A Hunt To Forget by Ray Scott
May 9, 2020 7:21:49 GMT -5
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Post by p on May 9, 2020 7:21:49 GMT -5
A Hunt to Forget
Do you ever get the feeling that you should have stayed in bed and then the day just keeps on getting worse? Well I had a hunt like that several years ago in Queensland Australia.
I had hunted this cattle station on two other occasions and had a great time. Last year I connected with a very nice Chital Buck and at the same time had spotted many huge Rusa Stags. I vowed there and then to return for a hunt this year. I had arranged with the guide to combine an end of year hunt with just him and myself with the understanding we could go our own way. This was to give him a great chance to hunt without the worry of having clients to look after. Something that’s rare for guides to be able to do.
A date was set with the enthusiastic instructions from the guide to catch the early flight. “We can race the three hour drive from the airport to camp and fit in an afternoon hunt” he said. Great stuff I thought music to my ears. When the plane arrived at the “little tin pot” airport there was no sign of the guide. So I sat on a hard cold stainless steel bench and waited ….. and waited, one hour, two hours, three hours and it was just coming up to the fourth hour when my patience finally run out and I went into orbit. Coming back down to Terra firma I was casting around for something or someone to vent my frustration on when I suddenly remembered I had his mobile number. Would my phone work out here in the middle of nothing but vast sugar cane fields I wondered as I dialed the number. He answered on the third ring. “I will be there in five minutes Ray” he said “My last clients shot a Rusa Stag at nine this morning, and I have been breaking all the speed laws in Queensland to try and get them in there for the final departure flight which leaves in twenty five minutes” he said. Then the phone went dead, just in time for me to hear screeching tires coming around the corner. Doors flew open and guys, bows and bags were thrown out and rushed into the departure area. Fifteen minutes later the guide came over and after shaking my hand, hustled me and my gear out to the wagon and we were off.
I congratulated the guide on making his clients happy with their success, saying that I understood the reason for his late arrival and that I was looking forward to our hunt together. After a slight embarrassed pause, he advised me there were two other hunters in camp, but not to worry they were close friends up for a hunt. WTF was this I thought, this hunt had been planned all year and now this. “Oh” he said “I also have another chap coming in in three days’ time”. Sh-t this was getting worse by the minute. I later found out that he had put the call out to a few of his mates inviting them up for the last hunt of the year. Needless to say I would never have booked this “paid for hunt” if I had known this beforehand. He then went on to say that because of the drought the country was gripped in, it was extremely hard hunting. and because of the lack of cover it will have to be all tree stand hunting.
After a couple of hours in the car I started to experience a feeling of discomfort down in my nether regions, Oh no, I had experience Hemorrhoids (piles) in my younger days but not for many years. I bet it was that forced sit on that cold bench seat for so long. I groaned and thought, what a time to get a case of them, stuck miles out in the bush hours away from anything. While I sat in the wagon feeling mightily p-ssed off, I sneezed and my nose started running. What now I thought? I bet I have caught some thing off the planes air conditioning.
Sure enough within 24 hours, I had a full blown head cold and a serious case of hemorrhoids. Which I was later to find out were bleeding profusely. Too much information I hear you say, well to bad. If you aint had them you won’t know what it’s like, but if you have you will know what I am talking about. This later proved to be particularly uncomfortable when sitting on a hard tree stand seat, it felt like I was sitting on a sharp rock. At the same time trying not to sneeze and being unable to wipe my nose. For three days I got steadily worse I was the picture of abject misery, and then I was saved. The guide returned with some medication he had picked up for me when he had gone into town to collect the other hunter. Within 24 hours I started to feel some relief.
What about the deer I hear you ask. Well let me tell you there were hundreds of them. It was a sight to behold. The rut was in full swing and it was mayhem out there. Not far from camp there was a large plain stretching a couple of miles and approximately half a mile wide, and it was on this plain that the deer congregated each night. There were deer everywhere and the noise could be heard quite plainly all night. When a doe was in season the stags came running, which always ended in a punch up. Over the years I have seen many different deer species fighting, but nothing like the Rusa stag. They were downright vicious, resulting in many walking wounded bodies and a mass of broken antlers. On one occasion I witnessed five huge stags minus one of their antlers, limping out into the sanctuary of the surrounding bush for a bit of RandR their season done, being unable to compete any more.
Every morning when the day started to warm up the does would leave the plains and head into the bush with the stags following. Their departure was completely random making it impossible to know where to place a tree stand. They always seemed to file past me one hundred yards away. Shift the tree stand and they filed out somewhere else. All the hunters were experiencing the same frustration with only one stag going down while I was there. It seemed impossible after seeing upwards of two hundred stags each morning that we couldn’t get a shot. Frustratingly when driving out to the stands the headlights picked up deer of all shapes and sizes. Many large stags would stand and just blink at us as we drove slowly past no more than ten yards away. Nightly “drive by” hunting would have reaped enormous success I thought. Stealing a quick glance at the other hunters I could see the same thought crossing their minds. But of course no one dared to mention such a thing. It seemed absolutely unbelievable that such huge numbers at night could vanish by day.
A wallaby under my stand
It was on the third morning, and I was in a tree stand overlooking a water hole. Painfully shifting from one butt cheek to another, trying to avoid the sharp rock that had become the center point of my miserable existence. At the same time I was afraid to wipe my streaming nose for fear of being seen by the many deer dotted around. I occupied myself as best I could by gazing through heavy eyes at the constantly moving mass of deer out on the plains.
What the h-ll was I doing here? I was thinking to myself when a nice Rusa stag came limping into the waterhole, man he was beaten up. He lowered himself into the water hole, and I watched in fascination as he proceeded to wallow in the mud. Not being satisfied with that, he would scoop up huge blobs of mud with his antlers and patted the stuff all over his back using the back of his antlers. By the time he had finished he looked like a walking mound of mud. Rusa are like wild boar they cake the mud on so thick, when hardened it’s like trying to penetrate a covering of Armour. I thought briefly of putting an arrow into him but I did not have the will nor the desire to try. When he had gone I lowered myself out of the stand and walked (limped) the half mile back to camp and laid up for the rest of the day.
A beaten down warrior
By the time the last hunting day arrived I was starting to feel a little better. Time to try a new tactic as the tree stands weren’t working. We had noticed towards evening the big stags would come into a large wallow. The trouble was it was way out in the middle of the plain with absolutely no cover. The station owner was talked into placing two large round hay bales close to the edge of the wallow. We then placed some hessian around the back and over the top leaving the front open for me to shoot through. I named it the Taj mahal and was feeling confident as I settled in well before the stags were due to come back out of the bush.
The Taj Mahal
Just as the sun was lowering itself towards the horizon, I spotted tiny specks converging out onto the plain with some of them heading towards the wallow. Three smaller stags arrived first with more coming, and I was relieved to see they paid zero attention to the blind. In fact after a while I could hear snuffling around the back of the blind then slight movement of the bale I was leaning against. Easing over so I could look through a tiny hole in the back of the hessian I was amazed and thrilled to see three feet away two yearlings feeding on the hay. I chose to ignore them and waited for the big boys to arrive. Suddenly a huge body moved into my line of sight no more than twelve yards away and stopped in a picture book pose. He was a beauty with a good spread and high tops. Trouble was he was a double drop tine and by request of the owner was untouchable. It was almost as though the stag knew it because he was fearless. Later I mentioned him to the guide and he said several hunters had at some time had him in their sights but as per instructions left him untouched.
Double drops
More stags were coming in with the larger ones hanging back. Light was starting to fade when I spotted a real bruiser coming in. He was the biggest I had seen with heavy antlers that would have measured 38+ inches (36inch was regarded as huge). He even had a single drop tine to add to his appeal, I would be one very happy hunter if I could lower him to the deck I thought to myself. By the time he came into the wallow light was getting very poor and I knew I had limited time left. I readied myself Expecting him to stop on the edge like all the smaller stags had, but he caught me completely unawares as he fronted straight through the wallow, and stopped away around to my right leaving me unable to draw on him caused by the limitations of the opening. I had no option but to try easing slightly out of the blind in full view of the other stags that were frolicking in the mud not twenty yards away. I knew this was going to be my last chance. I ever so slowly eased out until I could get a full draw on him, all the time expecting to have my cover blown by the Stags that were by now staring wide eyed at me, unsure of the vague shape emerging out of the darkness of the blind. By this time I was squatting half in, half out of the opening and I started to draw the bow. He was twenty yards away completely unaware and perfectly side on. The bow came back to full draw, finger lightly touching the trigger. Darn it I needed a couple more inches to get a clear shot. I eased across a little more and with only one more inch to go I began to think this is going to happen, when the top of my bow banged against the make shift beam holding up the hessian. The resulting jolt caused a reflex jerk of my trigger finger and the arrow was off whistling harmlessly over his back, a blur of movement and I was on my own. Oh the frustration of it all, to blow a certain shot on one of the largest Rusa stags I had ever seen. I guess on reflection it seemed to sum up the whole week that I had just experienced.
As I said at the start of this story there are times when it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed and this trip was one of them. Normally at this stage of the hunt, if unsuccessful I try to be philosophical and say to myself, it’s all about the hunt, and claiming an animal is only part of it. Being out there enjoying nature and pitting my will against a worthy foe is what it’s all about. But I could not help thinking it was a sad end to my hunt, made all the more poignant knowing that this was going to be my “last ever big away” hunt.
Written by DreamRider.
Do you ever get the feeling that you should have stayed in bed and then the day just keeps on getting worse? Well I had a hunt like that several years ago in Queensland Australia.
I had hunted this cattle station on two other occasions and had a great time. Last year I connected with a very nice Chital Buck and at the same time had spotted many huge Rusa Stags. I vowed there and then to return for a hunt this year. I had arranged with the guide to combine an end of year hunt with just him and myself with the understanding we could go our own way. This was to give him a great chance to hunt without the worry of having clients to look after. Something that’s rare for guides to be able to do.
A date was set with the enthusiastic instructions from the guide to catch the early flight. “We can race the three hour drive from the airport to camp and fit in an afternoon hunt” he said. Great stuff I thought music to my ears. When the plane arrived at the “little tin pot” airport there was no sign of the guide. So I sat on a hard cold stainless steel bench and waited ….. and waited, one hour, two hours, three hours and it was just coming up to the fourth hour when my patience finally run out and I went into orbit. Coming back down to Terra firma I was casting around for something or someone to vent my frustration on when I suddenly remembered I had his mobile number. Would my phone work out here in the middle of nothing but vast sugar cane fields I wondered as I dialed the number. He answered on the third ring. “I will be there in five minutes Ray” he said “My last clients shot a Rusa Stag at nine this morning, and I have been breaking all the speed laws in Queensland to try and get them in there for the final departure flight which leaves in twenty five minutes” he said. Then the phone went dead, just in time for me to hear screeching tires coming around the corner. Doors flew open and guys, bows and bags were thrown out and rushed into the departure area. Fifteen minutes later the guide came over and after shaking my hand, hustled me and my gear out to the wagon and we were off.
I congratulated the guide on making his clients happy with their success, saying that I understood the reason for his late arrival and that I was looking forward to our hunt together. After a slight embarrassed pause, he advised me there were two other hunters in camp, but not to worry they were close friends up for a hunt. WTF was this I thought, this hunt had been planned all year and now this. “Oh” he said “I also have another chap coming in in three days’ time”. Sh-t this was getting worse by the minute. I later found out that he had put the call out to a few of his mates inviting them up for the last hunt of the year. Needless to say I would never have booked this “paid for hunt” if I had known this beforehand. He then went on to say that because of the drought the country was gripped in, it was extremely hard hunting. and because of the lack of cover it will have to be all tree stand hunting.
After a couple of hours in the car I started to experience a feeling of discomfort down in my nether regions, Oh no, I had experience Hemorrhoids (piles) in my younger days but not for many years. I bet it was that forced sit on that cold bench seat for so long. I groaned and thought, what a time to get a case of them, stuck miles out in the bush hours away from anything. While I sat in the wagon feeling mightily p-ssed off, I sneezed and my nose started running. What now I thought? I bet I have caught some thing off the planes air conditioning.
Sure enough within 24 hours, I had a full blown head cold and a serious case of hemorrhoids. Which I was later to find out were bleeding profusely. Too much information I hear you say, well to bad. If you aint had them you won’t know what it’s like, but if you have you will know what I am talking about. This later proved to be particularly uncomfortable when sitting on a hard tree stand seat, it felt like I was sitting on a sharp rock. At the same time trying not to sneeze and being unable to wipe my nose. For three days I got steadily worse I was the picture of abject misery, and then I was saved. The guide returned with some medication he had picked up for me when he had gone into town to collect the other hunter. Within 24 hours I started to feel some relief.
What about the deer I hear you ask. Well let me tell you there were hundreds of them. It was a sight to behold. The rut was in full swing and it was mayhem out there. Not far from camp there was a large plain stretching a couple of miles and approximately half a mile wide, and it was on this plain that the deer congregated each night. There were deer everywhere and the noise could be heard quite plainly all night. When a doe was in season the stags came running, which always ended in a punch up. Over the years I have seen many different deer species fighting, but nothing like the Rusa stag. They were downright vicious, resulting in many walking wounded bodies and a mass of broken antlers. On one occasion I witnessed five huge stags minus one of their antlers, limping out into the sanctuary of the surrounding bush for a bit of RandR their season done, being unable to compete any more.
Every morning when the day started to warm up the does would leave the plains and head into the bush with the stags following. Their departure was completely random making it impossible to know where to place a tree stand. They always seemed to file past me one hundred yards away. Shift the tree stand and they filed out somewhere else. All the hunters were experiencing the same frustration with only one stag going down while I was there. It seemed impossible after seeing upwards of two hundred stags each morning that we couldn’t get a shot. Frustratingly when driving out to the stands the headlights picked up deer of all shapes and sizes. Many large stags would stand and just blink at us as we drove slowly past no more than ten yards away. Nightly “drive by” hunting would have reaped enormous success I thought. Stealing a quick glance at the other hunters I could see the same thought crossing their minds. But of course no one dared to mention such a thing. It seemed absolutely unbelievable that such huge numbers at night could vanish by day.
A wallaby under my stand
It was on the third morning, and I was in a tree stand overlooking a water hole. Painfully shifting from one butt cheek to another, trying to avoid the sharp rock that had become the center point of my miserable existence. At the same time I was afraid to wipe my streaming nose for fear of being seen by the many deer dotted around. I occupied myself as best I could by gazing through heavy eyes at the constantly moving mass of deer out on the plains.
What the h-ll was I doing here? I was thinking to myself when a nice Rusa stag came limping into the waterhole, man he was beaten up. He lowered himself into the water hole, and I watched in fascination as he proceeded to wallow in the mud. Not being satisfied with that, he would scoop up huge blobs of mud with his antlers and patted the stuff all over his back using the back of his antlers. By the time he had finished he looked like a walking mound of mud. Rusa are like wild boar they cake the mud on so thick, when hardened it’s like trying to penetrate a covering of Armour. I thought briefly of putting an arrow into him but I did not have the will nor the desire to try. When he had gone I lowered myself out of the stand and walked (limped) the half mile back to camp and laid up for the rest of the day.
A beaten down warrior
By the time the last hunting day arrived I was starting to feel a little better. Time to try a new tactic as the tree stands weren’t working. We had noticed towards evening the big stags would come into a large wallow. The trouble was it was way out in the middle of the plain with absolutely no cover. The station owner was talked into placing two large round hay bales close to the edge of the wallow. We then placed some hessian around the back and over the top leaving the front open for me to shoot through. I named it the Taj mahal and was feeling confident as I settled in well before the stags were due to come back out of the bush.
The Taj Mahal
Just as the sun was lowering itself towards the horizon, I spotted tiny specks converging out onto the plain with some of them heading towards the wallow. Three smaller stags arrived first with more coming, and I was relieved to see they paid zero attention to the blind. In fact after a while I could hear snuffling around the back of the blind then slight movement of the bale I was leaning against. Easing over so I could look through a tiny hole in the back of the hessian I was amazed and thrilled to see three feet away two yearlings feeding on the hay. I chose to ignore them and waited for the big boys to arrive. Suddenly a huge body moved into my line of sight no more than twelve yards away and stopped in a picture book pose. He was a beauty with a good spread and high tops. Trouble was he was a double drop tine and by request of the owner was untouchable. It was almost as though the stag knew it because he was fearless. Later I mentioned him to the guide and he said several hunters had at some time had him in their sights but as per instructions left him untouched.
Double drops
More stags were coming in with the larger ones hanging back. Light was starting to fade when I spotted a real bruiser coming in. He was the biggest I had seen with heavy antlers that would have measured 38+ inches (36inch was regarded as huge). He even had a single drop tine to add to his appeal, I would be one very happy hunter if I could lower him to the deck I thought to myself. By the time he came into the wallow light was getting very poor and I knew I had limited time left. I readied myself Expecting him to stop on the edge like all the smaller stags had, but he caught me completely unawares as he fronted straight through the wallow, and stopped away around to my right leaving me unable to draw on him caused by the limitations of the opening. I had no option but to try easing slightly out of the blind in full view of the other stags that were frolicking in the mud not twenty yards away. I knew this was going to be my last chance. I ever so slowly eased out until I could get a full draw on him, all the time expecting to have my cover blown by the Stags that were by now staring wide eyed at me, unsure of the vague shape emerging out of the darkness of the blind. By this time I was squatting half in, half out of the opening and I started to draw the bow. He was twenty yards away completely unaware and perfectly side on. The bow came back to full draw, finger lightly touching the trigger. Darn it I needed a couple more inches to get a clear shot. I eased across a little more and with only one more inch to go I began to think this is going to happen, when the top of my bow banged against the make shift beam holding up the hessian. The resulting jolt caused a reflex jerk of my trigger finger and the arrow was off whistling harmlessly over his back, a blur of movement and I was on my own. Oh the frustration of it all, to blow a certain shot on one of the largest Rusa stags I had ever seen. I guess on reflection it seemed to sum up the whole week that I had just experienced.
As I said at the start of this story there are times when it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed and this trip was one of them. Normally at this stage of the hunt, if unsuccessful I try to be philosophical and say to myself, it’s all about the hunt, and claiming an animal is only part of it. Being out there enjoying nature and pitting my will against a worthy foe is what it’s all about. But I could not help thinking it was a sad end to my hunt, made all the more poignant knowing that this was going to be my “last ever big away” hunt.
Written by DreamRider.
