The Last Hot Walk. By Rory Smith
I was actually becoming accustomed to the heat. It didn’t seem to have that instant drain on my body as soon as I awoke like the nine mornings previous. The mosquito net cocoon that was my resting place each night was aligned with other similar stretchers and makeshift beds hurriedly set about the dusty floor. The open sided machinery shed, one of three others like it, was now home not only to the spiders and occasional goanna, but also an assortment of unshaven men. The nights were full of snoring and farting, with the days full of walking and sweating, possibly not the perfect holiday for many, but for a bowhunter I couldn’t have thought of a better place to be in late September of 2008.
I sat up and unzipped the mesh sided enclosure reaching out onto the dusty, un-rendered concrete floor slab for the pair of thongs which had clung to my feet since leaving the nation’s capital airport nearly two weeks prior. The thongs were so worn down in the heel and ‘big’ toe area that the lack of shape and foam signalled their end, and fittingly today was to be our last day bowhunting Cape York. I slipped into the well worn grooves, grabbed my water bladder and headed for the tap on the other side of the shed to where I slept.
Walking in the semi-light I snuck around old spring beds, sleeping mats, the central table for cooking ingredients and the occasional outstretched arm of one of my dreaming companions. I filled the bladder, and threw a small handful of the precious water onto my gritty face as I looked over towards where the sun was flickering above the dense stand of paperbarks not too far from the camp sites. This was the last morning I would experience a Cape sunrise for some time, so as I passed my bedding I dropped off the bladder and headed out to the far side of camp to take in the bird calls and clean, crisp morning air.
By nine 0’clock the weary mob were up and organising themselves for the last day of hunting that was ahead. Some were eager to get away, in fact there was one four wheel drive already gone, headed for a far off corner of the property that had held a few pigs the day before. I was eager too, not wanting to waste any of this final day and get stalking the creek banks looking for the illusive sleeping boars so typical of Australia’s north. This trip the pig numbers were well down in comparison to usual as there had been the odd rain shower in the earlier weeks of September, something I, and some others from the southern states had not counted on. Not for lack of trying I hadn’t yet secured my first boar, let alone Cape York boar, with my ‘pig account’ being opened with a couple of skinny sows, memorable, but not sleeping, angry, and tusk wielding.
Andrew ‘Mozza’ Morrow waltzed into our shed quarters and by the intent look on his face I could see he had something in mind. He proposed we team up for the final day, allowing the guys we had hunted with for the majority of the trip to do their own thing, and give us an opportunity to have hunt together, no doubt making the last day on Crosby Station memorable. John ‘Batesy’ Bates was happy with the arrangement as he had an idea spawned two days prior, to sit off a large wallow that we had disturbed a massive bodied boar out of, in addition to giving his legs a break from the standard hard slog across the sun baked plains we so affectionately named ‘Chernobyl’
Spending all week with Batesy had been some of the best day’s bowhunting I’d ever had. Not for the game number seen or taken, but for the hard work we put in for the little reward. A ‘brothers in arms’ mateship I suppose. He’d taken his personal best boar earlier in the week; a well deserved 27 6/8ths Douglas Points. His stalk that afternoon I will never forget.
With plans set, it didn’t take more than half an hour for Mozza and I to be packed and ready, then tumbling out of the four wheel drive at a point along a track that we knew gave us close access to a sizeable dry creek system that hadn’t seen very many hunters through it of late. With a ‘av a good one’ and a ‘yeah we’ll walk all the way back to camp’ once again I felt a sense of abandonment and vulnerability in such a harsh and endless landscape.
The Cape seemed early on to me to be such a monotonous environment, with the only variation being along the dug out creeks and watercourses made by the wet seasons’ cutting run-off. However it is these thin green belts that not only provided home and habitat to most of the flora and fauna of inland Cape York, but also creates a range of diverse environs like the oval shaped billabong we first encountered after being dropped off by the vehicle.
Pushing through the tall and leg slicing grass edging the evaporated billabong we entered the desolate ring which was clearly crying out for the rains to come. All of a sudden I saw Mozza grab at his Mathews bow quiver and pull an Easton Axis shaft from it, lodging it frantically onto his string. I was surprised to say the least, and when he drew and began to circle around to his right, roughly aiming into the brown, thirsty rushes on the side of the muddy bank I didn’t know what to do. “There’s a, ….. (Whump! goes his arrow),…. a bloody pig in there” he muttered.
The rushes came to life and with a ‘huff, huff, huff’ the back end of a fat old sow disappeared into the paperbarks. Nocking another shaft and drawing Moz now took close aim at the black shape still in the waist high grass and before I could get the video camera recording his arrow caused the black shape to squeal and dash out into the muddy lifeless bowl we were standing in.
Arguably the smallest pig from the trip was set up for photos, and Moz had begun a great day’s hunt, a winding walk from east to west, arriving back at our camp just after dark.
Skirting around a deep black pool which sat without a ripple in the shaded corner of a major bend in the creek I mentioned to Moz that ‘the next stretch looks bloody good’ and my grip on the handle of my bow tightened just a little. A wide section of the creek opened up before us, deep on each side with an ‘island’ as high as the banks, - which walled entire length of what we could see - sat prominently in the middle, dominating the scene. Atop the ‘island’ was a stand of waxy, rich green leaved saplings that looked like a Mo-Hawk; a nice cool spot for pigs to be bedded no doubt.
With not much action so far (other than Mozza’s piglet excuse for a hog) we quickly agreed to split up, with Moz heading to the right side of the ‘island’, while I would poke up the left. We both put an arrow on our strings and nodded for good luck. Like so many times in the trip leading up to today it was now a matter of shuffling along the coarse sandy floor of the creek and avoiding any noisy piles of leaves that seem at times to totally blanket your path forward making things tricky to say the least.
I took my time, scanning the dense patch of growth on top of the ‘island’ now to my right, making sure I checked the base of every plant for a sleeping pig. It was very still with hardly a breath of wind and I had no idea if I was keeping pace with Mozza’s movements, but I kept telling myself to stay focussed and not be tempted to hurry forward and pop out the end of the ‘island’ to see what my hunting partner was up to.
Not one step further when a shower of sand and leaves erupted forward of me some thirty odd meters from off the ‘island’s’ bank. Squeals and the sound of beating of hoofs filled the creek and the moment of chaos caught me a bit off guard. I hastily clipped my release aid onto my d-loop and lifted the bow ready to draw on any pig that tried to cross my portion of the depression. The pigs were obviously anxious to get away from the source of the smell that had disturbed them but it was as if they were waiting on one of their own to make a decision on which way to flee. A young fat sow, nipples swollen like she had been inflated by a bike pump, came clumsily down off the high bedding area followed by four younger specimens. I drew back and anchored, gathering myself to settle the sight ring in the large peep, adjusting to put my second pin on the same level as the sow’s chest. She paused only momentarily as if frozen by a spell, front leg bent up mid prance, and looked straight at me. The red pin hovered on her front end and feeling the release aids trigger under my forefinger the arrow was as good as gone…
About fifty meters on from where the pigs stood looking back towards the camouflage statue with the bad smell {me} was where Moz and I met up since parting ways around the ‘island’. We wriggled our day packs from our sweaty shoulders and fell into the soft sand for a brief rest. I was first to share my experience from up the left ‘flank’. I told Moz about the sow and her friends who had come down near me, and how I was about to shoot when with a ‘grunt’ and a ‘snort’ they took off up and out of the big ditch. Moz had apparently seen the bedded group quite early on, but they caught his movement and ran the other way, obviously the mob was bigger in number than the few that I had encountered.
We each sat, once again in the silent creek bed and crunched on a dry muesli bar, with only the odd sip from the ‘camelback’ replacing any moisture to my dried out mouth. The constant heat of the day, and the many day’s before made sure you were mindful of the precious ‘H2o’ carried close to your back.
Another few bends in the creek, another kilometre quietly trodden, and I was beginning to sense the end to bowhunting Cape York for 2008. I hadn’t killed a boar by arrow and the thought of not even get a shot of at one was becoming a real possibility.
Moz made a move to our right, obviously wanting to alter the way we would hunt the remaining section of creek heading back towards camp. So out of the shady creek and onto the crunchy leaf covered edge we clambered, a noticeably hotter place. But the stinging sun didn’t bother us too much, and our new higher path gave us a different perspective, and hopefully the change would bring us some luck in finding a hunt-able pig or two.
I bit down lethargically on the tube from the water bladder, sucking in a mouthful of warm, tasteless water just as I noticed Mozza freeze mid-stride. I imitated without any hesitation. He had obviously seen something, so I followed his gaze with my eyes down towards the base of the shaded sandy bank approximately thirty meters away. It was hard to focus, with the mixture of bright white sun light poking through onto the dark soil almost creating a checker-board effect upon the area of Mozza’s concern.
“Pig!,…, think it’s a boar,…, arrow, quick!” hissed my good mate, and I obeyed with a sharp tipped, black carbon shaft clicking onto my bow string. “Hang on, this thing won’t bloody focus, just wait” quietly whipped Moz as I ranged the far bank at “34m” with the Bushnell.
Through the rangefinder I got my first look at the sleeping pig, who’s wire like mane began to move. The beast was clearly old, and as he fidgeted to a more upright position more akin to a dog I drew back and hoped that the camera was ready to go. “Yep, when ever your ready, I’m recording” whispered Moz and I let the sight settle onto the asphalt coloured target.
The shaft was gone and into the broadside pig, with the fletches on the rear end of arrow highlighting a solid shot entering the high lungs, but importantly on a downward angle presumably centre punching the opposite side lung. The old pig lurched forward and ‘huffed’ loudly, running a few meters forward, actually pulling the arrow completely through him as it was stuck solidly into the shallow bed where he had been sharply awoken from. His body shape made it clear that I had shot a boar, and an old one at that, with blood now adding to the mixture of mud and filth that covered his fore quarters. Turning straight up the bank the pig was faltering in the loose sand of the incline, with Mozza and I fixated on his every move. With a squeal the thin old boar lost his footing, and flipped onto his side, gravity now forcing him down, tumbling to the bottom of the creek.
I turned to my mate and shook his hand, and as if looking into a mirror it was obvious that Moz was as excited as I was. We stood their grinning and congratulating for a couple of minutes before heading down and over to the resting place of the boar.
Ugly, thin and stinking we found the pig, who had tumbled down into the branches of a lifeless tree probably swept down the creek in a wet season run-off torrent some years ago.
Probably the last thing I did was check for his tusks, something I had seen so many successful bowhunters go straight to on approaching their boars in the number of video’s and DVD’s. However it didn’t seem that important to me as the realisation that I had finally taken my first boar was overcoming any lust for a trophy.
Mozza actually grabbed his snout first and pull his long dirty jaws apart…
Possibly the most damaged, worn, and least impressive brown little tusks were revealed, and I laughed thinking about how hard I had hunted just to shoot one boar all trip to be trumped by this old war-horse. A ‘Cape York rattler’ as bowhunting guide and all round great guy Mick Baker would say. We set him up for some photos and also got some footage explaining the stalk and shot as is customary.
The couple more kilometres back to camp had some other memorable encounters, with an arrow or two being loosed successfully on some other resident ferals of the creek line we followed. However the sleeping boar I had arrowed with Mozza by my side capped off the ten days bowhunting on Crosby Station perfectly.
I was chuffed with this boar, though short on tusks, was in everyway an embodiment of what Cape York is. Tough, challenging and enduring. I cannot wait to return.
