2AM and I’m wide awake, my brain red lining its rev counter. I grit my teeth and try to convince myself, by means both fair and foul, that sleep is a good thing and imperative to my health and welfare.
Half an hour later the battle is won but not by the me who knows what’s best for body and brain. Nope – it’s won by the version of me who’s more concerned about the perilous state of the dog tucker freezer. The me who cares about my dogs’ health and wellbeing more than my own.
So, while most of the populace, including my Dearly Beloved, are stacking zeds in warm beds, I’m downing protein and caffeine and gathering essentials like a thief in the night. I silently source items essential for hunting in the dark then slip on a warm jacket, don my knife belt and lace my boots. I pack rifle, ammo, thermal and torch into my ute then ‘go west’.
Moon phase, wind direction, season and target species dictate my decision making now. Lack of sleep does not factor whatsoever, out in the wilds and under a quarter moon I am truly awake. My senses all heightened, my focus absolute.
There is sufficient light, courtesy of Mr Moon and a star-spangled sky, to walk freestyle and undetected. The only pause is to scan the surrounding country with my thermal binoculars. They reveal many secrets.
There is a stag several hundred metres away. He is facing me, head up, ears erect. Perhaps a swirl of scent has accosted his nostrils. Perhaps the movement of my black shadow has caught his eye.
It is his position which has caught my eye. He stands above a 4×4 track. Done right, he will topple onto the private thoroughfare dead. Done wrong, he will run.
No pressure.
I drop my well-padded derriere onto a knoll, prep my rifle and my scope- mounted-spotlight. I double check with the thermal then ‘assume the position’ before thumbing the light switch. A pair of cervine eyes are illuminated, a clear target area identified, a killing shot taken. ‘Done right’, the stag expires above the track.
A warm bed and stacking zeds hold even less appeal now I’m amongst Nature’s nighttime beauty.
The thermal assures me there are more opportunities to harvest bounty – my dogs are not the only ones who appreciate a venison meal – though I will now be aiming for tender and tasty morsels, not post-rut cull stags. And so, I walk, and stalk, and shoot. And all the while the darkness ever-so-slowly fades.
The visibility is neither here nor there as I point my nose towards the distant ute and begin the trek back via a circular route. I have walked this steep and narrow ridge for years now and am familiar with every aspect of it. A vague dark shape in the tree edge piques my interest. I don’t recall seeing that tall narrow rock before.
Funnily enough there is a canny old stag peering at the vague dark shape which is me, and he is thinking the exact same thing!
Silent. Smooth. As smooth as a tired and broken old woman can be. I unsling the rifle and peer through the scope. The shape appears to be a stag looking directly at me. But is it?
“Let there be light” God had said, and I thought exactly that right now too. Apparently, God had been slower and more generous at making light – I just thumbed a button and created a single narrow beam.
The scope-mounted light illuminated the vague dark shape and then both the stag and I realised we were correct in our assumptions. Neither of us is cast in stone. One of us reacts more quickly than the other. Consequently, one of us dies nearby and the other does a little jump for joy.
By the time I return with my ute the day is becoming well established.
By the time I find, prep and load my various edible bounties the sun shines upon me. The blowflies, dopey in the early morning cold, buzz and crawl, slow and persistent. I am in a similar state. Sleep deprived and physically spent I am at the fumbling and mumbling stage.
There are no regrets though. Not one. Sleep deprivation is small price to pay for freezers soon-to-be filled – meat to share proof of my care for friends two-legged and four-legged too.
Of dogs there is a new family member. A townie youngster the equivalent of an extremely mouthy teenager. She talked a lot; day and night, indoors and out. Like a squeaky wheel the volume and rhythm of her high-pitched barks increased with speed. She disrespected authority and pretended her name was anything other than that nominated by her previous human.
Despite her attitude and disorderly behaviour, I saw a glimmer of potential and bought her home.
There is something satisfying about teaching a young dog new tricks and crucial life skills. There is a joy in witnessing her joy at learning and becoming a beloved team member.
Today, as I worked in the forests of home, she came and went at will. And, before too long, she strutted by me with tail high, showing off her flash new get-up – oh yeah!
Pig shit. Soft, stinking pig shit. It was ground into her fur from cheek to shoulder. It was smeared on her tracking collar and packed into the buckle. It reeked. She reeked. She was so proud – ‘look at me, aren’t I special’.
And later, when I sat down for a quick snack, the teenager – who now listens and respects authority – came by and showed her appreciation for her new life by being my best buddy. Before I could escape her attentions, she smooched me, rubbed herself bodily across my back, sharing her flash new perfume – Le Porcine Pou.
Sharing is caring. She reeks. I reek. We reek together.
