REDEMPTION STAG

I largely subscribe to the ‘walking them up’ school of sambar hunting, and on this particular evening, right on last light, while walking along a sign-rich game trail, I was honked at by a sambar. I only really saw a big shape crash into some heavy tea-tree after the honk. I didn’t know if it was a stag or a hind, but I was keen to see if I could get it interested in my Flexmark caller. I made a few ‘peeps’, which were rewarded with several more honks from no more than 20 metres away in the dense and ever-darker scrub. I wasn’t even sure there was only one deer responding, such was the direction, volume and frequency of the honks. I was on edge, with every sense on high alert.

The back and forth with the caller went on for a bit until I could tell the deer was moving away. I started to walk slowly in the same direction and soon arrived at the end of the game trail where it met an overgrown fire trail. I paused to ensure my .300 WSM was ready to fire, then as I stepped out into an opening I could see a stag standing broadside across the track, looking straight at me. I started to swing the rifle to my shoulder just as I would my shotgun at sporting clays and, for reasons I don’t understand, as it honked again, I stopped and stepped back behind the shrubbery to gather my thoughts.

Moments later, I stepped back out, poised to take a shot, only to see the stag’s head and shoulders disappearing into the shrubbery. With no ethical shot presented, I gave up. The words of Jimmy Barnes’s No Second Prize played in my head as I simultaneously revelled in the experience, cursed myself for ultimately failing, and resolved to get that stag one day.

As a side note, the following morning (the last of our trip), right on first light, I took a hind for meat, which has since been turned into bratwurst and smallgoods with the help of Ross, Tom and Tim.

Ross, Tom and I hunted the area again for three days in June. Stags were seen but none presented shots.

Despite our lack of success in June, the area still had our interest, so we returned again in early July for three more days.

On the first long stalk of the July trip, I chose to explore a new gully/creek system to improve our knowledge of the area. It was a good choice, with plenty of fresh sign including a couple of bedding areas and rub trees, one of which had another hunter’s game camera focused on it. I’m sure they’ll see photos of me, and later in the trip, Ross, wandering by in full hunting gear…

Light was fading fast as I got down onto a creek flat covered in heavy tea-tree, dissected by an overgrown trail. I recall having the words from Amyl and the Sniffers’ Jerkin’ in my head (think of it as motivational) as I hit an area of scrub that seemed to be full of young calves, giving out cute little honks but staying hidden nearby. One then ran across the track no more than 10 metres in front of me and back into the dense tea-tree.

I was keen to see if I could get the calf to pop back out, so I called a few times on the Flexmark. However, I got far more than I expected when, about 100 metres away, I saw a big stag walking in towards me. The wind was in my favour, so I dropped to one knee and made a quick assessment of his antlers through the scope to ensure he was a shooter. I then eased the safety forward while placing the red dot in the Steiner’s reticle on his chest. At 80 metres I thought, “that’s close enough”, so I let a 180-grain Nosler Accubond pushed by 64 grains of 2209 rip front-on into the base of his neck. He dropped instantly and just twitched as I chambered another round, just in case, and gave myself a fist pump. Redemption!

I was completely elated as I walked to the fallen stag—absolutely pumped, while feeling extremely calm at the same time—with the words of Nick Cave’s Into My Arms playing in my head. As we all know, though, those moments of enjoying a successful hunt are soon truncated by the thoughts of logistics and getting down to business with the knife.

As darkness fell, I put on my head torch and got the Benchmade to work. I go for the gutless method of field dressing, so I first took his legs off, then removed the backstraps and tenderloins. With this done, the backstraps and loins went into my pack and I started the 45-minute walk back to camp, hoping I could talk the Carter brothers into returning with me to get his legs and head. Ross and David were only too happy to help, so we spent the next couple of hours dealing with the rest of the knife work and carrying out. It was pretty funny watching the boys carry a leg and the head out caveman-style on a stick. David had some impressive bruises on his legs the next day from the stick jabbing him. I’ll carry out in a pack any day!

It was with great satisfaction that I sat down later that night by the fire with a 34-year-old Brown Brothers Vintage Port that I’d just happened to bring on the trip, and thanked Ross and David for their help. We did laugh a bit about what the owner of the trail camera might think of my veiled face showing up on the camera roll, and whether or not there’s another decent stag wandering around the area that they’ll see when the camera roll is downloaded…

There’ll be plenty more sausages and smallgoods to come!

I dropped to one knee and made a quick assessment of his antlers.