Bull by bow

              A fresh blanket of snow smothered the foothills of the two thumb range. The mid morning sun shone on the peaks and faces, making them appear ghostly and formidable. Clouds of dust flew up behind the truck as we sped down the dirt road. Gold popular swayed in the alpine air, showering the ground with amber leaves. I glanced in the back at Kim sleeping in the sun. Me and my dog, ready for another high-country adventure.

              I’ve chased tahr in the two-thumb range with bow and bullets so many damn times now it feels like home. I’ve hunted rabbits by the shores of lake Tekapo. Slung rainbows and browns from its shores and stalked tahr in the foothills and red deer right up against the main divide. It is steep, eroded country. Akin to the mid Asian steppe, and no less harsh and foreign. Bluffs, tussock draws and canyons make ideal habitat for big mobs of tahr. When someone says tahr country, the two thumb ranges golden hills and snowy scree are what I see.

              I tend to have a certain sentimentality when it comes to places and things. Or so I have been told by at least two people. I guess I am. A few years ago, in the Macauley valley, hunting with my good friend and my brother we found ourselves in pursuit of a mob of reds. Having spooked them out of a shady gulley in the heat of summer. We pursued them for around a kilometer. Inadvertently chasing them into a snowy bluff system. Cornering them at the top of an ice Shute. We could have taken every one of those deer and come off the mountain with loaded packs. We did take a good load in the end. My brother marking the melting snow with a bloody skid mark as one of the reds slid down the mountain to be cut up in the snow. A mob of bulls coming see what the fuss was about, perched above the mob of cornered deer and watched us. I’ve walked through glacial tunnels in that country. I’ve almost frozen to death in that country. Ive seen many of it’s emerald tarns. I’ve made a few journeys out of stalking tahr with a recurve bow. The high, open tussock country making for challenging and fun stalks as I failed time after time. Each time getting closer. Each time figuring it out a little more. Reading the wind, the terrain, the direction of travel. I could always get within 30 yards, but never send an arrow. Until on one particularly windy day I found myself in the perfect position above a mob of nannies. At four yards my arrow struck shoulder, smiting the nanny with a crash on the mountainside. In all my bowhunting escapades in the two thumb range I had never acquired a bull however. A nagging fact that lingered with me for multiple years. Self-filming my hunts brings in an even more challenging aspect to this. So, I acquired a compound bow, With a doubled effective range, surely, my luck would change.

              Ice piled on top of my boots as we trudged our way up the ridge. Kim the hound scouted just ahead; crystals clung to her whiskers as she searched the air tirelessly with her nose. My pack was heavy, eating into my collarbone. Eight days of food weighing me down, and nine days of willingness to get the job done. It was with some anti climax felt, that a mob of bulls would come stomping through the tussock a few hundred meters ahead. Kim saw them first. Shaggy black specs contrasted on a field of white. We slunk off the ridge top to be rid of our traitorous silhouettes. They were on the move. Perhaps spooked by another hunter? Or more likely just making a transitory move to another piece of country. Either way they were putting themselves in a dangerous position. Were they in their home range in the Himalayas, they would be easy pickings for a couple wolves. Instead, they would be easy pickings for me.

              I knew where they were heading, the wind was better than perfect. The afternoon sun warming the facing to create a reliable, steady breeze in our face. I unslung my bow. I watched as they grazed and trotted their way into a small bluff system directly below us. Amongst them we two more mature animals. Their chocolate coats still growing out for the winter to come. Watching them from afar I couldn’t help but hesitate. The allure of adventure, of a nine day hunting trip in immense mountain country. Now spoiled by a premature stalk. “To hell with it,” I thought. Rarely could I hope for a situation this favorable. The hunt began. As soon as the bulls dropped into the bluffs, out of sight. We began our approach. Quickly but quietly descending through the slushy tussock. In my mind I relived every stalk I had ever undertaken. Every lesson I had learned. Be quick, but not too quick. Don’t get tunnel vision. Keep them in your sight. Don’t lose them. Watch the wind. Don’t roll any rocks. Keep your sleeves down. So many things that I know can make all the difference. There they were, foraging in the rocks. Moving away from me. I setup the camera and left Kim to watch it all unfold. I make my way round, planning to cut them off. Send an arrow from above as they walk past me. Too easy. Hyper awareness occurs. Dry tussock and the deafening crunch of gravel. Just enough wind to drown out the sound. The sun sinks closer to the horizon. Firey light envelops me. My broadhead glints. Did I lose them? did I under shoot? Bull! Straight below me. 40 yards, maybe I can make that shot. He sees me. He’s not completely alarmed. I draw back. A jutting piece of rock is covering most of his chest. I let down. Seeing my movement he disappears. A slight hot panic is crawling up my back now. A pebble, flicked by a rubbery hoof tumbles down the mountain to my left. Another bull. Mature, he doesn’t suspect a thing yet. I draw. The arrow is gone before I even register what the hell is happening. The bull leaps with pain, carbon shaft protruding further back then intended. He’s confused. I’m confused. Desperately he searches for the danger, his shaggy mane quivering from the sudden amount of blood spilling from his arteries. I draw back another arrow, peering over a boulder I let lose. Sparks and dust explode before me, and an arrow sails off into the sky. “Crap!” the bull is gone.

              It feels like lightning is coursing through your veins. It’s adrenaline, and it does a lot to mess with you in the heat of the moment. I had run wildly after the final arrow deflected off the rock. Mistaking one of his companions for my quarry and watching the bulls gallop straight past Kim and back the way they had come. Feeling defeated, I retrieved my items and my loyal dog who had watched the whole event transpire silently, and went to look for blood. It didn’t take long. A cool breeze of relief washed over as I spotted the bull directly downhill from where he had paused. It was far from textbook arrow placement. But it did the job and it did the job well. Sprawled on the scree below was a dead bull tahr.

              In the darkness, beneath head lamp I hacked and cut away his back straps and quarters. I had a very heavy pack to take down the mountain. The stars hung from a cobalt ceiling. Moonlight glancing off the pale hills. Mountains I know very well. Tahr, I know even better. It had all come together. Persistence had persevered. I’m not going to bore you with the sentimental section I alluded to at the start of this story. Instead I’ll bore you with my thoughts on my own hunting. I don’t hunt on farms anymore. I’ve never had a strong desire to go duck shooting. Those things are great, and I’m sure more fun than I could possibly imagine. I am just too damn preoccupied with mountain hunting. Any time devoted to other activities is time that could be spent stalking tahr. Living out of a pack and wandering off track in the backcountry. Walking till my feet hurt. Rashes and bruises from my pack straps. It’s a quality that at times I feel slightly ashamed of. Am I so simple minded and childlike that I could do the same thing, over and over again and never get sick of it. I guess so.