The Tough Buck

by Ted Nugent
It had been a grand adventure, I had shared rousing BloodBrother Kampfires with the best of friends. Wild lessons continued to humble the man-predator, even with all the technology brilliant minds could muster. After all is said and done, it’s still the moment of truth at fulldraw for the bowhunter. Nonetheless, the freezer was backstrapped, and succulent life giving earthly herbivorous haunches hung in the pantries of the local soup kitchens. I had done my good deeds and the spirit soared.

But that same spirit beckoned me on. So I sat, high up in a towering, faded, yet sturdy cottonwood, along the banks of the mighty Missouri, taking in yet another battery overcharging evening of stimuli. The confluence of predator and recreationist urges rippled as one on the calm waters of my psyche and as always, I was glad to be alive. My bow felt as one with the hand and arm and soul. My eyes, ears, tastebuds and instincts worked in concert as continuous scanning radar of the marsh. The wind worked with me and the light snow accented my living daydreams. The heightened awareness was why I was here. I wallowed.

“One fat, rusty fox squirrel made the mistake of pausing at the base of a deadfall beneath me.”

Small deer ghosted behind the screen of green pine and cedar boughs ever since I arrived on. stand hours ago. That’ll keep a guy awake. Squirrels stole from the thicket to thicket, working their way to the cut cornfield beyond, hoping to get food instead of becoming food. Huge flights of big, orange- legged Canadian mallards shifted overhead, raft after raft lifting from the rolling waters of the big river. One fat, rusty fox squirrel made the mistake of pausing at the base of a deadfall beneath me, and my arrow found his shoulder pinning him to the stump. He danced for three seconds like a monkey on a stick. Fricassee over mesquite, thank you. My mixed bag grew to include a flashy Chinese ringneck cockbird when he too stopped to listen just under the Pine over overhang. At 20 yards he took my 2315 square for a three count. Variety is the spice-o-life. I to this day thrill at the exacting marxmanship challenge of small targets. Be sure to always have all possible licenses when bowhunting so as to not miss out on these bonus opps. Highly education. Yummy. Shoot ‘em up.

I was feeling a bit guilty, having jeopardized my patient vigil with the twang of small-game arrow shots, but lady luck winked my way anyhow. A sleek, dark brown form melted in and out of the Pinezone 50 yards out, slowly working his way toward my sniper position. A deep rich coat of swamp brown, almost black, made for a rather unique appearance. A highly desirable trophy for sure. The excitement meter pegged. Heart-throb tachometer pinned. He came head on, nose down, and stopped on cue at thirty or so yards. He scanned intensely then groomed himself to provide me added enjoyment. Then turned perfectly broadside for the textbook whackout! I couldn’t believe it. I especially couldn’t believe it when my arrow zinged just over his backbone and he raced away, giving me the “Finger of the Wild!” Even after two wonderfully accurate warm up shots on tiny game 1/100th his size, I blew it royal! I felt like Gomer the Wonder Geek. What’s next?!? Michael Jackson music on my tapedeck?!? Oh the humanity! I luv bowhunting, don’t you?!?

“Forty minutes later, the buck’s lighter twin brother arrived from nearly the same direction.”

The frustration was bearable only because I have learned to enjoy the human inadequacies we are so blessed with! Painful but invigorating. YOUCH! I was tempted to dismount and head back to camp, but just shook my head. laughed and knocked another arrow for the last hour of light. And it’s a good thing I learned patience (at least a little) over the years. For 40 minutes later, the buck’s lighter twin brother arrived from nearly the same direction. I breathed slow and deep, concentrating on the series of events that led up to the earlier miss. I flexed my release trigger finger back and forth on the string as a reminder of “touch” control, gearing up for the moment of truth. This buck took his time, lolligagging amongst the tangles down below. That always makes us that much more nervous. But no time for nerves here. I felt his touch, I felt his guiding hand. Would the buck be mine forever more?

With the last legal shooting light remaining, he stepped out from the puckerbrush branches to look around. He stepped and turned to his right as the Browning came to falldraw smoothly, quietly, and anchored. I kept repeating “touch, touch, touch.” I had to feel the release trigger on my finger and just “touch” it off. At 25 yards, the carbon arrow slammed hard, fully penetrating his muscled shoulder and he wheeled furiously in one explosive flash to vanish from whence he came. I could read that pattern. I sighed, looked to the heavens, ceremoniously descended from the old cottonwood and gathered my stuff. The 5 Star BloodTrail weaved relatively straight down the rows of conifers and under the thick low canopy of tangled willow and olive branches for about 50 yards. His gray-brown winter coated body lay there in the Wistening white snow against a thick old Russian olive tree. He had been touched and I, as always, was most certainly touched deeply.

It is a moving experience every time we kill game. A connection is made that defies all others. It is soulfully stimulating to say the least. You pause to take it all im Life takes on a clarity that guides the heart and mind. It all becomes quite apparent. Simple. Life and Death. Eating and The Eaten. Cycles. Balance. Pecking Order. Creation.

It was here that I said a prayer of thanx to the Wildthings and wrapped up another awe inspiring season of “touch” with the wild. Like the pure sustenance I dragged behind me, through the darkening, snowy forest for my tribe, this touch would come home with me to my family, my daily life and assuredly come back out with spirit from the heart of my guitar the next time I picked it up and let the Hunt Music flow, EarthTones. Touch this.