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A couple of success stories
I see so few deer that whenever my eyes do chance upon one, it takes a fairly long moment for my brain to register what I am looking at. By the time this has happened, the next thought rolls through; how much time do I have? I like to think that so far in my short hunting career I have made all the right decisions when it comes to the moment before pulling the trigger, and accept that I may miss the odd deer by being a tad slow.
But in this case I knew I could have walked back to camp, sharpened my knife, put the pan on the stove and started heating up some onions to go with my fresh back steaks before the two Fallow spikers left the clearing. Instead, I thought it would be prudent to go with the safe option. I take off my day pack, slowly place it in front of me, load my rifle, rest it on the pack, and use the time more wisely to try and slow my frantically beating heart. Despite the deer being only 50 metres away I was taking no chances and waited before the crosshairs were rock solid on the spiker’s shoulder before squeezing off. After that one crumpled, I look up to see deer number two bolting for the safety of nearby cover, then making the fatal mistake off stopping immediately before the safety of that nearby cover to see why his buddy had stopped for a snooze in the swamp.
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That was our third and final day at mumble mumble creek at the end of cough cough splutter road. Another party member had already accounted for a red hind, and would take another fallow that evening. Along with a few eating goats, I came home with the biggest sack of meat ever from a hunting trip.
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A few months and a few blisters later saw my first hunt for the 2014 roar. The biggest animal I had shot previously was a red yearling, so I was determined to come away with some sort of headgear, or to at least hear a few stags roaring in close. After failing to find anyone who could come with me, I decided I would just head into the North block of the Pureoras for the day. I had been up the road before, but only in my trusty Honda Civic, which I discovered is not actually an off-road vehicle (after doing a bit of minor damage to the front bumper). This time I would have my father’s trusty Prado, which would give me the ability to go as far up the road as I pleased. Or so I thought, until I discovered that there is actually a rather large slip part way up, and has been for a few years. Nevertheless, I park up at a suitable spot and proceed to head into the bush. Not far from the road, I come upon the barely discernable shape (and smell) of a rotted deer carcass in the dim morning light. Unsure whether to take this as a good sign that there are clearly deer here, or a bad sign that there are clearly lots of hunters here, I keep my beeline for what I hop is spot x.
Despite coming away empty handed, the day was probably the best day hunting I have ever had. I saw four deer, the highlight being when I roared up a young 8 pointer. It was mid-morning, and this guy was the only stag that was still going. Best of all, he was only a couple of hundred metres away. I debated whether or not I should give him a roar, as all the others I had tried to wind up must have quietly chuckled to themselves at my piss poor attempts and snuck off. Nevertheless, I let rip with my best impersonation and was pleasantly surprised when he rudely cut me off with a full on challenge. We continued like this for the next five minutes, with me slowly sneaking closer and closer. Next thing I know, I give a roar and hear a reply that scares the shit out of me. I’m sure (I hope) I’m not the only one, but I find that despite having a rifle in my hands the sound of a stag less than fifty metres away is a scary thing.
I put a round onto the chamber and desperately try to control me breathing, which incidentally is not the best way of doing it. Probably calmly controlling my breathing is a better way to go. Check the wind, make sure I have a clear shooting alley (that’s what they tell you to do in all the magazines) and give another roar- the stag then decides he is not going to roar back, and instead walks around my nice shooting alley and promptly stands immediately downwind of me. I can see the outline of him through the native, but not enough for a shot. I go so far as lifting the rifle and looking at the shape of his head through the scope, but I know I would be more distraught at missing or injuring the animal than having him get away. So instead I take a cautious step sideways, trying to get clear view before my stench fills his nostrils; no such luck, the movement is enough to send him barrelling back off down the hill.
Day two, I leave home at 4.30 to be hunting at first light. Up the same road today, but a slightly different area. No stags are roaring, but I spook something early on in the day, and then when I am sitting down for lunch I hear the cautious footfalls of a deer. After a painstakingly long few minutes, the only view I get is his head and scrubby antlers looking down at me. I line up his forehead and take a few seconds to think- no worries; I’ve made a harder shot than this only a month before at a Whitetail. BOOM crash crash crash.
Day three, this is the day! Third time lucky and all that. This time my cousin Nico is coming along, despite a wrist in a cast. We head for a wallow I had come across on day one, but we never reach it. After 20 minutes we spook a hind, and ten minutes after that a stag walks up to about 7 metres from us. I step out from behind my tree, note the rather surprised, but not yet worried look on his face, and shoot him in the chest. We are back at the car by 9 o’clock, and this hunting business seems to have suddenly become a lot easier.
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