Uhunt Mag Information

• Posted By : UHUNT APP - Jesse Farr
• Posted On : Feb 05, 2020
• Views : 3198
• Category : BOW HUNTING » STORIES
• Description : With my video set up on a tripod ahead of me, I knelt behind a small tree and watched a large black and white shape slowly materialize not 10 meters in front of Glen.

Overview

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  GUIDE & SEASONED TRAINER 
  australianwildcountryadventures.com.au 
  PH: 0429688192 
  
  Clark is well established and respected in the hunting community, with over 45 years of experience. He has managed his own guiding business for the best part of 33 years. His long term goal has been to educate hunters better and create sustainable management practices to ensure future generations can hunt and enjoy the outdoors. 
  
  Clark & Judy offer guided and self-guided hunts through their business AWCA. To join Glenfiddich hunting team you need to be a member of the Ridge group which is a nonprofit organization commissioned to help design and implement a hunting system that assists both farmers and hunters. 
  GET IN TOUCH WITH CLARK AND BOOK YOUR NEXT GUIDED OR SELF GUIDED HUNT

  

  
  
  By Clark McGhie 
  
  

  Late one evening in 1998, I hung up the phone after another interesting call. “Just a bloke who wants to go bow hunting,” I thought…. “keen to take two scrub bulls with the bow on a 3 to 4-day hunt”. I just rolled my eyes and smiled, knowing full well how difficult it would be after seeing what some rifle hunters had to go through while chasing these old rank bulls in the Central Queensland high country. The thing that had impressed me about this Glen Hajdu, when he called, was his determination and confidence, two of the essential ingredients if his goal was to be successful. Memories of that night and the hunt that followed, came back to me as I stood motionlessly in the tall dry weeds, on the edge of a lagoon out from Musgrave on Queensland’s Cape York Peninsular, just over 12 months later on. Those rotten little green ants were chewing hard at any piece of exposed skin, but I was unable to retaliate as I concentrated on standing dead still while perched on one quivering leg like an old Brolga. About 10 meters to my left, motionless and almost invisible stood a 4-year-old scrub Bull, coat ebony black and shining in the afternoon sun as he slowly chewed his cud, totally at peace in his environment. The object of my attention stood no more than 10 meters to my other side, almost obscured by the leaves of an overhanging branch from one of the paperbarks that lined the edges of the Lagoon. This Bull was a little older, larger and with a brindle coat of black and yellow stripes, blending far better with the lantana and flannel weeds which effectively blocked any possibility of a shot. In an attempt to get my mind off the pain coming from sore muscles and stinging ants, I thought back to my first bow hunting Bull hunter, fit and wiry, Glen Hajdu.
  
  
  At that point in time, I had been taking out guided hunts on Red, Chital and Fallow Deer, Pigs, Goats and scrub Bulls, in fact all the species we call “game” animals, and the authorities see as “feral pests or vermin,” for over 15 years. Although Red Deer will always remain as my favorite to hunt, the big rank old scrub Bulls of Central Queensland, have earned my respect, especially when hunted in the thick and rugged, coastal ranges. Descendants of Brahman cattle which have escaped from the big pastoral runs further inland, these bulls with their mobs of wild cows and calves, roam across a vast area of private country. A big old “cleanskin” bull can weigh as much as 1100kg, can be found in a vast variety of colors and often sport impressive sets of “headgear”. Although most hunters go after these battle-scarred old bulls with large calibre rifles, I had always felt that it was possible to take them with the bow, although until recently, very few had been. I looked forward to this hunt with Glen and wasn’t disappointed; it was fun and games right from the start. Anybody that knows Glen will agree, he’s a character, with a quick wit and an eye for mischief. You certainly don’t let your guard down around him for a moment! After we met at the airport in Rockhampton, we grabbed a few extra supplies and “headed for the hills.” With us on this trip was my old mate Tod Fleming from Gulf Wilderness Safaris, another wild man with an eye for trouble. I realized that I would have to sleep with one eye open around this pair! Day one was spent checking out some rough sides to try and determine where the biggest bulls were watering and feeding. It was hot and dry, with plenty of cattle sign along the dusty travel tracks from their daily pilgrimages to and from the scant water holes.

  

  Although two good bulls were seen, we were unable to get within effective range and with a change of wind they were gone into the wattle and whipstick like ghosts. When we stopped for a breather at the Toyota, by a small creek, I set a Coke can up at 40 meters against a low bank and told Glen to hit it. We usually set up a target and bench rest for riflemen, so Glen was getting off lightly. He quickly stepped forward and put a 2219 Easton shaft with a field point on, right through the center. “Not bad,” I said, “but you missed the K,” called Tod with a grin! As we drove along a narrow, overgrown and very rough track, on our way to a distant ridgeline, I told Glen about a particular bull that I was going to try and help him find. This bull was truly massive, with shorter but very thick horns, snowy white in colour and with the meanest disposition you could find. It would be a true challenge just to find him, an even bigger one to take him with the bow and not get hurt. Glen was keen, I was keen, and Tod muttered something like, “suicidal buggers, I’ll wait at the truck!” It was well after midday, bloody hot and we were grinding up the last stretch of track towards where we would leave the vehicle and start our afternoon hunt. When I looked past Glen out his open window and saw just the head and horns of a very good bull, protruding from a thick patch of bush, 30 meters off the road on the edge of a steep, rocky cliff. Knowing that it could be the last time we saw the bull if we tried to stop, we simply kept driving up the ridge for a further half a kilometer before we stopped, checked our wind and commenced the stalk back from the leeward side of the hill. Glen knew what he had to do and moved silently along a well-used game trail, where the dinner plate-sized tracks of this lone bull stood out clearly from the night’s traffic of possum, lizard, and snake.

  Tod was off scouting another area, and I followed behind about 10 meters with the rifle. Before we started I made my rules clear to Glen, the bull was his to take cleanly with the bow without interference from me, but if it was wounded and charged him, I would step up beside him and shoot. A lot of people make a mistake in thinking that a scrub bull is just another cow, slow and docile. Well nothing could be further from the truth. Many of these old bulls bare the scars from their encounters with dogs, man, and machine during the twice-yearly attempts to muster them. As the domestic cattle are rounded up by horse and from the air with choppers, these totally wild cleanskins break the lines and head back towards the roughest cover they can find. Some are stopped and brought back to the mob and an eventual trip to the abattoir, but the toughest and most cunning always getaway. Eventually, these cattle develop a complete hatred of man and anything associated with him and some old bulls will simply charge on sight. With a body structure very similar to the African buffalo and muscles lean and hard from walking steep country, they are as light on their feet, tough and agile as a top heavyweight boxer. If you are faced with a charge at close quarters you have three options, climb a tree fast, kill him or be seriously injured if not killed. Many a top horseman and far more horses have been killed or gored by these animals in the past, sometimes even by animals they thought were tied up or stone dead. After about 30 minutes, Glen suddenly stopped his slow and careful stalk and froze motionless amongst the rocks and wattle ahead of me. He motioned with his head in the direction of the thickest cover as he slowly nocked an arrow.
  
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  With my video set up on a tripod ahead of me, I knelt behind a small tree and watched a large black and white shape slowly materialize not 10 meters in front of Glen. The bull was moving away from the roadside very slowly, picking a mouthful of grass quietly from between the rocks and casting glances over his big raw-boned shoulders. Soon the bull was no more than 7 meters away from Glen, without once offering a clear shot. “Dangerous territory,” I thought as Glen stood behind a few small trees, bow ready, with his camo offering his only protection. Just as I thought he was in for a full “Face to face” standoff, the bull turned slowly sideways, reaching for some sweet morsel of grass. Glen drew smoothly and released clean, and I saw the arrow disappear to the fletches, about three ribs behind the shoulder of the bull, angling well forward. At the shot the bull jumped and spun, knocking over small trees and rattling rocks as he tried to find what had stung him. Glen froze as the bull glared around him before it walked slowly off over the rise. I moved up to Glen and reassured him that his shot was good before we slowly made our way to where we could see. To our relief, the bull had walked in a small circle and was down. A couple of rocks thrown from cover confirmed Glens first perfect one arrow kill on a scrub bull. After a good photo session, the big job of caping and boning out the carcass commenced. Tod was located on the two way, and we were soon back on the road to base camp, on a mates property near the coast. After the cape was fleshed and salted and the dust was washed off and “down,” we settled in for a good feed of mud crabs, fresh from the creek not far from camp.

  “Good life if it doesn’t weaken” said Glen with crab shells piling up and juice running down his elbows. Day three was spent checking sign and trying to corner a tricky dingo on the remains of Glen’s bull, with little success. We walked along spur lines and ridge top, sighting a few young “Mickey” bulls and old “piker” cows but no sign of the big white bull we were after. After circling back to the vehicle we headed home just as dark came upon us. As we got to where we could see the big quartz covered mountain which I thought was the home of the old white bull, there he was, large as life out glaring at us from his vantage point. At the sight of the vehicle, he shook his head in defiance before quickly heading back the way he had come, pausing twice to turn and reaffirm his authority. Daylight saw us in position to view the main hillside after leaving the vehicle over a kilometer behind. Tod was scouting well to the south, while we sat and planned our best approach in the growing light. The wind was good but tricky, so we made our way to the top of the high white cliffs and moved to a good vantage point. Nothing stirred on our hill, with a few scattered mobs of domestic cattle to be seen in the far distance. As we glassed the thick mat of trees that stretched unbroken for miles below us, we carefully moved down the far side of the mountain, pausing at each rocky outcrop. During a break from glassing a far distant shape among the trees, my eye caught a movement down between two quartz outcrops to our left. There he was, the king of the mountain, not 70 meters away bedded down in a perfect vantage point, with his snowy white hide blending well with the exposed quartz rock. We sat and planned the stalk for a few minutes, checked our gear, and had a drink, as the day was already warming fast.
  
  
  
  Glen approached from behind and below the bull, while I moved into 40 meters behind a small group of trees, to set up my video camera. After a few minutes, Glen paused to drop his pack and take his boots off in attempt to move more silently over the last few meters. I moved slowly to one side to get a better view, as I didn’t like the situation at all. There were no big trees at all in the area, only scattered clumps of low wattle, the ground was rough and very rocky, and Glen would only be able to get a shot once he got under 15 meters. Not the place to face a charge, especially when you are in bare feet! Finally Glen got to where he could take a shot and moved very slowly sideways to clear his bow arm. The bull went from being totally relaxed to being on his feet facing Glen in a second. At this close range you could see every muscle twitch and flex in the huge body as the bull shook his head at Glen before whirling and jumping up the hillside a few bounds. Stopping to turn sideways and challenge this odd creature again, the bull offered Glen his only chance for a shot, and he was ready. Passing between the branches of a small wattle, the shaft flew high to hit the bull about 25cm down from the top of the back, just behind his huge muscular hump. As the bull jumped and ran I knew we were in trouble, as the arrow had only penetrated 30 cm. Knowing the size of this bull and the position we were in, my .375 Win Big bore, suddenly felt small in my hands although it was a trusted veteran of many such situations. Lucky for us, the bull stopped, bellowed at us and then disappeared out of sight. Or so we thought. As I moved forwards towards Glen and he reached for another arrow, there was a loud bellow, and the bull came straight at Glen from the top of the hill. The few steps I had taken had put me out of position to shoot until the very last moment, and Glen was right out in the open.
  
  Throwing the rifle to my shoulder I searched for a gap to shoot through as the bull, bellowing loudly, closed in rapidly on Glen. As if by a miracle, it suddenly stopped, stood rock still not 10 meters in front of him, bellowed again, before staggering to one side and falling down dead in a heap. Glen was physically shaken, having just survived a potentially very dangerous situation to take his second bull, again with a single arrow. On closer examination, after caping and boning out, we found that Glen’s arrow had neatly severed the main artery under the bull’s spine to bring about its very speedy demise. An inch either way and the situation could have been far more serious, but that is all part of the challenge when you hunt dangerous big game. My thoughts were interrupted as the brindle bull before me suddenly flung the overhanging branch off his back and walked a few more paces in my direction. At 7 meters he turned, and I took the shot offered with my trusty old Jennings Sonic 300, knowing well what could happen if I missed. This bull had come in during the dry times to a lagoon at a tourist lodge where Tod worked and was fast gaining a bad reputation for chasing guests. As Tod wasn’t there and I was, it was up to me to remove him before anyone got hurt. As I released I knew the shot wasn’t good, too much lantana in the road and the arrow deflected slightly into the heavily muscled shoulder of the bull.
  
  

  With a bellow, the bull spun a few times before moving into the heavy cover beside the trail. As I knocked a second arrow, the running bull hit my scent trail and stopped, bellowed, then charged. Feeling the bowstring on my lips, I looked for a shot at the fast approaching bull, but all I could see was horns and hump. Luckily I had crawled over a log on my way in, and the bull was forced to turn side-ways to get around it, and a shot was offered. To my relief I saw my second arrow tuck close in behind the shoulder of the bull and disappear, a full pass-through. Instead of continuing the charge, the bull ran straight forward, toppled over a bank and to my great relief, fell dead. After I stood for a moment to reflect, the big job of skinning the bull for a floor mat began as the light faded and ended near midnight when it was finally salted away. Many hunters are now realizing that we have another less recognized, dangerous big game animal in this country, that can be hunted at far less cost than either Buffalo or Banteng but which offers equally as big a challenge. When hunted with a bow, in tough country, it’s easy to see how a big bull can be called, “King of the Mountains.”
  
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