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The Son Of
Black Beauty Part 1
As featured in Bowhunting Downunder magazine 2007 “Ummph, there are no flies, that’s not a good sign”; I smiled; when was the last time you thought that? It was hot, so sizzling, that even the flies had taken the day off. A lack of water and moisture in general must have forced them from the searing heat on top of the ridge. Drawing the bow back to stretch my muscles, checking the broadhead and nocking an arrow at 9am, I started off. One soundless step at a time the new stalking paws I had picked up two days earlier, were working with deathly silence. The forecast had predicted a strong north westerly and a temperature of 43dC. Unfortunately the forecast was unable to predict my sanity, why would a smart hunter or indeed any person want to go out in heat like this? The dry spur down to the creek would cross me over plenty of game trails before hitting the green treeferned basin and I was sure that I would hit good sign before then. I had checked a water hole earlier, probably no more than 1200m away and good watering sign was seen. Worn game trails, fresh foot prints and pellets littered the area. However all seemed to show they were coming in at night, so there was no point sitting down and waiting. I found the first of the many game trails. Kneeling I looked at the leaf litter and the dust. A light smattering from yesterday evenings storms rain had pock marked trail with tiny dust craters. Anything that walked here would easily show on this and any other trail that I planned to come across. I walked the trail into the breeze, nothing showed. No prints at all, seemed all the animals had dropped lower. Away from the hairdryer hot wind into the sheltered gully. I decided to descend further in the hope of at least picking up tracks and it seemed like the sensible thing to do, of course, considering the scorching temperature. In four hours I traveled no more than 400m. Approaching the valley floor, the wind swirled and made every attempt to suck all the moisture from both the ground and myself. I sat down and stripped, bum bag, quiver, gloves and binocular harness to let some hot air onto my skin. I knew it was time to have a break, I did so. The canned fish and energy bar was nothing compared to the relief the water from my bag brought my mouth. They call it “gods gift to humanity” and in weather like this, deservedly so. Opening my pack I withdrew my stone from its sheath, I reached for my quiver and pulled an arrow. I slowly ran the diamond stone over the edge a few times then finished off with the whetstone. My mind wandered off again…… I remembered the first time I hunted this valley, was also warm. However I had started at the head of the gully near the waterhole, closer to the main road. Only four years ago, I was a beginner in the art of Sambar stalking. Not knowing the area well and what I did know was only from map, I dared not venture too far from my vehicle. Even then though, I came across fresh sign. Rubs that made my eyes pop, fresh, thrashed ground and on thick eucalypts followed as well by wide deep foot prints that parted the soil even when he walked from his violent territorial vegetation disturbance. It was also on my first trip here that I saw him, “him?” He was something special, a survivor. In these parts even I knew he was a big deer. I had followed his tracks for little over an hour when instead of looking for the actual deer I made the beginners mistake of looking for the marks to show a deer’s presence. From under the bracken and ferns there was a roar, like a gale forced wind through the undergrowth. Startled I had little time to react thinking a branch or tree had plummeted, I sent my neck into a spin searching. He was black, like a charcoaled log. His body from nose to tail only showed the deepest darkest night is how I can best describe. I never put my rifle up; his awesome power as he tore from below me directly up the opposite face amazed my senses. Huge muscles engulfed his stature, bulging with every leap sending him clearly distances I had not thought possible. Wide long beams of antler streaked along his neck and down his shoulders well over 28 inches, three points on each side with brows that reached well back past the forked tops. In full flight his simple authority from physical presence sent me to trance, “only to look today”. He was truly a wild beast of the bush and the owner of this valley, I affectionately titled him “Black Beauty” Together we had shared this valley for two years, each of us catching glimpses of each other, and each time he had bested me. I was at no loss, because if he was still in the valley so were his hinds and with hinds came my supply of rations. I, unfortunately for him took my share for the table from his harem. Yet on each trip the valley floor showed just as much deer sign as the last. After the first year between his harem and myself, he cast his massive set of head bones and re-grew an equally impressive set not as long as the last but thick like a mans wrist. The forest is neither mine nor the great stag that lived there. So I shared the knowledge of Black Beauty with a select group of hunters. With us hunting the valley at separate times and on many occasions together, the lord of the gorge never presented a shot. It was always a deep black silhouette that seemed to swallow light, glimpsed and gone before a rifle raised. All that went after him are believed to have seen him, once seen you never forgot the monarch’s body and impressive head hardware. Then one year he was gone……………… I drew another arrow from quiver and ran the stone down its edge, hmmmm it was hot. Realizing I had spent too much time daydreaming I moved from the heat to what should have been a moist moss covered log, instead my clothes found a hard brittle dried piece of giant kindling. It had been a hard slog personally to get out today, no more than three weeks prior my wife had brought our second child into the world. With all that goes on after the fact, sometimes hunting and the real meaning of the stalk gets forgotten. My brain was tired, deep sleep forgotten over the last weeks, seemed to push its way into my consciousness. Putting the bum bag behind my head and lying back, I listened. Nothing, no flies not even birds moved in the midday fire laden air, why should I? My eyes closed just for an instant……………… Awaking, I was no cooler than before, rested though and ready to continue. I knew that once you start to rush the stalk and push on with noise, then it is time to stop. My mind had known that the welcome shut-eye would stop that from happening; sometimes what is inside my head does know better. Adjusting my shirt to allow more breeze, as scorching as it was, “better than nothing” was so very true. I noticed the time, in the past I would have rushed to re-assemble the attack gear, today I forced myself to go slow, there was no hurry and really, previously there never had been. Setting off further down the spur, there was no constant breeze, wind nor gale. I was hunting in Gods giant tumble drier, swirling air from every direction, a bow hunter’s nightmare. There is nothing that can ruin a stalk with a bow quicker than the smell of the animal’s greatest and most successful predator. Carrying a rifle would not have concerned me as much as with stick and string. I have used my scent to spook unseen animals to get them to stand at 80m+ making an easy rifle shot, with the bow I had to get close, very close. If I could hit the animal with a thrown stone I was probably still too far for a shot, on top of that the deer would have to be un-alarmed. Nice work SSGA today you just set out to do the impossible. I glanced across the small dried creek to where I was to place my landing foot; something was in the dust, freshly made. One clear deer hoof print made like a stamp into hot wax. Wide, deep, very similar; to similar to what had scattered this valleys floor not all that long ago. Pulling the camera out I needed to reference this footprint like a detective with other photo’s I had at home. He had returned? Spread his superior genes through other far valleys and mountain ranges and then returned to his true home…………………..? Ahhh, another one, those large prints were so easy to distinguish in and along the talcum powdered soil, a big animal had traveled along this trail no more than six hours earlier was my guess. Taking a deep breath I let release on to one of these prints…….. the fine particles of dust just disintegrated away leaving nothing but the trail and leaves…..these prints were fresh. But there wasn’t just one set others, in fact, two others had also been down this same space. A hwy of “hushed” to the lush botanical basin along the cool and noise sheltered larger stream bed. Then as so it so often happens; hunting is so much about it “happening” than almost all other of the items collectively. I got that feeling…….weird, right but wrong. In my back, shallow, around my spine, between my shoulder blades. Something was going to “happen”, maybe not it this instant but soon, soon enough….. Wind continuing to swirl, I walked the soundless game trail. It came to a gentle dissipating end, on what would best be described as the former bank of the stream. I guess when the waterway flooded it would over flow and had created this flat region of fertile silt on which the prickly currant bushes spread their deep, numerous and fibrous roots. Then the stream compelled by the strong rooted vegetation, changed course. Its water current flowed now, some 40m from my position. The 2m high prickly bush would only add to my challenge of today. This field of piercing shrubbery stretched in an oval shape for some 75m and to the stream bank. It screamed, “deer residence”. A sheltered and secluded hide-away, which included the alarm of prickly currant thorns and noisy desiccated leaves. I considered my options, back up the ridge a short way until I hit another gametrail, that contoured around the hide-away and allowed me to over look and see any inhabitant deer. Or through the middle, incredibly slow and ultra quiet hoping if any deer resided they would stand still long enough for an attempt. I decided on the latter, if I didn’t see any live critters I may see where they had slept, ruminated and sunned themselves in the morning light. One silent paw at a time I picked my way into the hell of thorns searching for a patch of dark brown that would be attached to four legs. It didn’t take long to find their beds. Bare patches, cleared of leaves to expose the damp loam on which they would lie, to keep cool. Fresh, so fresh, even the elbow points still showed damp soil. As well as the big hoof prints, splayed even when he had stood to move off, they too showed dampness. They weren’t far. Had I moved them off trying to sneak through, or was there somewhere cooler they moved to in the high temperatures. My eye’s searched for movement, chocolate brown, big round ears, even the horizontal line of a Cervus’ back. Then that “happened” occurred……………… Movement on the other side of the creek, along the ridge…..damn it……I spooked one, stupid, stupid…….……thump, thump, thump………no it is only a wallaby. Why? Heart pulsing. With the shock of cold water on hot oil in a pan, adrenaline coursed through my veins. I watched as the dark “hoppy” bounced his way across the facing ridge. I hadn’t made any noise louder than the wind, and that hadn’t propelled my dreaded human odor towards that part of the valley. My mind raced, wallabies take off for a reason. So I reasoned there is something else in this micro-climate of cool and damp, something that deserved a stalk. This theory was only enhanced by the excruciating pain caused by the razor sharp jaws of the “March flies” slicing through my sweat soaked skin. Previous research from being bitten before had shown other countries call them “deer flies” for the obvious reason; they follow the deer for their life enhancing blood. As silent as was humanly possible for me and my new silent paws, I snuck my way towards where the disturbance had occurred. Mind ignoring throbbing insect bites and broken thorns embedded in my skin. Experience chasing these deer, I had learnt, this could be it? Shuffling my feet only when the wind blew I reached the edge of the creek and peered over…..Oh S#!T………. There, no more than two bow lengths away was a dark brown face, eyes staring right back at me, Sambar hind!!!! She had known the whole time, her sixth sense telling her exactly where a predator would come over the ridge. Standing, neck low, outstretch, between her front legs, peering from underneath the bracken growth. Knowing exactly I was trouble; she backed away three purposeful steps, then turned and trotted up the creek. I had rangefinder in hand; as she stopped I knew it was 33yds. Drawing the bow I aimed muscles ready to release, I did, I released the full draw…….to zero. I knew she was out of my range and to take a shot like that at a 7/8 quartering away, would be unethical. Too many variables and the risk of wounding would be too great. Standing, staring, I wasn’t going to bother her from here and she seemed to know that. I reached around, fumbled the zip and pulled the camera from my bum bag. I wasn’t silent, I didn’t need to be, all I needed to do was minimize my movements. Digital camera in hand, it was photo’s galore. Different angles and light settings, it was almost as if she was posing. Movement cause by her had stirred the wallaby, the reason for the “happening”. Finally the camera ran out of memory, beep, beep, beep, beeeeep. The electronic un-natural noise stirred movement not from the hind, to my right, close, ohhh so close. I had been an ignorant idiot, I had forgotten what I had seen on the “HWY of hushed”. “Incredulous Panic” was the only thing that came to mind…………… Measured and meticulously a very dark shape started to rise in the low bracken fern. It was all in slow motion. I could not see head nor neck, chest was visible and so was the blaze orange fringe of hair on the rear of the animal. The abdomen was also still shrouded, astoundingly a deer, full grown was no more than 11m away and I could still not identify it. The shadowy form had not completely decided what the noise was; whether it warranted a purposeful hurtling from the area or in fact closer scrutiny. Half way to full stand, it stopped. Rump facing up and shoulders still close to the ground. Elbows, no doubt still deep into the soil still. The animals’ physical form was quartering away to my left, there is no better angle a bow hunter could ask. Slowly I lowered my left arm and placed the camera on the leafy earth, with the same fluid motion my hand grasped the bow with arrow still nocked. The arrows path would need to be precise. This is not what I had practiced for the last six months, 45degrees downhill at 11m. No time to think this is instinct. Without moving my feet, I twisted my torso to face the animal. Drawing the bow I felt the string hit my hat, instantly I canted the bow to get full 28”draw. It was all one liquid movement even to hold all 76lbs for 15 seconds, I aimed, and let the string slice like a scalpel through skin, the arrow flew straight no curve through the air; true to my aim. Over in ¼ of a second, a resounding "whack" reverberated back to my ears. In less than that ¼ of a second, the huge animal rose. A drop of red rolled and tumbled down the soot black hide. Both deer broke into a trot, not fast just a focused and determined removal from the lush camp they had bedded. As I watched the Sambar pair go, I knew what I was looking at. This was the same dark silhouette that had haunted me before, except the body was not as thickset in the shoulders. The antlers hard, even in mid-summer, were red-black with thin pearled tips. He was Black Beauties prodigy, one of his many offspring, grown and developed. Yet still requiring time to mature into a beast worthy of his father; needing time combating other stags to prove himself and to assemble the formidable muscular neck and shoulders that his forebear carried. Black Beauty had returned, maybe not in the flesh but carried on like a surname passed from father to son. I sat down on the leaf litter, flustered I picked up my camera and took a deep long drink of water. Mind racing I forced myself to rationalize, I had not seen the arrow hit the stag nor did he show signs of injury. So I slid calmly down the bank, I went directly to the stags' bed and investigated for evidence. It took all of a few fateful seconds to conclude my future actions. I had not seen red fluid, feathered fletches drooping out one side or the razor broadhead on the other. It was all coming together. There was an arrow shaft halfway through a tree fern telephone pole thick. 850gns of carbon rod, razor sharp pushed along by 76#@28” will do that. Solid into the cellulose fibers, right above where the stag had slept; it showed no sign of having touched any part of the animals circulatory system. I was so sure I saw blood. Getting down on my hands and knees I searched the near side of the stags bed, ahhhh no blood, but the answer. The arrows nock, it was red. When the stag had stood up, his backline had caught on the arrows rear and knocked it off. Then it had slithered down the ribs, looking exactly like a drop of blood. There was my disconsolate answer, and not at the stag had gotten away unscathed, but my inability to hit such a large stationary target. Emotions swelled, faded and rolled in. Anger, frustration, disillusionment, bitterness, disappointment, irritation, and others, swirled like milk, unstirred in black coffee. I crouched down, I was hot, it was hot. Since I had missed, I rationalized one thought, one thought alone, give them half hour then get back on their trail. Sitting, I tried in desperation to also reason and find grounds for my miscalculation and inaccuracy. Within that half hour I knew three reasons why I had missed, and exactly three reasons I would not miss again. Shooting downhill I had forgotten the old adage of aiming lower, the arrow, less affected by gravity drops to a smaller degree. So the distance traveled by the arrow is not relative to the same shot on level ground. Also twisting my torso without moving my feet to face the animal, I had made the error of not practicing shots expected whilst hunting. In practice everything is perfect, feet stance, hand balance, 10-15 seconds to aim, etc. In the boonies it is different. You must play the animals rules, however unfair, but as true as time everlasting they have played the same set of laws with all predators. Lastly my cap, I never practice with a cap……………..in frustration I spun my cap around. Finally well cooled mentally and physically in the lush fern growth, I picked up my pack, it felt lighter. The prints fresh and deep on the path, gave a clear indication that they had moved off quickly, but not running. The sound of a predator and his silent weapon not enough to send them into a full flight of panic. It wasn’t long before “hunt mode” was switched back on. Their prints slowed to a walk and in this heat and furnace wind they would not travel far before resting up again. Picking my way up the ferny track I knew I would have to face the thorns again……..this time however I had an advantage, I knew where they had gone. Slowly I climbed, the brittle spins splintered and lodged under my skin. The prey’s trail lead through and along the creek but not my path. I was going to trek my way over the crest between the valleys, a shortcut and an advantages view would be acquired. Creeping ever so slowly I reached the top of the spur and peered down, skylined I moved like a chilled snail, binoculars searching every dark, moving or un-natural shape, nothing. For ten minutes nothing moved, they must have journeyed further than I thought. Picking a trail back down towards the creek, this time there was no prickly currant, just incredibly noisy Goodenia. The shrubby plants leaves shedding their fine particles of dust I inhaled some, the urge to cough was unbearable, I sipped more water. Suddenly explosions of clouded dust, breaking sticks, tearing ferns and the sound of hooves digging deep into the ground, severed my senses. As if by sonic boom I stood startled. Wide eyed I stared at the two animals that up until then had remained invisible. My eyes had been over every inch of this scrub and not distinguished any sign, yet I had nearly stepped on them. Bedded no more than 5 steps away, in unison they had decided to leave. With that they left a stunned predator on one side of the creek and themselves 70 yards away on the other, all in no more than five seconds. Reactively I pulled the camera from my belt and started capturing photos. I captured on film the stag’s appearance and hopefully some of his aura as he stared straight back to identify the disturbance to his afternoon kip. He couldn’t, he could only decide that it was hot in the sun, and as amazingly as they had made their appearance they vanished. They hadn’t left the bracken fern and dogwood face, they currently sheltered in it! Time for another exhilarating stalk…….? Pulling the mouthpiece on the watermate, I took an unintentionally petite mouthful. The lightness of my pack was realized, I had run very low on water. Not serious during the winter, but in the now 40dC temperature, it was. There would be no time for a third stalk. I could at least stay on their trail on my way back to the car. Starting down the hill to traverse the creek, I continually glassed the parallel side, looking for signs of either the stag or the hind. Being quiet was not really an option as I needed refreshment soon, so I hastily and noisily made my way up through the face of dogwood. Easily I found the hind browsing on fresh summer growth, green bush hazel. She hadn’t been disturbed by my two previous attempts at her. However there was no visible indication of the stag’s whereabouts. Somewhere he lurked, probably watching me, I picked a large eucalypt and started to walk along a gametrail. The large gum would provide a rest-up in the shade and a place to once again glass. Wedging my bumbag in a fork of the gum, with a pair of binoculars against my eyes, I peered for movement and black chocolate hides. Gently picking at the green leaves on the hazel, the female deer was seen effortlessly between the dogwood and bracken filled expanse. The stag however had ghosted into the leaf litter that surrounded her. It was at this moment that my binoculars filled with the soot black hide of the stag. Having been looking uphill his dark mass had been sheltered by the lip of the bed he had decided to rest in. At each other we stared. Not once taking eyes from my position, he lifted his bulk, inhaled, and snorted at me resembling a bull about to charge. At 50 meters I saw the opaque moisture shoot out from his nasal passages. Instinctively his front shoulders pushed his hooves deep into the soil and his solid rear muscles thumped hooves even deeper; over the rise he went followed by his partner. Lowering my binoculars I embossed the image into my memories. That days hunt was over, this battle was his, the war may not be………………… Part 1 • Home |
 
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