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Jurgen Schwanecke

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 poplar swayed in the alpine air, showering the ground with amber leaves. I glanced in the back at Kim sleeping in the sun. My dog and I, 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 waters. Even 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 all I see.

I’ve walked through glacial tunnels in that country. I’ve almost frozen to death in that country. I've seen many of it’s emerald tarns. The high, open tussock country makes for challenging and fun stalks, and I have failed time after time on big bulls. 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. I couldn't help but begin to reflect on one particularly windy day, where I found myself in the perfect position above a tribe 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. A nagging fact that lingered with me for multiple years.

           But back to reality, the ice piled on top of my boots as we trudged our way up the ridge. Kim, my 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-climactic 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 of 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 front to create a reliable, steady breeze in our face. I unslung my bow and watched as they grazed and trotted their way into a small bluff system directly below us. Amongst them were 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, they were 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 as they move away from me. I make my way round, planning to cut them off and send an arrow from above as they walk past me. 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, the fiery light envelops me. "Did I lose them?" I ask myself. A slight hot panic is crawling up my back now. A pebble, flicked by a rubbery hoof tumbles down the mountain to my left. It's another mature bull, and 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 than intended. He’s confused, and so am I. 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.

           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 and beneath head lamp, I hacked and cut away his back straps and quarters. I knew I would have a very heavy pack to take down the mountain. The stars hung from a cobalt ceiling and moonlight glanced off the pale hills. Mountains I know very well. Tahr, I know even better. It had all come together. Persistence had won. I’m not going to bore you with the sentimentalism. Instead I’ll bore you with my thoughts on my own hunting. I don’t hunt on farms. I’ve never had a strong desire to go wing shooting, regardless of how fun those pursuits probably are. 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 trait 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.

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