The Quiet Rut

The rut is supposed to be loud.

Bucks scrape trees, fight each other and make otherworldly croaking, giving other bucks and hunters alike a beacon to aim towards.

Despite a couple of early sightings, by the second morning, walking dry ridges above dry creeks, I began to wonder. Wonder whether we were early. Wonder whether the deer were even here. Wondering what effect the bone-dry climate had on the rut.

The weather was unseasonably hot, easily 30 degrees and by mid-morning, everything was bedding down for the day, the bush going eerily still in the heat.

There hasn’t been rain in months. Surrounded by dry creek beds and dusty towering hills, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’d stepped back in time. No reception, no noise except the occasional flutter of a bird and the wind through the gullies, you feel far removed from society, right where you need to be.

At night, the sky becomes a masterpiece. The Milky Way cuts a clear path across the canvas above us. The stars and the silence hold your attention around the fire, sharp and peaceful.

The night is mild, and we go to bed, tent open, looking at the stars, hoping for change tomorrow.

——

We’re up well before first light, filled with the hunter’s optimism – every new day is the day that it will all come together.

In the darkest hour before dawn, have a coffee and listen to the bush wake up. We hear the orchestra of native birds start their morning call as the sun begins to make an appearance.

And yet, no croaking.

We set off towards the creek, and where we saw sign on the walk in. A few thrashed trees and deer prints in the dirt is all we have to work off.

Every step is tense. We’re stopping every few metres to listen, as though something may have changed, or the angle of the geography will have allowed for croaking to now reach our ears.

But no.

We push on, further from our camp and onto the flats between the ridges, slowly, listening and looking.

And then we see it. A young buck all alone. Moving from one of the few waterholes in the creek up into the hill.

Game time.

We find some cover and set up to rattle. I check the wind, pull my neck gaiter, up nock an arrow and take a few slow breaths.

He’s about 70 metres away, and upon hearing the rattle he stops his movement, and looks directly at us through the cover. He can’t see who’s making the rattle through the cover, but he’s intrigued.

Then something clicks, and despite our best efforts, he continues his retreat into the hills.

As he trots away, he leaves us wrapped and full of hope. The deer are here, just quiet.

——

The rest of the day is uneventful. Now that our cups are full of expectation, we work harder rather than smarter.

For the next few hours, we cover ground in the heat of the day, trying to find bedded deer. We blind rattle, expecting a ghost to appear from the shadows.

On the way back to camp we bump a small mob with a buck from their bedding in a cool gully with a slight tinge of green – a colour rare and almost as shocking to our eyes as the deer.

We recognise the gully for what it is, an oasis amongst the dry bush. There’s a tiny spring that provides the colour.

Later in the day, we return and wait. Wait at the oasis that the deer are surely to return to, and yet, after waiting for hours, we see nothing.

——

The following couple of days blend into one. We’re up early, hearing occasional and erratic far-off croaks.

We see sporadic sign. Cover more ground than is good for us, and get skunked over and over again.

We go shoeless and still hunt through suspected bedding areas. Nothing.

We sit off dams for hours. Nothing.

We blind rattle where we find a concentration of sign, hoping to entice a buck to come have a look. Nothing.

We’re taking the actions of optimistic men, whilst our hearts feel anything but. Over every ridge, our hopes are dashed, every plan that we enact comes up empty-handed, leaving us more and more dejected.

In the long hours of the day, away from society, you realise how much time you have. When you aren’t being pulled in every which direction and you can sit and do nothing, the hours seem to stretch.

Its in such a moment of quiet in a gully that I’m quietly beginning to think that this year won’t be the year.

Unlike other years where we will have at least sighted deer and had close encounters, this rut is beginning to feel doomed.

I don’t voice my feelings, but I can tell I’m not the only one feeling that way.

I go to bed on the last night of my trip resigned to the fact that perhaps this year just isn’t the year.

——

The last morning.

With no deadline to get home, I’m up early again. It will be another 12 months until we’re here for the rut, so I may as well make the most of it.

After half a dozen consecutive days of early mornings and hard hunting, it takes some negative self-talk to get myself up.

After a coffee, I hit the road to an area we haven’t tried yet, but that has held deer in the past.

As at the start of every day, I’m filled with hope, and for once this trip, I’m not disappointed. Upon approaching the area, I hear a faint yet persistent croaking.

My heart starts racing and I forcibly stop myself from breaking into a run lest the buck stop.

This is different. Rather than the occasional croak or two that we’ve been hearing, this time a buck is going full throttle, non-stop croaking.

He’s fired up and I know this is my chance. A photo finish at the line. A last-day buck.

——

I check the wind and work my way in. I can hear him loud and clear, no further than a hundred metres off. As a bow hunter, it’s these moments we live for. Nothing gets the heart pumping like being under the nose of an unsuspecting buck in full rut.

I see him at the top of a hill. A beautiful, large chocolate-coloured buck,

After all these days, the bush has come alive – he’s croaking to another buck across the valley.

I give a brief rattle to check his mood, but he’s not interested; all his attention is across the gully towards the other buck.

He keeps croaking, and I move in closer. I see off to my right that two does have deserted him and are moving towards the other croaking. He sees it too and, seeing his defeat, stops croaking. That’s fine, I have him in my line of sight. I continue to move in, now further than seventy metres away.

The wind is in my favour and the cover is good. I’m in the zone and beginning to feel like I’ve got a chance. And then the buck decides he’s had enough. His does are gone, he’s fed up, and decides to trot off down the gully, out of sight, away from me.

Gutted, and yet, against my better judgment, I hit double speed and go following, hoping to stay in touch with him. I crest the hill, and he’s disappeared into the thick scrub.

So close yet so far, another 30 metres closer and I’d have been comfortable with a shot.

I sit at the top of the gully and listen. Listen to the bush that’s now gone quiet.

As a last cast of the die, I decide to set up for a rattle. More out of not wanting to be done than hope.

I get further into the gully and start ranging potential shooting lanes and start rattling.

My cast antlers seem to shake the silence of the gully, reverberating off trees and rocks. Birds ignore me, as do a couple of small pigs that feed past at about forty metres.

As the minutes tick away, my mind begins to wander, I cease looking around as I rattle.

I’m in another world when I see a bird take flight off a shrub further down the gully. I realise that it’s just a bird, not spooked by a deer and temper my hopes for the hundredth time of the trip.

Just as I rattle again, the buck comes walking slowly into view, like a ghost emerging from the gully.

I rattle, he walks slowly. I stop, he stops.

He knows he’s close, so he’s peering around. He’s at thirty metres now. Bow in hand, I draw back and lean around the tree I’m behind.

He spots me and spooks, but not far. I stop him at fifty with a doe call. He’s broadside, stationary and confused.

I put my fifty pin on him, take a breath, and release.

Time slows. I watch my arrow rise beautifully through the air, hours and hours of practice all channelled into one shot. I watch it arc down in its flight, gravity taking a hold. I watch its line, perfect.

The buck hasn’t moved.

And then I watch it fly an inch over the bucks shoulder, and thud into a branch behind.

A miss.

The buck, unharmed, confused, not entirely scared, trots off into the bush, never to be seen again.

And so my rut ended.

Disappointed, yet whole.

——

Bowhunting for me has never been about the kill. If filling the freezer or taking trophies were the goal, I’d get a gun license.

It’s about the headspace that you get taken to, the zone of choosing either perseverance or quitting. Many weekends away, I’ve walked countless steps, stalked numerous animals, and chosen not to loose an arrow.

Bowhunting to me is about becoming part of the ecosystem, not taking it over.

Feeling the wind in your face, smelling the bush and the animals around you, seeing the tracks in the ground, the slight abnormalities left behind by your invisible quarry.

Sitting on top of a hill as the sun crests a far-off horizon in the east, feeling the first rays of sun hit your face while the birds begin their morning calls.

It’s a craft. From the shooting practice, to making your arrows, reading the environment and butchering the game.

Bowhunting is about what’s over the next ridge, what’s down in the next gully. What will happen tomorrow?

It’s hope, optimism, let down and puzzle solving.

I feel whole with a bow in hand, walking the hills.

And it always leaves you wanting more.

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This post was previously published on OLZACCO.SUBSTACK.COM.

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