Hunting Sambar With A Longbow Part 2
As featured in Bowhunting Downunder magazine 2007
Stick, String and Sambar = Patience, Practice and Persistence
With immediacy the sudden tang of the distilled alcoholic liquor filled my mouth as the aroma of the rum sank deep into my nostrils. I lowered the hip flask and gazed at the lifeless hide, how could I possibly feel joy? This day, this moment in time had been stewing over 18 months, and like any good concoction, the mix of emotions from start to, well; this end anyway, had been from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. A journey like this one had started so innocently, when “John” had placed a longbow in my hand. From that moment on I had vowed to longbow harvest a mighty Sambar, not to carry a firearm on any Sambar hunt until my goal had been achieved. Lightly brushing the dust from the wiry bristles on her forehead my mind in turmoil ripped me back; past the hype of half an hour ago, further……. yesterday evening.
Dialing, the ringing started I waited…….
“Boony?”
“Oi bud, is it alright to bring a load of garden waste up to your place for a burn-off?”
“Yeah no stress mate, what time?”
“I’m thinking of say, OMGIFE?”
“Well sun up at 6ish so 4.30am?”
“Done mate, speak then”
“Hey, I got a good feeling ‘bout tomorrow”
“Funny that, same here, cheers bud” As I hung up the phone, I hadn’t lied.
OMGIFE; even my wife knows that word; she smiled and shook her head. It was an acronym termed much earlier in my hunting career standing for “Oh My God It’s F-N Early” and there had been many times it had been coined in the past 5 years. Still something nagged me, so I searched. Finding the film camera under the bed I checked there was film and slid it into my pack, still my mind wasn’t settled so I grabbed the video camera and started to charge the battery. Then un-wrapping a new cassette whilst sitting on the lounge there was a voice; “You don’t even video the kids, I guess this hunting is more important?” Donna, my most patient wife queried. Looking up I smirked, no way was I falling for this one!
Reaching over I pushed the “off” button on the alarm clock and gently slipped out from the doona. I had planned well the night before, bowl on the bench with cereal just needing milk and coffee mug just needing the kettle to boil. I slipped into the shower for a “de-scent”. Taking the last mouthful of coffee, I picked up my bow and eased myself out the front door. I had done this so many times it had become a routine for a Sunday. The trip to Ant’s place was quick, my mind wandering to the weekend before when the two of us had had an amazing “stand-off” with two small stags at 42yds. I could only hope for a repeat, the full moon hung low in the twilit sky as I pulled into Ant’s driveway, n’er was there a better sign……………
Haphazardly throwing all my gear into Ant’s tray I gently lowered the bow and feathered arrows on top. Ant had backed me all the way, not a doubter. There of course had been. “If it hasn’t been done before what makes you think you can do it” went through many a punters mind. Hunting Sambar with a longbow I had definitely challenged myself. Almost every night for 18months I had put 20-40 arrows into a target. I had termed it “practicing instinct” (oxymoron); I hoped one day it would all pay-off.
“Get that into ya”. Jolted; Ant shoved a steaming hot coffee in my hand I could hear excitement in his voice. There would be four of us going out this morning; splitting into pairs we would be hunting either side of a 2 kilometer long spur. We each had been patterning the deer in this part of the forest for three long months, being public land we shared our knowledge as well as the woods with other hunters, bush users and of course, the deer. The headlights flickered catching spiders eyes and ‘roos hopping across the dirt track, then the tail reflectors of Millsy’s car flashed into view. Pulling the ute up along side there were energized whispers hushed around as we donned the head lamps and adjusted our gear. I had always been the last, and as usual stringing the 76lb bow was a little more tedious than the others just slipping a magazine full of rounds, “Shearer” topped it off by asking if I was always going to hunt with the bow!
Lamps on we headed for “abattoirs track”, it had been so aptly named because it was a goat trail that instead of contouring around the hill it almost plunged vertically straight to the creek about 250yds and then straight back up a mountain just as steep. So if you didn’t slip and crack your head on the way in, you’d definitely be knackered on the way out!! Wearing my trademark inside out moccies AKA “silent stalkers”, it made the track even more treacherous. My headlamp glowed red and made the leaves and stones merge together, making it difficult to pick a non slip surface to the bottom of the hill.
Picking our way through the native rubus and thistles ………read more
Add comment July 4th, 2008
