Its official, my new dicky knee is not as dicky as it once was, nor is it as dicky as the old dicky knee. Between the guidance of the physio and the doctor I’ve managed to be patient and to put off full blown hunt mode until I am signed-off to resume ‘light’ duties.
The body is not yet operating at a 100 percent, it probably never will, but the brain has been red lining in anticipation of an adventure with firearm in hand. My hunter’s intuition, pushed back into a nook somewhere in the cranial depths, is now firmly to the forefront. I’m literally ‘out the gate’ and on my way towards a potentially happy hunting ground.
True, it’s the wrong kinda day, the wrong kinda time, and my hunting attire wouldn’t feature in a Cabela’s glossy catalogue. But there are no rules when it comes to a successful hunt in the spring. All my years of experience are telling me to get out amongst it, right here and right now, so I’m quietly shutting the starter’s gate behind me. I’m racing this time!
There’s still snow on the shady side, it re-freezes every night in sub-zero frosts. The shady side at this time of year is dark and silent, devoid of life. All things that can leave already have. They won’t be back till summer, when this southern aspect will provide cool places and green feed during the driest of droughts.
After the snows and the frosts, the sunny side is cool too, but it thaws at midday. The little creeks and seeps in the sunlit gullies thaw first, the trickle of water melting the ice and promoting the first of the new season’s growth. Tiny titbits of bright green are sprouting. Sweet protein packed morsels, which attract herbivores of every description.
It’s one of these wee gullies which draws me in. Half a kilometre long, walled in by exotic forest, a tiny sliver of heavily cropped native grasses fringed with barberry shrubs. Meandering through this gully is the most meagre of trickles. Subterranean in places, pooling in other places, it flows just fast enough to prevent the freeze and promote life.
The breeze, ever so slight, drifts right to left and slightly in my favour. My rifle is readied. My body begins its labour of love, every motion slow, minimal and silent. But, while the body may be creeping at snail’s pace, my senses are accepting and assessing all incoming messages at a rapid rate.
Up at the head of the gully a tiny movement catches my eye. Light brown passing through light brown.
Stop. Wait. Watch.
A tail flicker. A black and white tail. A fallow deer well hidden in dry rushes, head down, grazing.
Wait. Watch.
A glimpse of antler palmation causes an adrenal slop-over from gland to bloodstream and a dash of hope. Could I be so lucky?
I back track, ease into the cover of the pines, trying to change angles for an unobstructed shot. I manage to skitch 20 metres closer, but the view is worse. Barberry shrubs block my way.
Back-pedal again. Wait. Watch.
A shoulder becomes visible, semi-obscured by rushes. This will have to suffice – at any moment the breeze may swirl, or the little deer might raise his head and see me – I must trust my rifle to deliver its tiny projectile through the rushes and into the buck’s chest cavity. I pick a precise spot on the dull brown coat and ease the trigger backwards.
My quarry falls, head tipped out of sight and brightly striped tail flashing back and forward. I watch from afar, rifle ready if need be. I respect the buck’s right to die quickly and in peace, I will not gloat over him in these, his final conscious seconds. Besides, I’m almost afraid to get a second look at the antlers atop that gorgeous head. Are they as good as I thought they were?
The buck passes quickly, never knowing what had happened. His headgear is great, as is his condition score. He is a gift and a fabulous ‘welcome back’ after a month of inactivity.
After photos and preparation, it’s time to hack a track. I unfurl my swivel-centred piggin’ string and cast a loop about the buck’s coronets. Then, resembling a well-trained, grey Clydesdale mare, (including shaggy legs and hair-fringed chin), I reverse into the load before taking up the slack. Weight evenly distributed, shoulders hunched, I heave my prize up onto level ground and then begin the haul out – just half a kilometre to go – yeehaw.
Whoa Nelly, steady-on old gal, no need to stampede!
‘Light’ duties have never felt so good. The lungs getting a thorough through flow of oxygen, the muscles getting a thorough stretch. The dicky knee holding up to the strain with minimal complaint. It’s almost over too soon, this wrong kinda day at this wrong kinda time, but I’ll take it, with both gratitude and appreciation.
