A Little Gift to Keep us Going - Rory Smith

For two guys enduring a southern New South Wales winter the mid-twenty degree’s of the central north of the state were a wake up call to us that the seasons were yet again about to change. The only property that we had permission to wonder hosted our morning’s quest for game, the same place we had walked the morning prior with very little incident.

Much of the thigh high grass that had grown tall and healthy boosted from winter rains was now loosing its green tinge and gave the rustic impression that this valley was soft and smooth. The morning breeze would roll through occasionally, and the whole valley’s pillow-like covering would sway into life, a refreshing place to be in, especially with a good bowhunting mate sitting beside you.

It was funny how often I called ‘Batesy’ by his first name John over the past weekend as typically I use nicknames for nearly all my mates. I suppose it was just a habit I’d picked up after a few introductions and meetings that the pair of us had made over the better part of three days with farmers and landholders of the area. The ‘cockies’ of the region were a hard bunch to crack, and a chat with a local contract pro shooter that I knew gave us a reality check that in hindsight was actually better for us than it seemed at the time. He told us how even with a few contacts and my uncle-in-law that owned a property quite close by we had ‘buckley’s’ of getting permission by simply fronting up to the surrounding farms.

The area is primarily old properties that have remained family owned and run since that day ‘dot’, and although a decent amount of quality access still eludes us we have done the right thing by fixing a pipe here, spraying a paddock of weeds there.

Time is the key. Remaining patient, yet proactive is the mission.

Sitting amongst the tall winter fodder John and I were quietly talking of the situation and how we still felt this trip was a worthwhile experience. We were laying out how we would tackle the issue now that we understand how the place ‘works’.

In agreement we stood and turned to our right to follow the cattle pad that led along the low creek flat at the base of the bowl shaped valley we had walked into.

I wiped my hand over my face and around my neck that had once again beaded with sweat from the August sun’s heat. I felt the cord that has my two mouth operated fox whistles knotted to it, a ‘button’ and ‘Tenterfield’, and mentioned to my mate that up ahead looked like ‘a good spot to prop for a whistle’.

John reached out looking to be handed my video camera as it was my turn to nock an arrow. I needed close shots as I had my Wes Wallace recurve with me for this trip, and I wanted to make the most of the limited opportunities we might have. “No mate, your up as this ‘pozzie’ is going to only give probably twenty meter plus shots” I forcefully whispered. We had a moment of typical bowhunter unselfishness before John knew that I wasn’t going to let go of the mono-pod that I was now adjusting to suit the rear position I was going to take to hopefully film the action. He loaded up his faithful Magnus Stinger tipped arrow, and leant into the shaded side of the warped tree to his right. I was close by, but higher above, and it was only later that this spot became labelled ‘the turret’ from its elevated Pill Box appearance.

I unleashed a few piercing shrieks from the folded bit of tin in my dry mouth, paused, scanned for movement, and called again. After only this second volley of alarming sound I spied movement in the gully below some one hundred meters away.

In unison we both breathed “fox!” and I hit the record button on the JVC. The yellow colour of this fox was clear to us both almost immediately, with the big bushy tail of our ever closing foe flattened to streamline his eager approach.

I spat the whistle into my hand and confidently spoke to my mate to “let him come right in” as I was rushing to find the fox in the viewfinder. I quickly realised that a thin gnarly branch was going to block my view of the coming encounter and resorted to zooming a little further out, and getting the best footage I could, considering.

The slinking dog was probably fifty meters away from us and out of view behind a small stand of briar and eucalypt saplings so I gave two softer blows on the Tenterfield to assure the fox he was in for an easy meal.

Out he trotted, his head, middle back, and tail flexing over the un-even ground like a ‘Slinky’; that coiled-toy that I had as a young kid. He was a healthy looking fox and his winter coat rippled in the sun with each step he made inside the range of John’s compound.

With my attention mainly being on the camera viewfinder it was only the sharp motion of John’s right elbow, now pointing straight back at full draw that alerted me to how close the fox now was. Past the view-obscuring branch I saw a golden flash and then the strikingly defined face of the fox less than ten meters from the end of John’s drawn arrow. (So much for my ‘long shots’ statement earlier hey… LOL)

The fox was frozen for that instant I love in bowhunting so much, just prior to release when the world stands still…

“WHUMP!” and the fox rolled and turned back down into the grass padded slope he had hungrily tip-toed up only seconds before. The arrow had really hit the reynard hard and above the heat of the day I could feel the warmth from John’s grin radiating up to me. It was all quiet, and the question of “did you get him good” that usually flies out of my mouth really wasn’t necessary to calm us both down, but I spat it out anyway. John turned to face the camera, not saying anything much at all, just a quiet giggle.

Both the bowhunter’s in ‘the turret’ grinned.

The solid dog fox had only gone ten meters from where the arrow had passed through him angling down, high through his shoulders, and low out near his rear right leg. I gave John a firm handshake once he got the fox over to where we decided a good photography position was. With a thick winter coat and a ‘boof’ head to match John didn’t hesitate in finding his skinning knife and telling me of his plans for a full body mounted fox.

The reynard that he had just arrowed was an outstanding representative of the species so many hunters pursue. He sported a fine trophy skull that is yet to be boiled out and properly measured, but it will definitely be over the ten Douglas Points mark.