A Morning to Remember.

The morning to remember actually started the day before.

At 9:04 am, coffees in hand, we’re headed northwest, an hour and a half past Tamworth for 8 days in the bush.

It’s a special time of year for hunters, it’s what is called the rut – a time when fallow bucks lose their marbles and are overcome with testosterone-fuelled lust. They become maddened by their need to procreate, and will grunt, scrape antlers on trees, and fight other bucks for the right to mount a doe.

The morning started off early, just before dawn. We camped on top of a hill next to our car, where we would leave it for the next 5 days as we lived off our backs walking the hills. The air was a crisp four degrees — the kind of clear you only get far from concrete and cars. The sunrise was a deep orange, and we watched it break over the far hills to the east as we descended into the valley.

During the rut, fallow deer make an otherworldly croaking noise to signal how ready they are to party, somewhere between a gigantic frog and a race car. As we were strapping on our packs we heard the first croaking of the trip. We couldn’t believe our luck – only just first light and already the hills were talking to us. My hunting buddy Cal hit me with his big lopsided grin: ‘Well I guess we’re going that way!’.

As the sun rose, the familiar and full beauty of the isolated valley was exposed to us. The stream had split into multiple smaller creeks in the valley, a deep set creek ran through a rocky canyon to our left.

We walk along a winding road that follows the valley high up a hill, snaking its way towards the croaking. We walk quietly through the bush, our feet crunching and breaking through the morning choir of the birds and the bucks.

One of the best tactics to use in areas low on doe numbers during the rut is rattling. Whilst most hunting is done quietly, rattling most certainly isn’t. Rattling means the banging together of two antlers (or antler-like object) to feign two bucks fighting – the prevailing logic is that the real bucks hear it, think it’s a fight and then want to come and scrap too.

As we pass a few small gullies, the croaking feels like its very slowly getting closer, until quite suddenly we crest the third small gully and it feels like the croaking is right there. We can’t see them, but they sound close, just over the next ridge about 30 meters away, but they’re hidden from view by a patch of juvenile gum trees.

The bush vibrates all around us at each croak, heightening our senses to the point that we can’t see, think, or feel anything outside our most primal of missions.

It’s my turn to shoot.

We creep closer to the croaking, keeping the scrub between us and him, shielding us from the eyes of the wary prey animal.

Cal sets up about 10 meters behind me as I find cover with a shooting lane, guarding against probable avenues – I envision the buck approaching us straight through a small break in the scrub, and I range a few trees to get an idea of potential shots. Nothing over 18 meters. Close.

I nock an arrow, pull up my face mask and give Cal a nod.

Cal rattles. The buck stops mid-croak and answers faster. Angrier. He’s coming.

Cal rattles again, and the buck continues croaking, getting closer.

Cal goes again, and the buck is just through the scrub.

I draw back.

Cal stops.

The buck comes walking through a shooting alley, looking for the fight.

He’s so close, I can’t see anything through my peep sight but his chest as he faces me quartering on.

I breathe.

And release my arrow.

The buck reacts quickly to the sound, thrashing through the bush and running downhill. I don’t see my shot, but as he runs away I see my arrow dangling out of his mid-section and my stomach drops fearing the worst. A gut shot, which would mean a long and painful death for the deer, and a poor job by me. But then I realise that the angle of the exit wound would signify a well-placed shot and my hopes skyrocket again.

I turn around to Cal and he has his arms up in silent celebration, I pump my fist silently in return.

I turn back to see the deer going downhill, maybe 150 meters away, but he’s staggering and swaying, becoming discombobulated.

And then he spins and goes down.

I’ve done it.

WE have done it.

As a bowhunter, I had always dreamed of harvesting a mature fallow buck and I had finally done it. I was speechless with awe. After years and countless attempts, here he was.

As I approached him, I had never seen anything so magnificent.

The brown coat was coarse, tough yet soft, his muscles glistened through the fur. His neck was thick and meaty, the sign of a strong animal, and he had a number of scars across his body, whether it be from predators or other bucks, we will never know. A true warrior of the bush.

As lots of hunters do, I felt remorse for taking an animals life, but as we butchered every morsel I thanked the animal, knowing that this pure, healthy meat was going to feed my family for months to come.

The time is 8.05 a.m on the first morning of our 8-day hunt. Over the next week, we would walk around 20 k

m per day through the bush, getting close but never close enough, over and over. It didn’t matter. Everything after was a bonus.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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