MY FIRST PUBLIC LAND STAG

FEATURE Eric

I arrived at the Melbourne Branch hunt at Burnt Bridge Campground on Friday afternoon.

After a chat with everyone, I had my Saturday hunt planned out. I was up at 4.30 am and back at camp at 7.00 pm with nothing to show for it except a spooked spiker that evening. After that, I was feeling a little down. That was until a delicious venison burger and a chat with some of the guys around the fire lifted my spirits. After some hesitation, I decided I’d head back out again Sunday morning, setting up somewhere before first light for one final attempt before heading home. I’m glad I did.

I got up at 4.30 am again, packed my gear as quickly as possible, and drove out. A few of the guys from camp had already left. When I arrived at the spot I’d planned to hunt, I saw quite a few of them already there, getting ready to start their walk. After a quick check of the GPS, I decided to drive a bit further up the road to a gully system I’d never worked before. It felt risky to head into a gully in the dark that I had no idea about, but I went for it anyway.

As I climbed uphill with my head torch, I saw no deer sign at all and started thinking I should move to a spot I knew better. But time was short, and I wanted to be in position for first light, so I pushed on and finally reached my spot: three-quarters of the way up a hill, wind in my face, overlooking a gully. I sat in the darkness for a few minutes. Everything went quiet. As the sun crept up and the birds began to sing, I could see more of the gully. I was still tempted to move to my other spot, but it was too late now, the sun was already coming up, and my chances would only drop if I moved somewhere else.

Once there was enough light, I started glassing with my binoculars. At first, nothing. After a while, feeling a little hopeless, I stood up, and suddenly the view opened. I grabbed my binos again, scanned the new ground, and there he was. A stag, working his way across the gully far below. My heart instantly started racing. I took a few breaths, reminded myself to stay calm. The wind was in my favour, I’d gotten in early, and he had no idea I was there. No need to rush.

He was too far for an offhand shot, about 100–110 metres away, much further than the maximum 50 metres shots I had taken in the past. I quietly crept a few metres to a fallen branch I could rest on. I rested my rifle and watched the stag through my scope. Branches blocked a clear shot, so I held steady. I knew he wouldn’t come uphill toward me due to the lack of sign; more likely he’d continue into the thick tea-tree to the right. I waited until he stepped into the only open section. Now was my only shot. I breathed out, focused, and squeezed the trigger with my crosshairs just behind his front shoulder.

The .30-06 roared, echoing off the mountains. Silence followed. I searched through my scope and, in the corner of my eye, saw a deer running over the gully to the right. My stomach sank. Could he have run that far, that quickly? Had I missed? It was the furthest shot I’d ever taken. Doubt set in, even though I felt confident about my aim.

I walked down to where I thought he had been standing; no blood. My heart sank further. Had I missed my first public-land stag? I searched, went back up to my shooting position, checked angles, then searched again. Nothing. Fresh scat? None. Two hours passed as I scoured the gully that I saw him run over to, exhaustion setting in. I started sobbing, convinced I’d lost him. either by missing, or poor shot placement, letting him run somewhere far away to die.

But I couldn’t give up. I went back to my shooting position for one last look. With more sunlight now, I realised he might have been further down than I’d searched. I walked lower, and then… yes! Fresh scat. I was searching too high up. Suddenly, it made sense. The deer I’d seen running over the gully when I shot was a different one entirely. I followed some flattened ferns down the gully from where I was now very confident he was standing, and I finally saw him. I dropped to my knees and out loud, I said, “There he is.” Relief washed over me.

The steep, wet country had hidden him; he must have dropped on the spot and slid out of sight behind the ferns. I was too strung up on the idea that the deer I saw running must have been him. The hard work was only beginning. I harvested aal the meat I could, plus his head, and packed it into game bags. It took a few gruelling trips in the rain through some of the steepest country I’ve hunted, but it was a price I was more than willing to pay for this stag.

In the end, his antlers measured 19.5” long by 17” wide.