a young age for me. It began with a willow branch and a string, then it got stronger. Next thing I knew I was spending hours trying to figure out how to carve an “actual bow”; I thought it would be easy. Boy was I wrong. Then my parents began to fuel the fire by giving me advice and encouragement. I began to collect all the tools I thought I would need to be successful such as drawknives, rasps, saws, and assorted sander. Every time I thought I had finally made a bow that wouldn’t break…
BANG!!! Back to the drawing board.
Years later I was still making bows. I had all the tools, I just needed to figure out why all of my bows were breaking. I worked hard on them for days at a time only to have them break. I thought about buying books, and I eventually did. So I studied, and studied, and studied. Finally I had all the answers, finally I had the confidence in my abilities to make a halfway decent bow.
My first genuinely good bow began with a straight log that came from an ash tree. I split it in half, and split those halves in half. I selected the nicest looking stave and clamped it to a table. Then I stripped the bark off the piece, and began shaving wood off the piece. After countless hours and countless piles of wood shavings falling to the floor, I finally had something that resembled a bow.
The moment of truth had finally arrived. It was time to see how well the bow bent. I was nervous, I didn't want to to have my hopes of having a good bow dashed again. I convinced myself that it wasn’t going to break, and I kept repeating to myself the words I had read months before. “Remove wood where it doesn't bend enough, Stay away from the places it bends too much”. I wished it was that easy.
I worked for hours, I regretted even starting. At six inches the bow bent fine, At twelve I thought I was doing okay. The more I bent the bow the more nervous I became, at 18 inches I noticed my first problem; the bottom limb bent more than the top. I had to even it out, so back to the workbench I went. By this time I had grown tired of scraping wood, every scrape brought on more frustration. I was ready to quit, but for some unknown reason I kept pressing on. It was like some force was driving me onward, I couldn’t stop, for some reason I had to finish that bow.
When the time came to test the bend of the bow again I had developed a strong determination to finish.  I bent the bow back to 24 inches and the bend was perfect, I had completed what I had set out to do. I finally had my first working bow. I stood there and admired it, and I liked what I saw. My dad came out to the garage and stood next to me, and with all my pride I told him:
“It’s done Dad. It’s finally done.”