To the disconnected minds of city folk and nonhunters, I suppose now would be as good a time as any to pose the age old, rhetorical question: are we having fun yet? Certainly the cloud of six billion Ontario mosquitoes covering my face and hands were having the time of their lives, in spite of the fact that I had systematically killed more than a billion or so of them in the last few hours. The hordes of buzzing, flitting, stabbing, bloodsucking pests were clearly oblivious to my heroic destruction of so many of their carnivorous comrades, and on they sucked at the most inappropriate of times. Now they had me. Temporarily, that is, but they had me. There was nothing I could do to save my own blood supply now.
I could have carefully smashed a few hundred more per swipe if I dared, but now, after another long, joint numbing five hour stationery vigil, I was not about to give away my predator ambush position for anything, including the sweet revenge of much loved mosquito slamming.
For before me, finally, moving ever so cautiously into shooting position, was the long awaited arrival of a big, fat, ebony furred black bear, and the magical spirit of the bear owned me. It is the only diversionary tactic that I know of to take such a swarm of mosquitoes off my mind. I tried to think like a US Marine Corp warrior; improvise, adapt, overcome. Semper Fi! I wanted to kill this black bear in the worst way, so damn the torpedoes and the mosquitoes, it’s killin time baby, and I will not be denied.
Even though I was in the epicenter of the world’s densest black bear population, at a bait site set up by one of the best, most experienced bear hunting guides in the world, we all know that hunting is, has been and always will be hunting. Right place and right time is always the guiding hunt dictum, and so far our merry camp if thirteen die hard bear hunters were skunked, and the naked gamepole was painful to look at. I was on a mission from God; redeem WFO Thunder bay Ontario BearCamp, and whack me a handsome Ursus rugsteakus, and quick.
Garth Matyasovoszky and his gung-ho hunt crazed guides operate WFO Outfitters up here in God’s Country Canada, and I was fortunate to share a spirited camp with a gang of my fellow Michiganiacs. Michigan hunters are found in pretty much every hunting camp around the world, for we Winter Water Wonderful sporters are the real McCoy, and we truly crave our hunting life. Watching these guys shoot their bows each day at the range was a clear indicator that something was going to die. I had my work cut out for me. And here it comes.
I am amazed that I can even see a bear in the ultra thick Canadian bush. Waist high and head high dense vegetation conceals the forest floor, and every dark shadow looks like a bear part if you look at it long enough. But after a lifetime of treestand time, dare I say, probably more than any human in history, my predator radar tends to pick up on every and any little indicator, and fortunately I saw the tan muzzle of this bear as it slowly swayed amongst the greenery at about 35 yards deep in the forest, and immediately knew it was a bear. And a good sized bear at that. After three long, bug biting days on stand, I was absolutely locked onto this animal with a throttling desire to kill it. Bears are not an endangered species, but this one was. Immanent, deadly danger.
To kill a bear with a bow and arrow is one of life‘s greatest challenges, but add the increased difficulty of capturing it all on video yourself, and we have us a genuine mission impossible. But they don’t call me the WhackMaster for nothing, and the predator ballet was in full swing mode as I slowly pushed the record button on my vidcam, and ever so slowly lifted my bow for the shot.
It was here where the kamakazi skeeters were in a maniacal feeding frenzy, a bloodsucking orgy of ravenous proportions on my face and bowstring hand. But I’m from Detroit, so I simply ignored them and concentrated on the ribcage of my quarry. When the big bear’s foreleg stretched out a little, my lightweight 50# Martin AlienX bow drew smoothly back to anchor, I picked out my favorite hair on the beast and sent my 400 grain love projectile dead center into the pumpstation. Now I’m not the world’s greatest bow shot by a long shot, but when I’m on and the Great Spirit is with me, the planets do align, and good luck saves my day. It was beautiful!
The scalpel sharp Magnus broadhead sliced in and out of the 300 pound beast in an instant with bright red blood spraying on everything. The bear ran 25 yards, stopped, swayed, took two steps and fell over dead, the classic death moan following less than five seconds after arrow impact. It was heavenly.
I immediately slapped a few thousand mosquitoes to death, then turned the vidcam on a very happy, smiling bowhunter’s face to rejoice the moment of truth that all bear hunters dream of. The jubilant exaltations were elevated to a passionate peak by the three days of challenging, difficult torture, and I danced the hunter’s kill dance of joy. Yes, I celebrated and glorified the bear’s death, for it was perfect, natural and exactly what I flew up to Canada for. The mighty Canadian rugsteak has landed baby, and it is partytime for real conservationists everywhere. I hunt to kill, and my dedication to be the best predator I can possible be is cause for maximum celebration, and the party never ends at the Nugent huntcamps. Know it, love it, live it, cherish it, kill it and grill it. I always do. Tooth, fang and claw is my life, and I couldn’t be happier.
The bloodtrail was a beautiful thing to behold. The Magnus broadhead had given me five incredible bloodtrails on bears so far this year, and this red river lead me to a very dead, very handsome, magnificent beast. My sow surely weighed a good 300 pounds plus, and her rich, shiny deep black coat was immaculate. I could barely drag her for a solo video recovery, but managed to set her up for a respectful salute to the black bear magic we all love so much. I could lose my hand in her long, thick hair, and her brown muzzle made her as pretty a black bear as you could ever want. I sat there deeply moved, even the bugs were forgotten in the presence of the mighty beast.
Back at camp, we all rejoiced our numerous kills that night, and the X on my bear’s heart told the story of my bowhunter dedication everyday at the range before each hunt to aim small, miss small. When hit properly, a bear dies fast, and makes for a very easy tracking job. Mid body behind the foreleg with a slight quartering away angle spells instant death, and I was happy I practiced everyday.
This gorgeous bear was going to make a fine rug, the sweet backstraps succulent on the grill, and the skull, teeth and claws would bring me powerful spirit medicine for my family. With more black bears in North America that at any time in recorded history, now is the time to plan a black bear hunt. The spirit of the mighty beast will be with you forever.
On this hunt, I used a 50# Martin AlienX bow, Sims Limbsaver arrow rest, fiber optic sight and accessories, Scott release, GoldTip 5575 arrows, 100 grain Magnus BuzzCut, Bushnell rangefinder and binoculars, Rhino Skin undergarments, Mossy Oak ScentLok and BugOff clothing, LaCrosse rubber boots, ThermaCell, Skin Armor soap, Code Blue scent eliminator and bear attractant, Outdoor Edge SwingBlade knife, 3Rd Arm vidcam arm, Hunter Safety fall restraint vest and Glenn‘s DeerHandle.
To book a bear hunt with Ted Nugent and WFO Outfitters, or for killer hunting opportunities around the globe, visit tednugent.com or call SUNRIZE SAFARIS at 517-750-9060.