My Best and Worst Billy - Rory Smith - 2007
My god! What a day was had with Jase in the hills. But for me one part will never leave my mind, my best and worst billy!
Along the ridge I spied a white shape, and ears flickered at the sound of falling stone. I tensed as the arrow was torn from the quiver, 80 meters out and the stalk was on.
Tree's blocked my view, I was after horns, the meat was for the walk home.
As I moved in the glasses came out and I soon new I was keeping quiet for a nannie. She had long thin horns, something that can help the feral population throw good sets on billy's.
With a snort and a turn she figured both I and my mate weren't there prior to her feeding, so she made for the outcrop of moss covered granite.
I feel nothing, and I notice only my game and it's immediate environment, I know these cliffs, I know this ridge. I've viewed it across river before and glassed it's many features.
Trailing the white I came out through scratching bush onto a ledge, perhaps an 8 meter drop was below me, with other ledges stepping down the worn out mount I was half way up. White legs scrambled further along, I step out, and a sound below me stopped my aching legs. It's one of those black wallabies, I take another step.
In 10 seconds I am placing the yellow glowing dot onto the high portion of a killing shot on a greying billy, horns like I have never seen before. That wallaby wasn't so!
I am killing really well now, no real 'buck fever' to be noticed, and I tensed my finger onto the Scott, and the black arrow was away.
Downhill the shot was over, in, and out before I could blink, the old billy hadn't even figured he was in danger, he was alone and must have come out of his ledge bed for company.
He didn't move at all for maybe 5 seconds, a long time in bowhunting, what was going on only he knew. He kicked hard, then lept down hill, his hill probably, but the crimson was letting his get away down.
I took up the arrow, and looked down. More blood than ever I have seen at a hit site, I was quiet, but extatic. I didn't think of the camera, I didn't think of my hunting mate somewhere behind me, I thought of the broken heath below me and the bloodied trail old billy had made down the shale.
Along the ridge I spied a white shape, and ears flickered at the sound of falling stone. I tensed as the arrow was torn from the quiver, 80 meters out and the stalk was on.
Tree's blocked my view, I was after horns, the meat was for the walk home.
As I moved in the glasses came out and I soon new I was keeping quiet for a nannie. She had long thin horns, something that can help the feral population throw good sets on billy's.
With a snort and a turn she figured both I and my mate weren't there prior to her feeding, so she made for the outcrop of moss covered granite.
I feel nothing, and I notice only my game and it's immediate environment, I know these cliffs, I know this ridge. I've viewed it across river before and glassed it's many features.
Trailing the white I came out through scratching bush onto a ledge, perhaps an 8 meter drop was below me, with other ledges stepping down the worn out mount I was half way up. White legs scrambled further along, I step out, and a sound below me stopped my aching legs. It's one of those black wallabies, I take another step.
In 10 seconds I am placing the yellow glowing dot onto the high portion of a killing shot on a greying billy, horns like I have never seen before. That wallaby wasn't so!
I am killing really well now, no real 'buck fever' to be noticed, and I tensed my finger onto the Scott, and the black arrow was away.
Downhill the shot was over, in, and out before I could blink, the old billy hadn't even figured he was in danger, he was alone and must have come out of his ledge bed for company.
He didn't move at all for maybe 5 seconds, a long time in bowhunting, what was going on only he knew. He kicked hard, then lept down hill, his hill probably, but the crimson was letting his get away down.
I took up the arrow, and looked down. More blood than ever I have seen at a hit site, I was quiet, but extatic. I didn't think of the camera, I didn't think of my hunting mate somewhere behind me, I thought of the broken heath below me and the bloodied trail old billy had made down the shale.
I made my way through the heath, and was bitten badly by the nettles that are the only greenery in this worn out gorge. Blood was thick, like a strawberry milkshake, and the tell-tale bubbles in it made me smile.
I calmed down and decided to look back up behind me, there was a noise not unlike the white nannie which had brought me onto the creature I had arrowed. No white, no grey, but a camo shape was up there, so I waved my bow above my head hoping it would be seen.
My mate moved down, as I moved up towards him, we met irionically at the bloodied hit site made just minutes before.
I pointed down, and a man of few words just nodded and agreed that this thing couldn't have gone far.
We slowly tip-toed along the rocky pad worn by many a hoof over the years, but a bloodied smattering highlighted the centreline. Amazed, we both slowed at every turn, thinking old billy was just going to be 'here', or 'there', but we paced on as the trailing job became easier and easier.
Some 150 meters from the hit site I was now bemused by the dissapearing act this animal had seemingly done when a 'ssshhtt, eh, eh, eh!!, pull up' was yelled (but through clenched teeth) from behind me.
I look left, and through a 'V' in a tree's gnarled base I could see the hairy back of an old battler. He had greyed into a grandpa, with his slumped body tiredly resting against the tree.
I calmed down and decided to look back up behind me, there was a noise not unlike the white nannie which had brought me onto the creature I had arrowed. No white, no grey, but a camo shape was up there, so I waved my bow above my head hoping it would be seen.
My mate moved down, as I moved up towards him, we met irionically at the bloodied hit site made just minutes before.
I pointed down, and a man of few words just nodded and agreed that this thing couldn't have gone far.
We slowly tip-toed along the rocky pad worn by many a hoof over the years, but a bloodied smattering highlighted the centreline. Amazed, we both slowed at every turn, thinking old billy was just going to be 'here', or 'there', but we paced on as the trailing job became easier and easier.
Some 150 meters from the hit site I was now bemused by the dissapearing act this animal had seemingly done when a 'ssshhtt, eh, eh, eh!!, pull up' was yelled (but through clenched teeth) from behind me.
I look left, and through a 'V' in a tree's gnarled base I could see the hairy back of an old battler. He had greyed into a grandpa, with his slumped body tiredly resting against the tree.
I sub-conciously prenounced him passed, but with a shudder he lurched forward, now on the muddy bank of the well swolen river. Without hesitation an arrow passed through his chest and dissapeared into the water, probably stirring up a cod or yellowbelly.
He yelped his last, and tipped from his kneeling position onto his side and was dead. He was a true goat. By this I mean he opitimised the battler in this game animal. He was now finished by the river he had drunk from for much of his life I supposed.
But if to get one back on me he kept one up his hairy sleeve.
I'd dropped my bow, and was releaving myself of the burden of camelback and food when my mate says, 'don't let him go...' and SPLASH, grey goat met water, his last escape plan had just hatched!
I didn't think, I didn't think at all. In I went.
I froze on impact, it was less than 10 degrees outside as it was, and I groped for a leg, horn, anything to keep that beast from getting away.
I too was sinking fast though as the river is steep and soft underneath, but that goat was now in my grasp and I yelled to old mate to grab a stick or anything to help us both.
Goat = priority. I pushed, old mate was still inches away from getting a hold of the leg I surged towards him, but somehow he managed to get a foothold and come up tight to drag the beast ashore. Thank god he is a solidly built lump of a hunter, but he still strained at the weight of a water logged billy.
The rest really is a blur. Why? Well I was transfixed on that billy. I hardly recal getting out of my muddy rescue station, I don't recall forgetting that water and electricals don't like one another.
Camera from then on = dead. Rangefinder = dead. Mobile = rescued but is critically wounded.
Old mate still was quiet, but assured me it was 'OK' as I now just wanted a pictured memory of me and my 'BEST' billy to date. His assurance came true in the form of a new fandangle mobile phone, including a camera mode just ready for moments in a bowhunter's life like this.
I am waiting on an email, I want to again see my billy with the bow slung across it's chest.
WORST BILLY = Horn spread (would) have been fantastic, my best by far, but again this old bugger threw me a curve ball.
I froze on impact, it was less than 10 degrees outside as it was, and I groped for a leg, horn, anything to keep that beast from getting away.
I too was sinking fast though as the river is steep and soft underneath, but that goat was now in my grasp and I yelled to old mate to grab a stick or anything to help us both.
Goat = priority. I pushed, old mate was still inches away from getting a hold of the leg I surged towards him, but somehow he managed to get a foothold and come up tight to drag the beast ashore. Thank god he is a solidly built lump of a hunter, but he still strained at the weight of a water logged billy.
The rest really is a blur. Why? Well I was transfixed on that billy. I hardly recal getting out of my muddy rescue station, I don't recall forgetting that water and electricals don't like one another.
Camera from then on = dead. Rangefinder = dead. Mobile = rescued but is critically wounded.
Old mate still was quiet, but assured me it was 'OK' as I now just wanted a pictured memory of me and my 'BEST' billy to date. His assurance came true in the form of a new fandangle mobile phone, including a camera mode just ready for moments in a bowhunter's life like this.
I am waiting on an email, I want to again see my billy with the bow slung across it's chest.
WORST BILLY = Horn spread (would) have been fantastic, my best by far, but again this old bugger threw me a curve ball.
OK, I'll now walk away from Mr Story teller...
He is missing 7.5 odd inches on his left side :0 :0, his right is great.
He still makes 28" as is, the bugger would have been close 36" if he was even, so for that I am shattered. He has nice thick bases and would have scored very well I am sure. I don't hide that I like big heads, a trophy hunter. However, this bloke is/was unique, and the horns will adorn my wall with pride.
