Puk
17-05-06, 12:49 PM
If you plan to get BHDU mag Aug/Sep edition, don't read this story. It will spoil it for you........
RED ROCK BILLY
That one week a year….
By Rev. Joel Pukallus
It’s always the way, a friend of a friend finds out that you like to hunt with the bow and tells you of this magical place where billies with horns over 42 inches and feral camels run. Hard to believe? Well, you try not to let your imagination run away with you, but it isn’t easy. I was sitting in the front bar of the local pub when an older bloke in town expressed his relief that even though I am a “God-botherer”(minister), if I like to bowhunt, maybe I am a normal person after all. I replied that I doubt that very much, but I do like to bowhunt. And so the conversation progressed to “I tell you what, I have a mate who manages this place. I’ll give him a ring”
Now securing a hunting location is tricky but possibly rewarding work, as any bowhunter knows, so every time I saw the bloke, I would try to work the question into the conversation without sounding like I was nagging. “Have you called the mate yet?”
In the meantime, having no other keen bowhunters in my town, I introduced my neighbour and his brother to the art, and they took it up keenly, Ralph with a 60lb Fred Bear compound bow, and his younger brother Murphy with a 150lb crossbow. I had the hunting partners, all I needed was the trip to be confirmed.
Finally I was given the manager’s number, and a chat revealed that bowhunting would work in our favour. Occ. Health and safety meant no rifle shooters were allowed at all, but I think they thought we were fairly harmless with the bows.
The planning took place and finally at 7a.m. that magical morning we were away, with a borrowed U.H.F., a borrowed 4wd, a borrowed G.P.S.. The only things that were ours were our bows and our determination to harvest our first billies each.
We arrived on dark, some 11 hours drive behind us, and were shown our dwelling for the week, an absolute Taj Mahal of a shearers quarters, with hot showers, gas stove, fridge, full kitchen, choice of 10 bedrooms, even a double bed! (I still don’t know how Murph ended up with it, being the youngest.)
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/country.jpg
We were given some advice on the south paddock, and two full days of fruitless walking followed, seeing a LOT of tracks and droppings, but no goats. Night time saw us trying to buoy up our spirits with the odd bourbon and coke, and telling ourselves we still had most of a week left. (That and the fact that Ralph is a bit of a chef worked wonders in the evenings.)
The owner had told us that these goats are starting to be worth a bit to him, as a market is developing for them, so he didn’t want us to shoot too many. I think he was reluctant to let the manager put us onto the best spots. We offered to pay a trophy fee for a good one, but he said that wasn’t necessary. Just take one or two each. We couldn’t complain. We were staying on the property for a week for the cost of a carton of beer!
Later in the week, we were told to move from the sandy flats to the red-rock hills, and they are tough country to hunt. Cliffs and hills made of shaly, rocky scree that crunches underfoot on every step, giving you away to the goats that always sat on the high ground to watch you coming. Murph and Ralph dropped a few small billies, both with “Texas heart shots” and being their first, they were fairly happy. I was trying to tell myself that even if I didn’t get one, it would still be a good week even if I went home empty-handed. These are the kind of lies you tell yourself at times.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/ralphsbilly_1.jpg
Ralph's Billy
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/Murphsbilly_1.jpg
Murph's Billy
The last three days around lunch-time we would drive back to camp and the young fellas (19 and 22) would complain about sore legs and how they weren’t going back out. I was the old man of the trip (at 29) but I went back out every day, sore legs or not. I had to get a Billy! I only had one week a year. I had to make this count. The pressure was mounting. I was walking those hills for 6 hours a day, and sleeping like a log at night. I destroyed one set of boots in the process.
The last day dawned. It was all or nothing. After half a day of slog, I was put onto another hill at about 3 in the afternoon, a hill that had sand and big granite boulders and slabs. Perfect country for hiding goats.
I set off from the 4wd to the rocks, and was sprung 40 m away from the rocks by a nanny jumping up from behind the rock I was walking to. What are the chances? After freezing for what seemed like an eternity, and doing my best imitation of a tree for ages, I was able to back out and head for the highest point on the hill, a rocky fortress. Still, that was a good sign, there were goats in them there hills.
The sound of goats calling to each other had my pulse racing, and I slipped out of my hydration pack, bum-bag and boots to go in on the rocks in my socks. Those tell-tale glimpses of white were beckoning me as I snuck in on my hands and knees at times, my breathing the loudest noise I wanted to make.
There was a fairly big group of them ahead of me, directly up-wind. That was good, the wind was holding. As I went in on them, using every boulder and shrub, I heard what sounded like flu season behind me. There were about 20 goats standing 50 m away on a rocky ledge sneezing that alarm sound they all make. Great…. The ones in front of me were alerted, but didn’t know the cause of the problem. They started moving to my left which covered me with a big bush, I nocked a Gold Tip, attached my Scott Calliper release aid to my string loop and slowly stood. There was a good Billy, about 36 inch spread, good for my first, and as I was aiming, I caught sight of a big black mass to my left, swivelled slowly and froze. There, standing broadside at 20 metres, was the owner of the biggest corkscrew set of horns I had ever seen.
It is amazing what runs through your mind at times like this: “Alright Puk, calm down. Breathe. Breathe! Damn bow, stop shaking! It never shakes like this on my target range! Pick a spot. Aim small. Small!? There is so much big! Don’t punch the trigger, but hurry up already, the sound of your heart coming out of your mouth is going to scare them away!”
With a thwack the shot was away and closed the gap before I had a chance to blink. “Too high and forward Puk, how could you do that from 20 metres?”
The big fella dropped like a stone, his back legs kicked convulsively for a few seconds, and then nothing. Not a sound. He didn’t bawl, he didn’t thrash and roll, and there was no blood. The strangest thing was with a 70lb bow, the 125 grn single bevel outback supreme had only entered about 3 inches into his broad neck. My only guess was that it must have been a spine shot, because a few kicks and about 2 minutes later, there was no blink reflex as a fly landed on his eyeball. It was over: so fast and quietly that the other goats still stood and sneezed 50 metres away, having no idea what had happened. A Lucky shot, rather than a good one.
Then the goats all ran away, because all 100 kilos of me left the ground and let out a “Whoo-hoo!” that echoed off the cliffs and crags. Persistence had paid off in a big way. The perfect result for me. The animal didn’t suffer unduly, I didn’t lose too many arrows, and boy was I glad I put that folding saw in the back of my hydration pack. An hour later the horns and top of the skull were off and I was walking back to the vehicle to call the manager’s wife and ask if they had a measuring tape.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/Bigfellabestshot_1.jpg
I wanted a billy of over 100dp on this trip.
The big fella measured out to 146 and one eighth Douglas Points, with a spread of 47 inches. And can you believe, my wife still won’t let me keep them in the house! So they grace the shed wall, on a plaque with the arrow that harvested them, my first billy.
On the trip home, Murph kept falling asleep and dreaming of white specks in the distance on red rock hills, and how he would get downwind of them for a stalk. He even saw one in the bulldust on the back of the 4wd!
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/4wdbulldustbilly_1.jpg
I had thought stalking in socks was a good idea, but all the fine little prickles that entered the bottom of my feet made my feet burn for days until they festered and worked their way out. I don’t care though. I’m happy.
Oh, and by the way, as the goats were departing that afternoon, I saw one jump up on a rock that looked like a longhorn steer. He was bigger than my big fella, with horns that went straight out to the sides, then up and forward at 90 degrees. I am taking another week next year, and dreaming of another Red Rock Billy.
The author uses a 70lb Martin Phantom II with 75/95 Gold Tips, Archer’s choice sights, Scott Caliper release, Woody’s Outback Supremes and Hunters, N.A.P. QT 1000 rest.
Puk
RED ROCK BILLY
That one week a year….
By Rev. Joel Pukallus
It’s always the way, a friend of a friend finds out that you like to hunt with the bow and tells you of this magical place where billies with horns over 42 inches and feral camels run. Hard to believe? Well, you try not to let your imagination run away with you, but it isn’t easy. I was sitting in the front bar of the local pub when an older bloke in town expressed his relief that even though I am a “God-botherer”(minister), if I like to bowhunt, maybe I am a normal person after all. I replied that I doubt that very much, but I do like to bowhunt. And so the conversation progressed to “I tell you what, I have a mate who manages this place. I’ll give him a ring”
Now securing a hunting location is tricky but possibly rewarding work, as any bowhunter knows, so every time I saw the bloke, I would try to work the question into the conversation without sounding like I was nagging. “Have you called the mate yet?”
In the meantime, having no other keen bowhunters in my town, I introduced my neighbour and his brother to the art, and they took it up keenly, Ralph with a 60lb Fred Bear compound bow, and his younger brother Murphy with a 150lb crossbow. I had the hunting partners, all I needed was the trip to be confirmed.
Finally I was given the manager’s number, and a chat revealed that bowhunting would work in our favour. Occ. Health and safety meant no rifle shooters were allowed at all, but I think they thought we were fairly harmless with the bows.
The planning took place and finally at 7a.m. that magical morning we were away, with a borrowed U.H.F., a borrowed 4wd, a borrowed G.P.S.. The only things that were ours were our bows and our determination to harvest our first billies each.
We arrived on dark, some 11 hours drive behind us, and were shown our dwelling for the week, an absolute Taj Mahal of a shearers quarters, with hot showers, gas stove, fridge, full kitchen, choice of 10 bedrooms, even a double bed! (I still don’t know how Murph ended up with it, being the youngest.)
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/country.jpg
We were given some advice on the south paddock, and two full days of fruitless walking followed, seeing a LOT of tracks and droppings, but no goats. Night time saw us trying to buoy up our spirits with the odd bourbon and coke, and telling ourselves we still had most of a week left. (That and the fact that Ralph is a bit of a chef worked wonders in the evenings.)
The owner had told us that these goats are starting to be worth a bit to him, as a market is developing for them, so he didn’t want us to shoot too many. I think he was reluctant to let the manager put us onto the best spots. We offered to pay a trophy fee for a good one, but he said that wasn’t necessary. Just take one or two each. We couldn’t complain. We were staying on the property for a week for the cost of a carton of beer!
Later in the week, we were told to move from the sandy flats to the red-rock hills, and they are tough country to hunt. Cliffs and hills made of shaly, rocky scree that crunches underfoot on every step, giving you away to the goats that always sat on the high ground to watch you coming. Murph and Ralph dropped a few small billies, both with “Texas heart shots” and being their first, they were fairly happy. I was trying to tell myself that even if I didn’t get one, it would still be a good week even if I went home empty-handed. These are the kind of lies you tell yourself at times.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/ralphsbilly_1.jpg
Ralph's Billy
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/Murphsbilly_1.jpg
Murph's Billy
The last three days around lunch-time we would drive back to camp and the young fellas (19 and 22) would complain about sore legs and how they weren’t going back out. I was the old man of the trip (at 29) but I went back out every day, sore legs or not. I had to get a Billy! I only had one week a year. I had to make this count. The pressure was mounting. I was walking those hills for 6 hours a day, and sleeping like a log at night. I destroyed one set of boots in the process.
The last day dawned. It was all or nothing. After half a day of slog, I was put onto another hill at about 3 in the afternoon, a hill that had sand and big granite boulders and slabs. Perfect country for hiding goats.
I set off from the 4wd to the rocks, and was sprung 40 m away from the rocks by a nanny jumping up from behind the rock I was walking to. What are the chances? After freezing for what seemed like an eternity, and doing my best imitation of a tree for ages, I was able to back out and head for the highest point on the hill, a rocky fortress. Still, that was a good sign, there were goats in them there hills.
The sound of goats calling to each other had my pulse racing, and I slipped out of my hydration pack, bum-bag and boots to go in on the rocks in my socks. Those tell-tale glimpses of white were beckoning me as I snuck in on my hands and knees at times, my breathing the loudest noise I wanted to make.
There was a fairly big group of them ahead of me, directly up-wind. That was good, the wind was holding. As I went in on them, using every boulder and shrub, I heard what sounded like flu season behind me. There were about 20 goats standing 50 m away on a rocky ledge sneezing that alarm sound they all make. Great…. The ones in front of me were alerted, but didn’t know the cause of the problem. They started moving to my left which covered me with a big bush, I nocked a Gold Tip, attached my Scott Calliper release aid to my string loop and slowly stood. There was a good Billy, about 36 inch spread, good for my first, and as I was aiming, I caught sight of a big black mass to my left, swivelled slowly and froze. There, standing broadside at 20 metres, was the owner of the biggest corkscrew set of horns I had ever seen.
It is amazing what runs through your mind at times like this: “Alright Puk, calm down. Breathe. Breathe! Damn bow, stop shaking! It never shakes like this on my target range! Pick a spot. Aim small. Small!? There is so much big! Don’t punch the trigger, but hurry up already, the sound of your heart coming out of your mouth is going to scare them away!”
With a thwack the shot was away and closed the gap before I had a chance to blink. “Too high and forward Puk, how could you do that from 20 metres?”
The big fella dropped like a stone, his back legs kicked convulsively for a few seconds, and then nothing. Not a sound. He didn’t bawl, he didn’t thrash and roll, and there was no blood. The strangest thing was with a 70lb bow, the 125 grn single bevel outback supreme had only entered about 3 inches into his broad neck. My only guess was that it must have been a spine shot, because a few kicks and about 2 minutes later, there was no blink reflex as a fly landed on his eyeball. It was over: so fast and quietly that the other goats still stood and sneezed 50 metres away, having no idea what had happened. A Lucky shot, rather than a good one.
Then the goats all ran away, because all 100 kilos of me left the ground and let out a “Whoo-hoo!” that echoed off the cliffs and crags. Persistence had paid off in a big way. The perfect result for me. The animal didn’t suffer unduly, I didn’t lose too many arrows, and boy was I glad I put that folding saw in the back of my hydration pack. An hour later the horns and top of the skull were off and I was walking back to the vehicle to call the manager’s wife and ask if they had a measuring tape.
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/Bigfellabestshot_1.jpg
I wanted a billy of over 100dp on this trip.
The big fella measured out to 146 and one eighth Douglas Points, with a spread of 47 inches. And can you believe, my wife still won’t let me keep them in the house! So they grace the shed wall, on a plaque with the arrow that harvested them, my first billy.
On the trip home, Murph kept falling asleep and dreaming of white specks in the distance on red rock hills, and how he would get downwind of them for a stalk. He even saw one in the bulldust on the back of the 4wd!
http://i27.photobucket.com/albums/c180/Jpukallus/4wdbulldustbilly_1.jpg
I had thought stalking in socks was a good idea, but all the fine little prickles that entered the bottom of my feet made my feet burn for days until they festered and worked their way out. I don’t care though. I’m happy.
Oh, and by the way, as the goats were departing that afternoon, I saw one jump up on a rock that looked like a longhorn steer. He was bigger than my big fella, with horns that went straight out to the sides, then up and forward at 90 degrees. I am taking another week next year, and dreaming of another Red Rock Billy.
The author uses a 70lb Martin Phantom II with 75/95 Gold Tips, Archer’s choice sights, Scott Caliper release, Woody’s Outback Supremes and Hunters, N.A.P. QT 1000 rest.
Puk