The sun has yet to peek over the eastern horizon and cast its rays upon all and sundry. Before it went west last night it gifted some of its heat to this montane landscape – it’s warmth still radiates from exposed boulders and rock outcrops. There is no dew nor cooling downdraft.
A red stag sings his song down in the Never Never. It is mournful, more lament than love song. As yet, the hinds are not receptive. His romantic overtures are shunned. His seed is unsown. It’s hot and his wallow is dry.
High on the boundary a billy goat is having more luck. His guttural cries progress from howdy-do to full rapture. He doesn’t know it yet, but, if I can find him, this will be his last pajama party.
The light is poor. The distance is far and the cover heavy. I cannot see the billy, nor his concubine, but now they’ve given me a shout-out I know they’re ‘out there’. A fleeting thought flashes through the grey murk in my skull – ‘should I go back to my ute and grab my day bag and more ammo?’.
Yeah, nah – there’s four bullets in my magazine, five in a clip in my pocket and another five in my camera bag. ‘Surely’, I muse to myself, ‘there can’t be that many goats. Billy goats being billy goats, the party for two would have been a rootin’ tootin good time with a lot more song and dance if there were others in the vicinity’.
The far distance I mentioned, it is of the ‘up’ variety. Rocky mountain high.
But there are goats out there and this is a conservation area – gotta gettum.
Boulders and rocky outcrops – warm. Ambient temperature – warm. Rising sun – warm. All too soon – height accruing me – hot!
I have lived a full life. Laugh lines and frown lines criss-cross my face like a series of hashtags. Age lines so deep they’re canyons, each channelling the sweat that gravitates downward from my scalp. Trickles of moisture slide down my jawline, detour around my double chin, then soak into my clothing.
Trust me, it’s so hot that my shadow is sweating and it’s doing nothing but follow me.
Matagouri spines prick and puncture. Lawyer vines tear skin. Spots and trails of bright blood merge with the sheen of sweat on my arms. I look like a one-man-warzone, and I still haven’t located the goat’s hideout. Not yet.
A kid cries for Mama. Just a couple of quiet bleats but enough. Enough that my roving eye, bloodshot with dehydration, spies a distant target. And another. And another.
Amidst the matagouri thickets, shingle screes and rock outcrops I see at least half a dozen black goats. And better still, if I remain stealthy and cunning, I can close the gap between us to within easy shooting range.
I drop out of sight, shuffle into a gutter, pick a big rock as a landmark and go for gold. In the zone, I no longer feel the heat, nor the dried sweat crusted white upon my skin. I smell the reek of billy goat and see their marks in the dust. I hear their quiet conversations and a rolling stone or snapping tauhinau branch, but I do not pause nor reconsider my options.
To the boulder then. Unseen. Rifle pre-readied. The clip of bullets from my pocket freed and ready to feed into my magazine. Camera bag off my shoulder and perched in a safe place. I ease myself forward and drape myself over the rock, it is perfect and provides both elevated rifle rest and hiding place.
Unbidden thought bubbles begin to make their way up through the grey murk in my skull. Bubbles with ‘doh’ and ‘damn’ and ‘holy macaroni Batman’.
Why? Well, there are a lot of goats. Feeding. Fighting. Sleeping. Sunbathing. All watched over by observant sentries. Not one of them is aware of me but, by golly, I am aware of them. All of them.
‘Should have taken the second clip out and readied it’ – another uninvited brain belch reckons.
I’d still be short of ammo anyways. Dammit, I should have bought my day bag, a drink, more ammo. But I’d wanted to travel fast and light – or perhaps I was just lazy.
Too late now – a sentry has his yellow eyes locked on me. He is curious, not alarmed. Not yet.
I quickly decide on a plan, which, if it works, will enable me to kill as many goats as I can. A: shoot a couple of top goats. B: shoot a couple of far side goats. C: confuse the mob and give myself time to refill my mag. Ready, set, go.
The plan works. The rifle barrel is sizzling hot as I lay it down to invert the camera bag and frantically locate the second clip. Precious moments slip by and the bulk of the mob flee. But all is not lost, my carefully chosen rock proves its worth as fresh targets emerge in ones and twos.
I’m no mathematician but when the mob unexpectedly wheel about and trot directly back towards me, I know the numbers don’t stack up. It’s an absolute gift being handed to me but there’s nothing I can do – without bullets my little gun won’t go bang any longer!
Here they come – billies first, no chivalry nor family responsibility, they don’t look back – each trit-trots right past me all horns and horny and pissy-bearded stench. In their wake the mothers and children, udders and potbellies all asway as they utter little bleats of reassurance.
‘Well, wouldn’t that make you cry’ one final thought bubble, lingering longtime before it finally crests the ridge along with the tail end of the departing mob.
The walk of shame then. The long mountain descent. Hot. Thirsty. Dehydrated. A dozen goats removed from the conservation area but a hundred what-ifs circling relentlessly in the grey murk.
