There’s one. A young stag, lightly timbered, is illuminated by my ute headlights as he gallops across the forest track. He’s of no interest to me, I’m speeding toward distant ridges, on a roar mission, so I don’t ease my foot off the accelerator.
Oh shite. Deep shite. The youngster has had a change of heart and U-turned. Both focussed on our final destinations, we’re traveling at breakneck speed and a collision appears inevitable.
In the same instant we both realise unless evasive action is taken, we’re potentially going to die today.
There’s lots of desperate braking, long skids and swirling dust. There’s bulging eyes and accelerated heartrates and evasive manoeuvring. There’s hair’s-breadth avoidance and a dual exhalation before we continue our separate journeys unscathed. Phew!
Up on the distant ridges dawn reveals cloud so low its skirts are dragging in the dirt. Stags are roaring – absolutely cranking. They’re literally left, right and centre. They’re up high and way down low. They’re near and they are far, and they are all, every single one of them, invisible in the morning mist.
Nature’s shroud not only keeps her treasures hidden it also cools the atmosphere and sprinkles a fairy dust of moisture on all and sundry. Circular spider webs weigh heavy, and wispy native grasses hang their heads, their silvery tiaras a burden.
I am saturated in no time, but I’ll accept today’s challenge. It’s not all bad. I cannot see the stags, but they cannot see me either and there is no errant breeze to give me away. Just a slow and steady climb of moisture-laden air as temperatures gradually rise.
There are so many roaring stags in this catchment that the dense cold air is filled with sound. Unable to see, I can only assume he in the middle, guardian of the best feed area, will most likely be the master stag.
So, I slither ever closer, bypassing other roaring stags as I go. In full predator mode I drop into the bowels of the catchment till I’m just downwind of action central. The sun now smiles down upon me. The cloud hoists her skirts and bares her buttocks as she departs. I face into the slightest of breezes and assess the stag holding his harem of hinds on the small clearing.
He’s a big fella; his body is enormous. He is magnificent and confidently pumps volume from his boom box whenever a invading stag ventures nearby.
Undoubtedly ‘king of the castle,’ the stag is only an eight-pointer. Oh, he’s heavily timbered, with long strong, white-tipped tines but still, an ‘8’ is kinda disappointing.
At 100 metres he’s well within shooting range but I feel no inclination to let a bullet fly. Not yet.
For quite some time I sit studiously observing the master and his dames. None are ovulating, they do not welcome his affections, preferring to eat instead. This infuriates him, especially with the ever-present satellite stags circling relentlessly.
Crazed with frustration and lust, the stag faintly hears an enticing ‘mew’ on a steep bony spur just 100 metres away. He stares intently; every sense honed. He hears the mew again and sights subtle movement on the edge of the tall scrub. He cannot resist temptation and begins to wend his way towards me.
The stag is no fool. He doesn’t herald his departure. The satellites don’t realise yet that he has ventured away from his harem. His intention is to stealth within scenting range of the mysterious female on the spur. If she’s hot, he’ll hurriedly herd her toward his rut pad. If she’s not, he’ll turn away.
The mysterious female, human not hind, twists her rifle scope to minimum magnification. She finds a safe zone, establishes a shooting alley then waits, heart aflutter. He’s coming. He’s sneaking, catlike, weaving through the vegetation. Closing in, his stench permeating the air, his breathing audible.
Head low, the stag’s neck is at full stretch as he slides his antlers under an obstacle. He is silent, as am I. As his big searching eye slides past the crosshairs in my scope he is just 10 metres from me and oblivious to my presence.
One more step and the rifle beneath the scope sends a tiny messenger of death on its way. Neck shot, vertebrate shattered, the huge master stag crumples dead. Gotcha.
I attempt to move my trophy onto clear ground to get a photograph. He is very heavy, the hillside very steep. He begins to roll head-first and, somehow, my camera strap loops around a tine. Worse, as he rolls over, the bottom antler harpoons into my leg.
Head down, bum up, I am in deep shite once again.
The camera strap pulls tight about my throat, my carotid artery bulges. The tine against my thigh pushes harder and harder till the fabric of my pants rends.
I brace, frightened but steady – my body trembling with the effort.
I manage to hold the stag’s weight for just long enough to slide the camera strap free. Then, like a contortionist, I release my pinned leg before letting the big fella slide and crash downhill. Phew!
The near miss is difficult to process. Our combined weights well over 200kg, the gravity-assisted tumble would have included multiple roll-overs. Tethered head-to-head as we were, my skull and upper body would have been punctured innumerable times by those long, white-tipped tines. Would the camera strap have broken, or twisted ever tighter till my brain was starved of oxygen?
I stumble back up to my tiny safe zone and slump against the lichen-crusted rock there. More keenly than ever I appreciate the sun on my back and the breeze in my face.
A satellite stag has already found the master’s harem unattended. Another eight-pointer, he herds the reluctant hinds away. I let him go. Like me, he can die another day.
