Young Jack has an opportunity to hunt a forest block in the back of beyond and he’s rapt. His buddy drops him off at the top of a mountainous face, steep and rocky, and he begins his zig zagging route downhill.
There’s a compound bow in Jack’s hand, there’s handcrafted arrows in his quiver and there’s a breeze in his favour. Better yet there’s a sleeping stag tucked onto a tiny rock shelf down in the tussock and baby pines.
There’s also a problem. Between Jack and the stag there is virtually no cover – just the scattered tussock, rows of knee-high trees and a few lichen-covered rocks. His only hope is one lone manuka.
As carefully as he can, Jack edges ever closer, the spindly tree always between himself and the stag. It’s a mission to keep his footing silent and to keep his mental discipline in check. Self-doubt is creeping in, fraying the edges of his confidence.
Step by careful step he descends. The stag has its back to him, head lolled sideways, legs askew. It appears to be asleep, but Jack knows it will only take one rolling stone, or one swirl of breeze, or maybe even another wary animal nearby to alert it.
At just 20 yards distance the stag, a young eight-pointer, is still relaxed and chews its cud as it admires the view of mountains and stream. So far so good!
Jack draws his bow, all too aware of the technical challenges of a steep downhill shot and a semi-hidden kill zone. If it flies true, his arrow will penetrate between the stag’s ribs, close to both the shoulder blade and the spine, driving into its vitals.
Trying to calm his racing mind and control his shaking hands, Jack takes a couple of quiet breaths before steadying his sights. He releases the arrow, watching its red and white fletches as it arcs high, too high, and vanishes into the never-never beyond. It’s gone.
The startled stag leaps to its feet, eyes bulging. It goes from zero to full revs in .03 of a second, bolting off with a clatter of loose rock before it too vanishes into the never-never.
Gutted, the young man shakes his head in despair. He’s not held low enough and now he has no stag and one of his arrows is forever gone – the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Good arrows are not cheap, and Jack is not wealthy, but he leaves the hill without even attempting to find his. He has no idea where to start, and, besides, it probably busted to smithereens on impact.
Weeks later and I arrive at the forest block to find the poachers got out of bed earlier than I did this morning and as a result the deer I’m targeting are way out on the back boundary. They’re nervously stamping their hooves, craning their necks and flaring their nostrils in this direction.
The poachers themselves, they take one look at my ute and scarper, literally squealing their wheels on the icy access track as they go. I’ve ruined their day, and they have ruined mine.
I go walkabout, anyway, determined to find game animals, which have not been alerted by previous action. Somewhere there’s gotta be something oblivious to the echo of rifle shots or traces of human scent on the wind. Maybe something warming itself in the new day’s first rays or head-down and bum-up, browsing hungrily on frosted fodder.
Way out back, where the rows of baby pines are barely discernible due to severe animal browse, I ease down off the tops and into the rising breeze. It too is barely discernible, the gentlest of caresses as it climbs, wavering, towards the winter sun. Silence reigns out here, only the distant tinkle of the snow-fed stream can be heard.
Mid-face I spy an out-of-sorts hue. It may have been perfect camo’ in summer and autumn but it’s too gold to blend with the greys of winter. Intrigued, I sneak closer. It’s a billy goat feeding belly-deep in matagouri and bush vlawyer vines. He has umpteen friends, all of which are equally intent on filling their bellies.
Billy and I eyeball each other. He assesses the couple of rogue hairs on my old-lady-chin and considers them pitiful. In comparison his chin whiskers are a thick crop of long black hairs lovingly slicked with urine. PFFFT, he snorts with scorn.
‘Hell, hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
My chin hairs may be pitiful, and my urine wasted in a septic tank, but I will not be PFFT’d off.
Like Bill, I have a friend too, Tikka 223, and now he’s about to do some talking on my behalf.
The goats’ escape routes entail plenty of shooting alleys, Tikka’s aim is true. The rifle barrel becomes scorching hot as I reload the magazine time after time – shovelling bullets into it urgently before sending them on their way one by one, every shot a humane kill.
Afterwards, as I ascertain every goat is deceased and at peace, I note another unusual colour in this naturally dull environment. It’s a glimpse of bright scarlet red.
Well, well, well, of all the things to espy in this wild place – a hunting arrow, nestled amongst tussock and rocks, lost by an anonymous archer who-knows-when. It’s well-constructed, perhaps by my own son, and well worth retrieving.
Marlborough bow hunters are few, and those who frequent this place fewer, so now I have a new hunt on my hands. The hunt for the arrow chucker – his or her personalised combination of broadhead, shaft and coloured fletching a clue that may lead me to them and, within a week, it does.
Arrow lost and arrow found – two hunting stories, two different outcomes, one XL high-country hill – sorted and documented now, and all thanks to big, bearded Billy.
