Billies, boars and bows

by Ted Mitchell
Hunter 1

Pulling up at the property gate we saw the swirling clouds of dust that threatened to catch up and engulf the vehicle; they belied the fact that there was rain waiting to drop on us from the ominous looking

My long-time hunting mate Mark and I had been rained out with four inches of rain the last time that we had driven to this western Queensland property. We had been lucky to get out, slogging through mud and water for more than 150km. Chris, the property manager, had told me he would be happy if I brought out more rain as they hadn’t had any since my last visit and it was pretty dry. Just right, I had thought, as dry weather is usually best for hunting goats. Looking at the sky, it seemed like I was going to live up to the name Chris gave me: ‘The Rain Man’.

Arriving at our accommodation, we quickly unpacked our gear; a shower and a feed were first on our list of things to do. Chris came over for a yarn and the good news was that there were plenty of goats. The bad news was that there weren’t many pigs and he had rounded up 600 goats a month ago. They get more money for the big ones so we might have our work cut out finding any good-sized goats. The last time we hunted this property was after they had mustered 1800 goats and we only saw small stuff.

Putting our bows together and fitting the razor-sharp wasp heads on the arrows, we headed off to drive a couple of tanks and dams.

Stopping the Toyota about 150m from the first dam, we grabbed our bows and sneaked in slowly. As we came up to a thick patch of mimosa and low scrub, Mark motioned to me that he had seen something and he was going in for a shot. A couple of minutes after he had left, I heard the twang of his Excalibur firing and the loud woof of an angry boar. “A heart shot,” yelled Mark, as he took off after his boar. Coming into sight, I could clearly see the boar was spine shot. He was a fair-sized boar but only young with no ivory to speak of. After taking a few photos, we headed on to check out more dams.

It is a very picturesque property with stands of mulga, brigalow, sandalwood and in other places turkey bush flats, mimosa-choked gullies and thick wilga areas, which the goats seemed to love. All this is studded with magnificent rocky pinnacles and bluffs - some looking like ancient forts or castles. The paddock we were in was only small - about 20,000 acres. One of the bigger paddocks is 80,000 acres, making UHF radios a must in this country.

Rounding a rocky outcrop, we spotted goats working their way around the hill. Seeing a reasonable billy through my binoculars, I elected to try a stalk. Taking it slowly I managed to get to a spot in front of them. Concealed behind a large rock and some mulga trees, I patiently waited for them to come into range. Slowly the goats came closer and closer. At 20 paces, the nice black and white billy I had my eye on stopped and looked down to where Mark was hiding, presenting me with a nice quartering shot.

The shot was good. The arrow sped true, entering behind his short rib and penetrating through the bottom of the lung and on through the heart, as an autopsy later revealed. The billy only ran about ten paces and expired. A good clean, one-arrow kill, which is what we all strive for. Razor-sharp broadheads are a must when bowhunting, as we owe it to the game we hunt to get good, quick humane kills. That’s why we use three-blade razor heads like wasp. The rest of the goats ran straight for Mark and he took out a nice black and tan billy. After the usual photo session and taking head and hides, we headed back for tea.

As we hit the main track, the first drops of rain began to fall and they didn’t stop for four days. At least Chris would be smiling. The next morning we headed to a couple of dams, which the goats usually frequented. The rain was only light and patchy but enough to get you wet and make the tracks slippery. Reaching the first dam we were surprised to see goats on it as it was pretty early. There were only nannies and kids so we skirted them and hunted the thick scrub around the dam. Thinking that the rain would keep them back in the hills, we were surprised to find that everywhere we walked there were goats, although not many big ones.

Spotting a mob walking through the thick mulga, Mark elected to have a crack at a nice white billy. Stalking in to 15 metres, Mark dispatched him with a single arrow. The rest of the mob ran off straight into some country that had just been pulled. They weren’t disturbed that much because when they hit the pulled timber they stopped and started to feed. This was where they had most likely been heading for in the first place. Seeing a billy that had a spread of about 80 centimetres or more, I stalked in for a shot. At 30 metres I knew that I would not get any closer. So, settling the crosshair high on his shoulder, I squeezed the trigger of my Exomag, sending a wasp-tipped shaft on its way.

Mortally hit, the billy walked about ten metres and lay down under a fallen tree. By the time I reached him he was dead. We headed back to the Toyota. By the time we arrived we seemed to have grown taller. Something to do with the tacky red soil sticking to our boots I suppose.

Arriving at the next dam we spotted some fair-sized goats bedded down. Mark had a stalk that took him the best part of an hour, while I watched from a safe distance. It was pretty open country and he was having trouble getting close enough for a shot, as we like to get within at least 35 metres. As Mark got close to a small bush, a big wallaroo jumped up and ran straight through the mob of goats scattering them and they ran out into the open and through the fence into the neighbour’s. That’s hunting and that was the ‘good one that got away’.

The rest of the day we didn’t have much success. We saw plenty but nothing worth going after. That evening we ate well and sat around watching a tape of 1999’s State of Origin. We were really roughing it, with hot showers, electricity, gas stove and television. Listening to the rain on the roof, it was just as well that we weren’t camping out.

The next day was nearly a repeat of day two but I only managed a small pig. Not wanting to shoot too many goats we held off on day four hoping to find something really good. It was getting pretty wet by now and we had already been stuck for a while in one badly washed out gully. Spending most of the day looking but not seeing anything worthwhile, we were heading back towards the homestead when we spotted a large mob of goats feeding on the easy pickings of freshly knocked down trees at the back edge of some pulled scrub. Electing to take one last stalk we headed slowly towards them.

Getting to within 100 metres and putting the glasses on them, we noticed two or three billies that looked as if they would go around the 85- or 90-centimetre mark. Picking out a goat each, we slowly started our stalk. By the time we had got to within 50 metres there were goats all around us. The billies, as usual, were on the far side of the mob. The wet ground helped soften our tread but even so an alert nanny spotted us and let out a couple of snorts. Next thing she was off. One of the others bleated, ‘head for the hills’ or something like that and there was a mass exodus for the nearby hills. We were a bit peeved about spending so much time stalking only to be outwitted by a female. (That sounds a bit chauvinistic but you can think what you like when you’re far from home.)

We had just turned to head back when Mark pointed out some billies still feeding farther out in the pulled country, either too stupid or too deaf to know what was going on. Two of them looked every bit as good as the ones that had departed. Being only 40 metres away it was an easy stalk to get within range. At 20 metres I took my shot and the magnificent looking old billy dropped on the spot. The arrow had hit his spine and deflected down into the boiler room. He was dead within seconds. The goat Mark targeted was slightly further away and kept feeding nonchalantly. Mark got to within 25 metres and took aim and fired. The shot was good with the shaft hitting in the chest and travelling nearly the length of its body. The goat only went about three paces and dropped. Two perfect one-arrow kills with the last two shots of the trip.

After the obligatory photo and trophy removing were done we headed back to the vehicle. The rain was coming down harder now and even in a 4WD we were slipping and sliding all over the place. It was still raining the next morning, but only lightly. Packing our gear was a pain. Everything seemed to have mud on it and the Toyota looked like a big red wasp nest inside and out. Saying our goodbyes we set off for home.

Reflecting on our trip, we thought that the rain would muck it up but in fact it turned out to be pretty successful. If we hadn’t gone out and suffered a bit of discomfort in the rain, we wouldn’t have seen anything. There must be a moral there somewhere.