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 along the creek flats, I slipped into the creek bottom and slid my way back up the bank. Then we start the ascent to the ancient an invisible fence line; which would lead to the snig track straight up the spur line. The southern side of the hill the soil was still moist, which helped my climb by allowing my toes to dig in. Anthony just back from NZ was fast and silent up the hill; the three of us were not so fit and honestly needed a few rest stops before the snig track was reached. The snig track was not overgrown, the dry conditions on the spur line had prevented new growth, however the rocks and shale were not overly pleasant to the feet in the “silent stalkers”, and a few choice words were muttered under my breath.

Half way up the spur a meeting was called as to who was going where. “Millsy” and “Shearer” called dibs on the higher part of the face and continued their march gaining valuable height for glassing. Ant and I decided on a lower game trail hoping that they would walk past within bow range of some fallen trees that would make a good hide. Positioning our butts gently on the sharp rocks and sticks, we waited in silence. Binoculars to our eyes we glassed the opposite face for movement. Still well before shooting light, the full moon enabled us to see the 120yds to the bracken covered hillside. Lower, something moved. My eyes strained, yes it was a deer, three in fact.

Ant had made the right call taking the lower trails. In the meeting I had suggested with the full moon the deer would moved on from their feeding area towards their beds earlier and due to the cold winter night they might have fed lower in the valley. He had agreed and firmed it with “Millsy”.

The trail they were on would bring them about 15yds from our position; everything was going to plan, perfect. Then I realized when things are this good to be true they usually are! Deer although not silent when on the move, make very little noise; even when the game trails and leaf litter is crispy dry. Unlike me who was fighting the urge to move and with that make a racket. One stick breaking out of place and it was all going to be over. They were no more than 60yds away now, still on the right trial, we had positioned ourselves well, low enough not to be sky lined an in front of a build up of dead eucalypts.

I watched with deathly silence as the deer slowly moved towards our position, if you have never watched unalarmed deer walk with a destination but unhurried it is a magical treat. Constantly watching for danger, noses continuously inhaling scents, eyes scanning for movement and most importantly ears flickering like high speed bat wings searching for the irregular. Sambar are ultimately designed for predator evasion. Not just like any deer, but from the large cats, tigers; and tigers need to be close to administer their killing methods. Whether it is a calf or a full grown stag all Sambar need to be constantly on guard as neither are safe. The sun began its passage up over the remote hills. Glowing deep orange and sending shards of brilliant crimson intermittently through the dull morning grey, the dawn had been initiated……….

Rustling of leaves meant that the “reckoning” time was not to distant, they were now to close to use binoculars. The two of us sat in stillness that was only broken with the movement of the deer. On their way to the intended sun beds; literally we couldn’t move. Being so awe struck with the spectacle of the deer, it was only through knowledge that anything can happen at anytime, that I had knocked an arrow. “Perfect”, like calm water is waiting to be spoiled, which is why I dislike it “significantly”. Devastated, I watched as instead of walking in front of us, the lead hind; the matriarch, chose that the game trail above our position was a better option for their early morning warmth. Now at 20yds there was absolutely NOTHING that I could do. I couldn’t move for fear of both noise and movement, and eventually the thermals would drag our dreaded human scent uphill towards the ever alert nasal passages of my prey.

All the practice, all the persistence and all patience was boiling down to nothing and slipping through my gloved fingers. I wasn’t feeling much other than the numbness that it wasn’t over, it was now no longer in my favor. The deer continued on their amble, now out of sight behind the fallen eucalypts we had so carefully used as a camouflaged backdrop to our silhouettes. We could hear, legs brushing twigs and weighted hooves crushing leaves, closing my eyes I imaged the deer, the three of them making progress on the trail behind us, so close. I could hear breathing, not mine theirs. It was competing with my heartbeat for the loudest noise of daybreak. Imagination is a wonderful thing; I was now using it to locate their hidden position behind me. Even in all of their invisibleness, I was also about to use it to a more definite advantage.

Ears literally burning, the abrupt sound of hooves digging into the crusty topsoil of the game trail sent my brain into over drive. Instinct and planning melded together and in one swift movement I twisted at the hip, drew the bow and released. For the few milliseconds that is scored forever in my memory; I saw a Cervus’ dark shape silhouetted by the rising sun, she had hit the scent and her senses had locked onto my intrusion. I did not see an arrow in flight nor did I hear the arrow release or hit the target. This was perception and instinct from months of reactive practice minced into less than 2 seconds……The sound of running deer reverberated around me as the three deer took off down the hill. Watching until out of sight, then listening they slowed, there was a cough just below our position. Then there was an audible thud followed by the sound of nothing more than an ordinary morning. I looked at my watch 7am, I turned to Ant; he had a grin that would have made the joker proud and a pair of thumbs up. I had no idea really of what he was so excited about.

I whispered “What happened man?”

“You got her, you got her man, I am sure of it!”

He shook my hand, and stood up. I couldn’t stand just yet, had I got her? Settling my nerves I pulled the range-finder from my pocket, 8yds! I stood up…..stretching the legs we whispered a plan, give it 15mins then go the 8yrds and see what may or may not have occurred. Sitting back down, whispering away it was a bit of an anti-climax to see a stag following the hinds trail until about 20yds from our position. Looking up and seeing two hunters staring straight back at him seemed to disconcert him enough for him to call the hinds scent not as important as his own life, he scuttled! It should have been the longest 15mins in my life, yet with the sun up, mate to chat to and a stag visiting, in no time at all we were standing up and sneaking up to the position of truth and reckoning……..

Blood, bright crimson and increasing amounts of red life; her life was slowly leaking away. Ant was wrapped and I can’t say I wasn’t. Another 15mins I said, half hour is mandatory according to other bow hunters. We looked for the arrow, guessing it had passed through; 900gns driven by 76lbs isn’t stopped by much. It didn’t take long, sketching an imaginary line of the arrows flight; it had traveled another 35yds after passing through, covered in scarlet tacky liquid. It was no gut or liver shot. I had had enough, I grabbed the video camera out, passed it to Ant and said “lets go bud, film me, she’s not far”.
He walked ahead while I followed the trail; it was so profound a blind man could have felt his sticky way. No more than 35yds down the trail, I screamed “look man there she is, F#@K mate, I did it, everyone said I couldn’t, mate I’ve done it, look over there beside the log…….. (I continued on for a little while, I am told)”. We scrambled down the slope trying to keep our footing without breaking something. We got there in one piece and inspected the fallen beauty. I checked the arrows path, it had clipped the right side of the paunch, through the liver, diaphragm, right lung, the shot being taken up hill the Outback’s blades had sliced the two major arteries under the spine then exited about 5 ribs in on the left hand side. She had never known what hit her, traveling no more than 90yds straight down hill, only the first 35yds had been in a gallop, the rest she had trotted until she had fainted into the log!

Dropping my pack pulling out the film camera, Ant started with the snaps. I reached further in, pulled out my hip flask, sitting on the log beside the lifeless body, reality hit me, I had taken her life. Slowing twisting the steel cap off I lifted the flask looked at her mane and took a mouthful, as the sweet pungent solution swirled in my mouth I stroked the forehead of the most beautiful wild animal I had ever harvested, the emotions came……