There’s a state of mind that numbs you to hunting adventures, even though the drive is only two hours east. Planted in front of a computer for another 12-hour marathon, collapsing after dinner on the sofa in big-screen semi-consciousness watching fighters with shaved heads tattooed to the max sporting nick-names like “The Refrigerator,” “Meat Missile” and “Freak Show” square off in the MMA octagon to kick, elbow and pummel their opponent’s faces into bloody goo, it’s sublimely painless to slip into a rut barren of outdoor aspirations.