Nuge Factor: Deer Hunting Fatigue

Nuge Factor: Deer Hunting Fatigue
By Ted Nugent

I really didn’t think I was going to make it. The alarm clock blasted me out of a deep, intense, much-needed REM sleep and, in my near zombie-like state, I actually smashed it off the nightstand with a flailing, swinging sweep of an uncontrollable arm. It was my powerful inner instincts telling my body it desperately needed rest. The sound of the clock breaking into many pieces with a loud clatter and clang woke me up more than the alarm itself. I slowly slogged myself from under the warm covers, painfully lifted my sore legs from the bed, and carefully attempted to transfer my body weight onto my swollen, battered ankles. Getting old is tough, but it wouldn’t be so bad if I would just manage my time and energy with a little more old-age respecting moderation. Yeah, right. Moderation. As if that word could define my over-the-top, gungho, extremist rock-n-roll bowhunting life. Everything in moderation. That’ll be the day.

It is on many, many such predawn mornings as this throughout the long hunting seasons, for many years now, that Mrs. Nugent will make it even more difficult for me to get up and get going. She does an angelic job of luring me back into the increasingly inviting warm bed, making little puppy-like whimpering noises, no doubt somewhat perturbed with my noisy, Richter-scale jarring rise from the sack. It takes the discipline of Job for me to keep going. A true test of spiritual discipline if ever there was one. Somebody has to balance the herd! If not me, who? Onward and upward!

Today I pause again on the edge of the mattress, head in hands, slowly stretching my aching neck and shoulders and trying like hell to muster the strength to get upright and prepare for my 129th day of hunting this season. That’s correct. You read that right. The day after my last of seventy ferocious rockouts in 2007, which was more than four months ago, and not including the three days I spent in Cuba with the United States Military Warriors on Guantanamo Bay, I have hunted every single day. I am that nuts, thank you, and loving every bone jarring, joint crunching, eye burning, soul cleansing, psyche spanking minute of it. And there’s no end in sight yet. Still more than two months of deer hunting to go. I love deer hunting with a passion, don’t you?

I can’t really explain it in earthly terms, at least not to a degree where I would expect anyone else to fully understand. I can easily provide an endless list of why I love it so, but I surely don’t expect very many people to grasp the big picture as to why I would hunt so much, so intensely. Sure, it has a lot to do with the fact that I do ninety-percent plus of my hunting with a bow and arrow, and just the challenge of getting into eyeball to eyeball archery range of ultra-wary big game is stimulating beyond belief. Add the excitement of trying to get to full draw without being detected at such ranges, and then actually hitting a small, vital size target under such pressure and you have one of the top nerve wracking, deeply fulfilling thrills in life. Plus the fact that there are more deer, elk, bear, cougar, turkey and other game animals now than at any other time in recorded history. The stage is set perfectly for bowhunting to become the ultimate outdoor challenge, I believe, in the history of the world. Backstrap flowage. What’s not to like?

Bowhunting notwithstanding, archery is incredible in and of itself. The mystical flight of the arrow is a powerful source of intense inner peace and tranquility for tens of millions of people around the world. From Olympic excellence to casual backyard family fun, everybody is moved to some degree by the hand-eye coordination of sending our own “zen” projectile vision and message from point A to point B, with the ever-alluring desire to be exacting in our delivery. Arrow after arrow, we just know that we can make the next shot better than the previous arrow, and so we keep on trying. Even in the wild, concrete jungle world of rock-n-roll touring, I have witnessed musicians and stagehands drawn to my backstage shooting to give it a try themselves. Many, if not most, have gone on to purchase their own bows and arrows. Many have become bowhunting addicts as well. It’s that powerful.

Finally getting the cobwebs out of my head and the joints, muscles and bones flexing appropriately, I am out the door and into the truck, headed to my favorite wild ground for the day. It is wonderfully cold here in the beautiful Texas Hill Country and it takes a slug of Nuge Java to warm the guts and prod the spirit. Master guide and outfitter, Derek Dieringer of Woodbury Taxidermy fame, takes me to a pre-scouted deer zone where an elevated box blind sits in a grove of live oak trees on the edge of a vast, weedy food plot on the famous YO Ranch. Professional USDA hunter, BloodBrother and vidcamdude, Scott Young, will be handling SpiritWild video duties this fine morning and we quietly climb into our little deer blind with big dreams and gaga anticipation. Everything is perfect.

Quiver removed, facemasks on, scent dispersed, arrow nocked, vidcam in position, spirits on high, the sun struggles to peak at our backsides as Derek pulls away. This is it. This is why. Now, I feel no pain. I am not tired at all. I quiver with incredible excitement. A glowing skim of frost magnifies the slight oncoming daylight. It’s dead silent, not a sound, not a hint of a breeze. You can’t move a muscle, clothing must be absolutely noiseless, soft, arrow rest covered in silent fleece. Game on.

And, even with my wounded ears, I hear it. The dainty sound of cloven hooves on stony earth, as shadowy deer move in from the pale vegetation towards our acorn-rich ambush position. There is no war, no IRS, no crime, no sickness, no terrorists, no meth scourge, no pain, nothing. There is just deer and my arrow. We dare not move. Scott slowly swings the vidcam lens onto the approaching does and fawns. Like me, he is spellbound by the simple presence of stunning beasts. We both see the glint of sun slivers on antler at the same time as an incoming buck cautiously and hesitantly and very slowly approaches the feeding group. We say nothing. We ignore each other, both knowing intuitively that this monarch is definitely a shooter in the Texas Hill Country. He owns us. This is way better than sleeping in.

Head down, the handsome ten-point buck trots stiff-legged after the largest doe; his wet, quivering nose like a heat-seeking sex missile. All the deer give him room, and it is his uncontrollable, powerful breeding drive that will give me a rare, much appreciated advantage. The doe pivots hard right, causing the buck to snap to attention and momentarily pause in mid stride. Perfect. Looking directly away from our blind, slightly quartering away towards his love interest, left foreleg forward, it is literally a bowhunter’s gift from God as my Martin Firecat compound bow comes gracefully to full draw. My twenty-yard pin is centered in my peepsight dead center on the crease behind his shoulder. My overworked, itchy trigger finger slightly depresses the Scott release with a life of its own. A muffled, “flit-thwack,” and the razor-sharp Magnus Stinger broadhead has sliced in and out of his chest in an instant exactly where the Sims fiber optic sight pin glowed. A blood saturated zebra arrow is sticking in the ground as the buck explodes with a leap. He only runs ten short yards and, in a flash, stops, looks around, swings his head, and in under five seconds he tips over and lies still next to a shiny patch of prickly pear cactus. It is the perfect picture of Texas deer hunting and an outcome that any bowhunter would ever dream of. Wow!

What a tsunami of sensations and emotions. Scott’s vidcam captures the pureness of the moment for Spirit of the Wild TV and, truly, you can’t do this in France. Spirits explode. The beast is dead, long live the beast!

We do variations of this amazing fun every day and I am here to tell you that the more we can experience these hands on joys of life, the better our lives overall. Sure, it’s recreation at its finest. It clearly re-creates my energy and spirit. There is no denying that the incredible challenges every step of the way qualify for grand sport. And yes, this hunting life is also my job. Shemane and I produce our award-winning Ted Nugent Spirit of the Wild TV show and, as an outdoor writer, I pursue these wonderful adventures to deliver and share with my pen. Guiding and outfitting other hunters is another aspect of this dream job I appreciate as well. But, just like my rock-n-roll “job,” I cherish every moment of every musical and hunting day so much that I could never regard these as “jobs” in the traditional sense. I am truly a very lucky American.

And it’s a good thing, because as I hang my deer, wash the blood off my arrows, re-sharpen my arrowheads, de-muck my boots and camo clothes, recharge the vidcam batteries and shower before hitting the sack tonight, I know it is going to be a bit rough smacking obnoxious alarm clock tomorrow morning. Once again, I’ll be so tired, sore and outright fatigued that I will seriously question my sanity. But, I shall persevere my friends, for once I wash my face and brush my teeth and my overworked, over-hunted weary old bowhunting body wakes up, I will be inspired to see what my favorite deer stand has in store for me that day. All the fatigue in the world would never keep me from doing what I love to do so much. God made me a deer hunter, and who am I to defy God’s plan? I’ll try to take a nap.

Tags: HI36, Ted Nugent

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