Subalpine Sambar hunt

There is something inherently special about the Victorian High Country, especially in winter. With gates closed off to vehicles it’s only those willing to walk long distances behind the gates that get to experience the solitude and raw beauty that is on offer. This is the attraction that alpine backpack hunting for sambar offers and what keeps drawing us back time after time.

After conversations back and forth over where to go, long-range weather forecasts and checks with our wives, my mate Nick and I decided that this adventure was going to be for five days into new country in the subalpine region of the Victorian Alps. It’s remote country so we don’t take half chances with gear. After rounding up and checking over the equipment before it was packed, we were ready.

When Nick arrived from Melbourne early Friday morning, we were soon on our way. After a quick stop to help out a young hunter that had lost a wheel off his Patrol, a few hours later we were parking the car at the gates to begin the long trek in.

Planning hunting trips into new country based off Google Earth is, as many will attest, risky. The cleared vegetation you think is present can often actually be intense regrowth, almost impenetrable. The vantage points are quite often not as advantageous as one hopes. But upon reaching our camp spot, luckily for us this system was better than we hoped with a good creek a few hundred metres away. We struck camp on the edge of a narrow ridge, far enough away from where we wanted to hunt to avoid scenting out the systems but under an hour’s walk in under headlamps.

The sides were thick, but the ridge was open and easy to navigate. We had identified a series of gully systems with grassy understories on north faces. With expected lows of between -2 and -4^oC most mornings, we anticipated the deer would be seeking out the warmth of the morning sun and our plan was to be there as the light began to illuminate the valley. We set alarms for 5am.

Due to the surrounding peaks, the sun does not hit the faces we were targeting until well after dawn. In some basins it wasn’t until 9am. We carefully picked apart every gully system with our binoculars, searching for game trails or features that would draw sambar to feed or bed in. It is rare to see a deer in the open. There was a time when we would quickly scan a grassy face with no deer seen and move on. That’s a serious blunder; for the majority of the time only a small part of a deer will be visible. The Alps are full of disappointing ‘sambar rocks’ and ‘sambar logs’, but eventually one of these objects will flick a tail or an ear, movement that piques interest and elevates your heart rate.

Following three days of hiking through the snow to reach vantage points at first light and then slowly traversing the ridges, peering into gully heads throughout the day without glimpsing the representative stag we were pursuing, we began to wonder whether we should drop off the ridges and venture to the river flats.

On the third morning we left the system we were camped in and pushed north, through the thick regrowth that hides logs that stripped skin from exposed shins. Eventually we got to the edge of a sharp drop-off. We had high hopes. As dawn broke, we began searching the gully system below. After an hour and a half, we shook our heads in disbelief; one wombat was all that we could turn up.

After a quick chat we decided to push up and over into the next system. It was much bigger, but would be more subject to the wind. Hopefully we could locate where the deer might be sheltering without washing our scent in. We manoeuvred through the gnarly snow gum stands and into some very steep rocky bluff country. We navigated the spur line and began peering down as we went, hoping to see a deer just over the crest. It was a slow process: walk a little, look a lot, rinse and repeat.

As we got higher, it opened up and we could suddenly see for kilometres. There were three distinct gullies within this one system. We scaled the near vertical rock face to a bench that extended all the way to the summit. As we emerged from the shadow of the cliffs we were greeted by bitterly cold winds and almost 270-degree views. We began the search.

Perched high on rocky bluffs, one can become immersed in the raw beauty, gazing out across the snow-capped peaks, the gullies and ephemeral creeks that carry melted snow down to the rivers as they meander their way out of the mountains. The stillness is incredible, and you can easily lose track of searching for deer and just be in awe of nature. After a while of staring through glass, I caught some movement. I broke the silence with an excited ‘Nick, I’ve got one’. I tried to explain where to look, using all sorts of landscape points. Eventually he saw what I was excited about.

After a few days of nothing it was a thrill to see the distinct rear of a bedded deer, its head hidden by vegetation. We packed up and continued along the ridge, trying to get a better view of what was below us. It didn’t seem to matter where we moved, the deer remained covered. Chuckling, we pondered how many others we had missed despite the hours behind the binos. Finally, we got to an open spot and peered in; to Nick’s excitement he saw white tops! ‘It’s a stag’, he said in that weird, muffled, half-whisper all deer hunters communicate in.

I could see the stag had some weight to his antlers too. Moving to a more suitable spot, we came around a corner and saw the blaze lid of another hunter in the middle of making a coffee. Nick whispered a “g’day” and took years off his life as he gasped. We were the last thing he was expecting to see up here! He had been watching some hinds that were below us but obscured by the vegetation. We settled on a flat area, a few hundred metres from the deer that was still bedded. It was now 10am. After talking to our new mate and periodically checking the deer, the stag got up and began feeding out from behind his leafy fortress. Having already been set up, ranged and dialled up in anticipation, I was ready.

After a quick recheck of the range, wind and the scope, the deer provided an opening and I eased off a 162-grain SST projectile from the .28 Nosler. The shot looked perfect, in through lungs and high heart, but the deer appeared to soak it up and took a few strides up the face before stopping as the shot sound rolled through the hills. We watched intently as he stood, then wobbled before collapsing. The country was incredibly steep, and the stag slid down before coming to rest against a burnt-out stump. With another round chambered we watched, Nick through binoculars and me through the scope, in case he got up. He didn’t.

The system was silent once again. We replayed the footage and could see the shot was as good as we thought. Excited but tempered with some trepidation, it was now time to hike in and try to retrieve our stag. We put some flagging tape on a tree above where we shot, took a compass bearing and ranged the stump. There were several distinctive trees in the vicinity that we thought would be easy landmarks to locate. Our new mate wished us well and went to pack up his camp.

The hike into the gully was horrid; steep with small benches and shaley rocks waiting to betray your footing at every step: perfect sambar habitat. After ranging back to the tape a few times, we heard that distinctive bush “coo-wee’”. We scanned the tops and saw our mate up top pointing us further down. What an absolute legend! We walked and slid maybe 50m further and piled up against the black stump was the stag. 

We had estimated his antlers to be roughly 25 inches long and there was zero ground shrinkage. Nick tossed me the lie detector tape; I muttered a swear word and remarked ‘I must be doing it wrong’ and gave the tape back to Nick so he could measure. Nick ran the tape and looked back at me with a wry smile: “Twenty-eight inches!” I couldn’t believe it! We had been staring at him for a few hours and had severely underestimated his antler length.

The old stag had been in the wars: ears ripped, missing top teeth, old scars up and down his body from a lifetime of adventure and misadventure. I decided to cape him; so, mindful of the mission to climb back out and back to camp, we got to work. The task was made harder by the steep incline on which we were operating. The Rob Herbert blade had him caped out in fairly short time, and we got him loaded into the pack. The pack out was as bad as you can imagine but it is somewhat satisfying knowing the weight is due to the achievement of a long-time hunting goal. Nick had my back the whole way up and was waiting to catch me in case of a slip up.

At the summit we paused to reflect on what had just unfolded and refuelled, knowing we still were a long way from camp. Do we stay at the tops and try find Nick one this evening? Or move elsewhere? After a quick chat, it was decided to cut the trip short and get the deer home and to a taxidermist as quick as possible to avoid the dreaded hair slip. It was 4.15pm when we decided to make the break for the car. We broke camp and split the gear so we could fit the stag and cape on to my pack, then started the slow march out through the snow under head torch with wild dogs howling in the background.

Just under six hours later we arrived back at the car, exhausted but with a massive grin. We only clocked 54km for the three days but they were some of the more savage kilometres I’ve done. Accompanied by a couple of average nights’ rest and with only sub-par coffee! Backpack hunting isn’t for everyone. It’s hard, it’s uncomfortable, it’s cold but it’s unbelievably rewarding. No doubt it would be one of the toughest hikes I’ll do for a while. The recollections of the cramps and weight will fade but the memories of this hunting adventure will stay with Nick and I forever!