EARNING MY FIRST SAMBAR

FEATURE Michael Moschakis

I had travelled over from Adelaide to hunt sambar and I did not come into it as a complete beginner. I’d already had success with fallow deer back home. Sambar stalking was something different though. It asked more of me: more awareness, more patience and more humility. It asked me to earn every little bit of progress.

My first attempt at chasing sambar was in early 2024. It was my first time deer stalking and I spent a week learning just how much I did not know. It was only on the last day of the trip that I came upon fresh sign and started to feel I was getting close. By then it was too late. Still, the trip did not feel like a failure. Even though I went home empty handed, the lessons I learned were the foundation for everything that came after.

The second trip built on the first. I got onto fresh sign earlier and had brief sightings, but I got honked at a lot and busted deer before I could properly get eyes on them. I was close enough to know they were there, and still green enough to keep getting found out. It was frustrating and addictive all at once.

This next trip was special before I even stepped into the bush because my girlfriend Sammy came with me. It was her first experience hunting and shooting. I wanted success, of course, but I also knew what sambar can do to plans and confidence. More than anything, I wanted her to see the bush and fall in love with it the way I had. What surprised me was how quickly she learned. She moved quietly, listened, watched and adapted. She quickly came to admire the bush, sambar and what makes them so special. It meant everything to me that she was able to see it the way I do. It meant even more that I was no longer carrying this passion alone and had a partner to share it with. There was also something deeper in it for me. On our first hunt together she was seeing me in my element, pursuing something I had worked hard at and cared about deeply. To have success with her there beside me made it a defining moment in our relationship.

The gully we hunted that morning was one I had chosen carefully. On a previous trip, I had descended the same system and found where they were bedding, but I had busted them trying to navigate the thick foliage on the way down. It felt clumsy and awkward from above. This time, I decided to do the opposite and ascend, hoping to catch up to them as they browsed their way towards their beds.

It was a beautiful gully. Lush and green, wide with open sides and a thick ribbon of blackberry running right up through the centre. It wound its way uphill in a series of bends. Each corner gave sound and visual cover as we moved. You could work into it carefully and use the shape of the country rather than fight it. The conditions were right. The wind was in our faces. The sun was out but not shining directly into the gully, which gave us excellent visibility.

We were halfway up the gully when doubt started to creep in. I had been glassing after coming around a bend and I remember starting to wonder if we had missed them, or if they had slipped out without us knowing. Still, we pushed on. We were on the right side of the gully about halfway up the face, moving carefully, staying quiet.

Then it happened, a young hind exploded out of the blackberry in the centre of the gully. The blackberry was tall and thick, so she had been completely concealed until the moment she burst out. One second there was nothing, then there was a deer in full motion. Sammy was a few steps behind me and quickly dropped back further to give me space. The hind sprinted up the left side of the gully trying to make the ridge. In the time it took me to lower my binoculars and bring the rifle up to my shoulder she had already covered a huge amount of ground. She was halfway up the left face and moving hard, 50 metres gained in seconds. There was no time to think. Instinct took over, and it felt natural, almost primal. The rifle felt like part of me and taking the shot felt automatic rather than calculated. She was broadside, and I put the crosshairs where they needed to be, right behind the front left leg. The first shot was good, but she did not drop straight away. Without hesitation, I chambered a second round and hit her in the same place. She dropped and rolled into the blackberry.

Then the gully went quiet again. I took a knee and began to process what had happened. The adrenaline hit hard. I was shaking with excitement and disbelief. After all the trips, all the mistakes and all the kilometres, there she was. My first sambar was lying in that blackberry and Sammy was right there beside me. She sat down next to me and we embraced, both filled with gratitude and a shared sense of awe. It was a humane and successful hunt and in that moment we both knew it would be the first of many. We had fallen in love with the animal, the bush and the art of sambar hunting.

Seeing that hind up close for the first time is something I will never forget. I dragged her clear of the blackberry and took a moment to give thanks to the animal. I felt intense gratitude, not only for the harvest we were about to take home but for the experience itself and the privilege to share it with my partner.

I began processing the deer by taking the backstraps, then the hind legs. I also took the skull because I knew I wanted a lasting memento to bring home. Something that would always take me back to the gully and that morning with Sammy. The pack out was not difficult, she was a small deer. Even so, packing out meat from my first sambar filled me with pride. Every step back down the gully carried the weight of what it took to get there.

That young hind fed us for several months, and to me that is one of the most meaningful parts of hunting. The hunt did not end in that gully. It followed us home into the kitchen, into meals shared and into the quiet satisfaction of knowing exactly where our food came from, and what it took to get it.

Looking back now, I feel grateful more than anything else. The learning, the failures, the bush and the person beside me all came together in that gully. One day, I hope my own children will still have the right to experience this. I want them to know what it feels like to move through wild country with purpose and to experience the primal satisfaction that comes from a clean hunt and an ethical harvest. Sambar hunting demands a lot, but it gives back so much in return. Being in the bush brings a peace and contentment that is hard to explain to anyone who has not known it.

My first sambar was a young hind. To some people that might sound like a small milestone, but to me, as a self taught hunter and shooter, it was a culmination of years of effort, the reward of a clean harvest and the experience of sharing such a defining moment with someone I love.