Crack! The old girl crashes shoulder first into the steep face before lying still, momentarily stunned. She tries to rise. Tries to compose herself, control the wayward leg, but it does not respond. There will be no walking away from this.
It’s not a gummy red hind or fat fallow doe, which lays helpless upon the cold, damp soil. It’s not a grey saggy-titted sow scuffling in the logging slash as it attempts to right itself. It’s me and as pain and frustration collide like opposing waves, I howl in that guttural way only women do.
I awkwardly shuck the pack of possum carcasses off my back before carefully standing on my good leg. Slowly, tentatively I put weight on the other. Down I go again, sliding in the dirt – wailing and helpless.
Dearly Beloved is nearby and mortified. He wants to help but cannot, there’s no point offering a shoulder on this steep, slippery face, littered with logging debris. No piggyback. No consoling the woman who’s expressing herself so fluently in sailor-speak. Grateful for the tattered old canvas chaps that protect against the mud, the blackberry prickles and the sharp sticks, I shuffle and slide off the hill. This is how a wounded animal feels as it tries to escape danger, tries to drag itself into a safe place to hide.
My ‘place to hide’ is Beloved’s ute, but, once I finally get there, I cannot get in. Face striped with dirt, tears and snot – hands blackened with ground-in soil – knee entirely useless and oh-so-painful. Beloved lifts me bodily onto the passenger seat. Its only early morning but our day is ruined.
Worse, it’s mid-winter, our busiest time of the year for both work and play – potentially, that is now ruined too.
First things first though. Home. Getting out of the ute – s l o w l y. Getting up the steps – backwards on my butt. Getting my mud-caked boots off – “ooh Holy Macaroni Batman,” that hurts. Getting in the door – hmmm, how to get from seated to standing – strong arms, hauling myself up the doorframe.
It’s a Sunday so, ultimately, Urgent Care is the goal. Dearly Beloved does the day’s chores in short time, while I try to transform from dirt-ingrained and tear-stained to clean and presentable. The shower cubicle is my enemy, that 20-centimetre lip in the doorway is almost insurmountable – I try till I turn blue – it’s an ugly scene!
A week on and ‘Cabin Fever’ has me firmly in its grip. I’ve got the crutches sorted. Modern crutches are so much better than the old ta-tink, ta-tink models. They’re quiet and don’t pinch. Dearly Beloved is away for a couple of days but his ute is here – unlike mine it’s an automatic, and, with care, I can get in and out of it if I assemble the crutches just right.
Like a naughty child, I scheme. A hunt – I think I can, I know I can. What could possibly go wrong? Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Late afternoon and it’s raining lightly. Game animals hungry after months of winter hardship begin to move from bed sites to feed zones. The day is calm and still, all is silent, they believe they are safe from human predation.
A young boar fossicks in the long rank grass above the creek. Somewhere in the dense root sward is an evasive worm, maybe two. A movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. He pauses, lifts his dirty snout high, tests the air for unwelcome scents. He listens intently but all he can hear is the rush of creek water over rocks and the vague tinkle of rainfall onto vegetation.
He goes after that worm again, finds it, devours it with relish, tail swishing. As he moves from one clump of grass to another, he notes an unusual feature in the landscape, it wasn’t there before. He pauses, sniffs, listens – nothing. Still, he’s suspicious and wary.
The boar moves away from that new and unusual feature, which now appears to be moving.
I am moving! I’m trying to organise crutches and rifle. Trying to weight-bear on one leg. To shoot. Will the recoil, albeit minimal, make me lose my balance?
Wet scope, suspicious pig moving away through the pine trees, poor light – am I making excuses even before I miss?
My hurried shot strikes a little too far back and the young boar somersaults down through clumps of rank grass whilst snorting loudly.
Flip, flip, flip and then a splash.
Then, nothing.
Aah bugger. There’s a defunct fence between me and the boar – a hump of soft road spill – large rocks hiding in knee-high grass – but I owe it to him to get amongst it and finish what I started. So, I do, mincing and shuffling and grimacing with pain as I go.
A rapid clacking of tusks upon grinders tells me the boar has noted my approach. He’s ready to defend his position but it won’t come to that. I’m not here to torment him. He passes from this world before he has time to work his saliva into a foam, his bright blood colouring the creek below a dull sky.
Hmmm, if shuffling over here was done at snail’s pace, getting in the creek and extricating my quarry most certainly won’t be a sprint. The gutting and nutting and getting from B back to A will take some creative thinking too, but I’m out here, in the rain and grateful I have somewhere to go and something to do – especially when that ‘something’ is hunting, solo and successful.
This speed bump on life’s fast track is not the end of the road – I will be back, one step at a time and enjoying everything our great outdoors has to offer me.
