By: Ted Nugent
Never underestimate the power of the kill. Never compromise the essence of the kill. Never apologize for the duty of the kill. Always celebrate that it is indeed the kill that consummates the hunt and brings healthy, beautiful conservation balance to the flocks and herds while providing hard earned sacred protein for our bellies.
The kill is good. The kill is perfect.
Believe me when I tell you that nobody knows better than me that the kill itself is but a hiccup flash in time, that indeed we don’t hunt just to kill, but it is surely the kill that ultimately wraps up the natural, pure predator instinct and never-ending challenging efforts that drive us to hunt in the first place.
Every breathtaking sunrise and sunset are emblazoned on my soul. Every bird chirp and song rings eternally in my head. Every whisper of wind in my face has put rosy cheeks on my spirit, and every fascinating, stimulating critter encounter is cherished beyond words, kill or no kill.
But it is the midcourt 3 pointer at the buzzer, the grandslam in the bottom of the 9th, the 90-yard hail-Mary pass as the 4th quarter clock runs out, the hole-in-one at the 18th tee and the nose-nose photo finish win that titillates and inspires the warrior in all of us that drives the soul of man.
We are the man in the arena, and the arena is God’s miraculous renewable creation.
I get skunked most of the time, but I never give up and never hesitate to get out there and keep trying. Hell, I was skunked year in and year out, every year mostly for the first 18 or so years of my life, so something other than the kill was clearly a powerfully driving, inspiring force to reckon with.
But when that first pheasant tumbled out of the sky, the first bushytail fell to earth, that first bluegill that ended up in the johnboat, and Lord have mercy, that first whitetail deer held in my arms completely eclipsed every sensation and smile from every other hunt by far.
There is no question that we come back to camp or home after every skunked hunt excited and happy from all the joys associated from each and every outing. And those joys amply sustain us and inspire us aplenty to keep at it and plan for the next try.
It can’t possibly be the kill itself that keeps me going, for I hunt primarily with the bow and arrow, and that primitive self-imposed limitation in itself reduces the chances of a kill exponentially.
If killing was my goal, I would start up a chicken farm and kill many chickens each and every day.
I sadly witnessed some of my fellow hunters, and worse, many so called hunting leaders over the years feebly downplay the joys and importance of the kill in a wimpy, dishonest and desperate attempt to gain favor with the lunatic fringe of ignorant, politically correct anti-hunters.
How in God’s name can we chomp down and celebrate the perfection of delicious venison while avoiding the beautiful reality of the kill?
We can’t, and we must not.
Every hunter I know dedicates ourselves to deadly proficiency with our weapons of choice for the ultimate accomplishment of a quick, clean, humane kill!
The hunting of game is perfect. The killing of game is perfect. We must stand proud as hunters that we joyously participate in the miraculous circle of life, which happens to include, death.
Hunt on my friends. Kill on my friends. May your grills and spirit be saturated with singed flesh of hard earned protein forevermore.