Uhunt Mag Information

• Posted By : BRISTLE UP
• Posted On : Jun 16, 2019
• Views : 2887
• Likes : 8
• Category : BOW HUNTING » STORIES
• Description : "Clearly, he was luring me into a false sense of security, for as I knocked an arrow, he jumped up and came running at me with the tenacity far exceeding that of the Mickey Bull"

Overview

• By Christie Pisani

  “Ah Chris… Might need your help here mate!” The enraged mickey bull pawed at the ground as steam erupted from his wet nostrils. “Get up the tree!” yelled Chris. I looked around. There was one single pathetic tree in the whole paddock and I somehow managed to sprint over and clamber up it while Chris raced off on the quad to retrieve a rifle. I clung to the trunk of the tree and had sweat pouring from me as the entire tree began to bend toward the dusty earth. The bull tossed his head, his lips curled up a sinister smile, waiting his chance to smash me into the ground with his hooves. Next minute I was lying horizontally.

  The ground was soft and felt like flannelette sheets, and I could hear the distinct sound of Guns & Roses “Knocking on Heavens Door” playing in the background. A fitting soundtrack for my journey into purgatory, I thought. Then I realized it was my alarm clock. Feeling as though a bull had just trampled me for real, I struggled into my cams and headed out with my Mathews Monster 7 Compound bow to a mate’s property just out of my new hometown of Goondiwindi Queensland. Having spent the last 3 years in the red Deer country of South East Queensland, I was relishing the opportunity to get out and hunt some hogs. Being a hot day on the fringes of summer, I knew the big boys would be having a kip in the soft creekbank. Apparently the little boys too, I thought, as I disturbed a 40kg fella on the edges of a stinky puddle. I easily closed the gap to 20 yards and dropped him with Northern 125 grain broadhead. He was in pretty poor condition, with an injured leg, probably courtesy of a missed shot taken an aerial cull on the adjacent property.  I propped him up for a picture in which he looked like he was pretty pleased to be out of his misery and also knocking on heaven’s door.
  
  

  I soon came upon a 20kg ball of terror. He was sleeping, (probably dying would be a better word) and it didn’t take much effort to get to 10 yards. That was how close I needed to be to ascertain whether he was even breathing, that’s how ill he looked. Clearly, he was luring me into a false sense of security, for as I knocked an arrow, he jumped up and came running at me with the tenacity far exceeding that of the Mickey Bull from this mornings dream, chomping his teeth and butting his ugly head toward my bare shins. With a steady boot into his snout, he retreated 5 yards before coming in for another go. I drew back and fed him one, he retreated again, and while I nocked another arrow, he came in for another bite. I stepped back behind a tree and managed to slip another arrow in.

  Sixty yards later, I disturbed a mob of sleeping pigs. With not enough time to get a range, my first arrow sailed over the back of the boar I was aiming at and in a stroke of luck hit a dog-food sized sow running behind him. She raced off, and it took a bit of a stalk to finally close in and finish her off under a thick wilga tree. Interestingly, she was peppered with bullet holes, but a testament to the toughness of these creatures, it hadnt slowed her down not one bit.

  

  So I had three pigs on the ground in one morning, but I still wanted a beast that would fill a bit more of the camera's viewfinder. So the next morning I came back for another look, and soon came across a mud-encrusted boar. I closed into 20 yards. For a big dark animal, they certainly blend into their surroundings, and it took a bit of assessing to work out which was the shooting end, as he was curled up peacefully in a ball. Not for long, though. With an arrow through his vitals, he took off and 50 yards later he was lying down for a more permanent nap. Unfortunately, and typically, for a lot of pigs out here, he only had small teeth. But what he lacked in ivory, he made up for in body size and character.

   

  I love hunting with my dogs, and I am a proud advocate for any genre of hunting, no matter the weapon of choice, but there is something so satisfying about getting amongst these awesome creatures armed with a modern adaptation of a primeval weapon. From a bowhunting standpoint, every animal taken ethically is a trophy. It is a culmination of months and years of hard work at the archery target or range, followed up by the patience, persistence, and eye for detail during the stalk, leading to the pulling off of the perfect shot, and finally the recovery of the animal. A bowhunter, if they are to remain in the sport, must accept that 9 out of 10 hunts will not produce a dead animal, nor an immense trophy-sized one. Bowhunting is more about a process than a result; thus we take pride in any hunt, whether or not it results in a kill.

  Every so often a bad hunting behavior makes it into the media, and we responsible hunters are forced to justify our position as protectors and custodians of the natural and agricultural environment. This involves reinforcing our credibility by emphasizing our role in the eradication of introduced species that are harming our ecosystems. This may upset those who hunt purely for recreational purposes, but game taken in a vermin control hunt should not be dictated by its trophy qualities. This hunt was a case of quantity over quality, so from a pest management perspective, the hunt was also a success. And my little chomping ball of terror goes to show, sometimes it’s not the size of the pig in the fight, but the size of the fight in the pig!