THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THAT FIRST BUCK

FEATURE Naomi Jackson

We headed out for our first hunt of the year in mid-March, well ahead of any serious rut activity. I was looking forward to a weekend with good mates, introducing a new ADA member to her first hunt and, maybe, topping up the freezer.

Early Saturday morning, Rod was behind the wheel while I took on gate duty, hopping in and out of the car as we crossed multiple paddocks. Of course, I was trying to be quiet with every car door close; too quiet, it turns out. One mistimed effort and I slammed the door straight onto my thumb.

Right hand. Trigger hand. Fantastic.

It’s almost embarrassing how such a small injury can cause so much pain. I could barely move my hand. But there was no way I was going to waste the weekend. If I was going to be in pain, I might as well be in pain while walking the farm and looking for deer. And if it came down to it, Rod could take the shot.

By this point, we’d missed first light entirely - but we also know this property, and on cool mornings, the deer can stay active well past dawn. We checked the usual spots, glassing over paddocks and seeing nothing but ’roos.

Eventually, we dropped back into the ever-reliable creek line. We stood. Watched. Waited. My hand was absolutely throbbing. Again, how can something so small hurt so bloody much? After 20 or 30 minutes, we decided to pull the pin and come back later that afternoon.

Rod turned to his right to head out. I turned to follow and caught a flicker of movement on my left. I froze. Grabbed his arm.

“Deer. With head gear.”

Thankfully, we were standing in waist-high grass and could drop straight down without being seen. A young buck was moving casually through the trees, not 100m away. The light breeze was in our favour, and he had no clue we were there.

He jumped a fence and started across in front of us; perfect. Then he jumped back. Then changed his mind again and wandered forward. At that point, I wasn’t thinking about my hand anymore. No way I was giving this shot away.

I lined up, waiting for him to clear a patch of trees. The safety wouldn’t budge - my crushed thumb just wouldn’t move it. Muttering a multitude of profanities under my breath, I reached over with the other hand to flick it off.

Those last few seconds always feel like an eternity.

He stepped calmly from behind the tree and too two more paces. I settled myself…and squeezed the trigger.

He dropped on the spot. One kick, then he was still.

We went back to camp for a fresh ice pack. Thankfully, I had my husband, Rod, and some good mates with us to do the cutting – by that stage, I couldn’t hold on to a knife.

There’s a lot of psychology around ‘trophies’ and the idea that they’re a kind of external validation, something you can show to prove your effort and achievement. My favourite trophies are usually served on a dinner plate…but I’ve got to admit, there really is something about that first buck.