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Columnists : Ted Nugent
Last Updated: Aug 6, 2010 - 1:11:39 PM
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To Kill a Deer
By Ted Nugent
Dec 26, 2007 - 11:01:23 AM

The thrill of the hunt is in his blood and will be until the day he joins those who came before him.

Food. Survival. Life. Now that's what I call  motivation. I will never forget
the 1st deer I killed. If I remember  correctly, it was right around the year
-1000BC, and I recall distinctly that I  was naked and really smelled bad.
There was a fire and a sharp stick. There  weren't very many of us at the time.
Seems that every time we tried to bring a  mastodon or Irish elk to bag with
rocks, most of my fellow hunters ended up  trampled and gored to death. It was tough going. We had to get so close to the  ornery beasts that we didn't
really have a chance. Rocks and spears didn't quite  cut it. Something had to give. What we needed was a longrange projectile to slay  the mighty beasts and party on.

I believe it was my buddy Gunga who constantly  chipped away at this big rock
claiming he was going to create some wheel thing.  Nobody paid him much mind, but old Charlie NoseBone had it goin on, for he had  taken some hard earned sinew and stretched it across a bent Triceratops rib from  which he could fling a small spear with amazing accuracy. He kept mumbling  something about the "mystical flight of the arrow" or somesuch gobblygook, but  boy when he shot that contraption, everybody sure got all wild eyed and  uppity.

In between all our daily chores like skinning,  knapping spearheads,
breeding, gathering firewood and water and guarding our  caves, it seemed everybody wanted to shoot this new bow and arrow. We would  compete to see who could shoot the farthest and most accurately, and then we  would wander down to the tarpits to do a little hunting. Meat, of course, was  everything, and of course whoever killed the most meat got all the babes. Not  much has changed. We soon realized that even though we could now  fling an arrow with some precision out there to 30 or 40 yards, the beasts still  had the upperhand. We stunk so badly, the slightest change in wind direction  would blow an otherwise well executed stalk. Eventually we learned to wallow  about a bit in the dung of our intended prey so we smelled acceptable to them.  We learned to use cover and to become silent and stealthy. Only the most  patient, disciplined hunters consistently brought home the bacon. Sometimes the  arrow would hit midship and we would end up tracking the beast for miles. Soon  we all learned that though the procurement of meat was critical, just trying to  outwit these amazing prey animals was turning into a challenge unto itself. We  dubbed it "sport". I liked to call it "bowhunting".

I had my eye on this gorgeous blond living on the  next ridge. Her father and
mother didn't like me much. I think my long hair and  angry loincloth spooked
them. (I liked to wear live loincloths. Call me weird)  But I knew if I could
just bring them a fresh haunch of venison, I'd have it  made. So I tried
everyday to ambush one of those most desirable giant Irish elk  critters that
followed the winding river in the valley. It wouldn't be easy, in  fact the
sabertoothed tigers and Tyrannosaurus Rex were always about looking for  some fresh haunch of their own, and I knew my little bow and arrow wouldn't stop  one of those suckers in time to save my life. It got a little hairy a time or  two. But you know what they say about love. Fresh haunch is the way to a woman's  heart, so there was no stopping me.

Time after time, something went wrong, and I kept  coming up empty handed.
Then on a perfect hunter's overcast, cool fall day, it  all came together. The
beasts were going crazy this day. It seemed that critters  were running helter
skelter all over the place. I had just taken an extra  hardcore dungbath, and
I was sneaking into the riverbed when I saw massive  sky-hi antlers bobbing
below me in the ravine. The giant Irish elk, the largest  species of the deer
family in history, was beating the daylights out of some  unsuspecting
vegetation only 50 yards ahead. I was mesmerized to say the least.  I hugged the ground and slithered forward as cautiously as I ever had. Arrow on  the string, I slugged along with my chin dragging in the muck till I got so  close to the monster stag I could smell him. The shrapnel from his antler a
was landing on my head when I bent up to draw my bow, twisting ever  so slowly. I guess all that time flinging arrows with the guys paid off, for all  I
remember is the beautiful feathered shaft zipping into and clean through his  
behemoth chest. The giant exploded out across the river in a pel mel splashing  frenzy, and as he emerged on the far bank, he simply stood there majestically  
for a second and tipped over stonecold dead. I thought I was gonna implode I
was  so happy. I had done it!

Our dreams and the love of the sport has to be passed down. Ted embraces the task with son Rocco years ago.

 As I examine this defining excerpt from my distant  ancestral heritage, I
hearken back to more recent hunts of less than a year ago  in 2005. Though the contraption in my pure hunter's hands today has wheels on  each end and state of the art cables and strings and metallurgy breakthroughs,  my bowhunting actions, joys and drive are lick for lick exactly the same as the  original prehistoric bowhunting Nuge on that fateful day by the tarpits. Natural  urge and desire to hunt-check. Protein craving-check. Scent considerations-check. Stealth-check. Practice-check. Scouting-check. Scent  cover-check. Wind direction-check. Cover-check. Stalking skills-check. Pick a  spot-check. Shot placement-check. The rut-check. Babes-check. Pure hunting  needs-check. Meat shopping-check. Challenge-check. Self test for  excellence-check. Instinctual drive-double check. Man. Life. Meat.  Next.

And so it goes from time immemorial to who knows  when, the always enticing
higher level of awareness that causes most of us to  exercise the ultimate
independence of rugged individualism and self sufficiency  that is bowhunting
throttles on in the soul of man wherever you find it. I crave  arrows from my
original Osage and yew longbows, and Fred Bear, Wing and Shakespeare recurves, no doubt. Shooting my  state of the art compound bow doesn't compromise the primal scream of archery  and bowhunting one spit. When it's all said and done, bowhunting hasn't really  changed at
all in actual hands-on functionality from where I stalk the beasts.  All the
technology known to man isn't going to bag a deer until the deerhunter  demands that wonderful reasoning predator touch from within. Know it. Believe  it. Live it. Celebrate it.

Ted indeed got the love of his blonde and how perfect is it, she hunts.

 Oh, and by the way, ol' Aboriginal Nuge got the  blonde, of course, and as
they say, the rest is history. I try to make history  every day of my precious
hunting season. It's inside of me. A better stalk, a  more clever stand
decision, finessed moves, a better arrow, a better tracking  job, always introducing new people to the spiritual ecstasy that is the hunt.  Upgrade comes from what is in the heart, seldom from what's in the hand.  Gratification in life comes from intelligent, genuine effort. I love a solid  crosshair, a well placed shot from my handgun and blackpowder arms. I will  forever thrill at a day afield with family, friends, dogs and scatterguns. It is  all good. Bowhunting elevates the physics of spirituality by its sheer  closerange demands. Enjoy and celebrate every nerve tingling moment afield that  you can. And accentuate the
sensations by passing these passions on to the next  generation of sporters by sharing and introducing someone new to the glorious  world of the great
outdoors' hands-on conservation lifestyle every chance you  get. Our ancestors did it for us and we should make sure we keep it alive. Me,  I'm heading out right now to find my spirit somewhere out there. The mystical  flight of the arrow is timeless. Perfect.

For more Nugent writings or to book a hunt with Ted, visit or
call  517-750-9060.


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