WHO DOESN’T LOVE HUNTING THE RUT?

FEATURE Dave Novak

It’s a legitimate question: who doesn’t love hunting the rut? It is the time when the milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard and when the boys turn up to party. It’s exciting, it’s unpredictable and it’s never disappointing. It is when you get to listen and watch a buck tend to his does while satellite bucks move in and out trying to cut his grass.

With the full moon being late into April this year, as well as everything locally being tinder dry, scouting was particularly hard. I did however come across an old buck who was worth watching and who ran me around long enough to keep me interested. As well as the dry conditions, the ’roo numbers were way up, which added various obstacles and issues to every trip.

My first encounter with my buck was in mid-March and quite accidental. I was poking along and pushed a big mob of kangaroos over a rise into a narrow and steep gorge. They disturbed everything, including the buck, which I saw disappear into dense undergrowth. Luckily he was never truly aware of me, which into the future meant he was happy to hang around. I was out and about scouting on a regular basis and I went back to check on him a couple more times but I was reluctant to pull the trigger as he was the best buck I had seen so far in that area. He was quite old and no record breaker (which is why I did end up targeting him) but I did hope that a younger and more dominate buck with good genes would show up. It was time for him find some girls to party with as the rut wasn’t far off and, eventually, he disappeared. I only found him again well into April but now he was a little more buff and he’d found some girls to hang out with.

We were still in the pre-rut phase so he was a bit subdued and very comfortable just feeding with his girls. It felt like turning up to a night club before midnight; nothing was jumping just yet but it was going to go off like Donkey Kong real soon. I hunted him for eight mornings straight with the intention of putting him on the ground. I would leave home in the dark, then walk around bumping into ’roos and trees and generally making too much noise. If I found the girls I normally found him close by. I was carrying my trusty .303 so I never had him within my self-imposed 200m limit. He had my measure, and I felt he was always one step ahead of me with a little sprinkle of luck going his way.

Nothing was going wrong but nothing was going my way either. The kangaroos were a massive pain in the butt as was the dry bush that sounded like walking on Corn Flakes. For most part he always had distance and the high ground, and he was starting to make me look like a vegan in a butcher’s shop – just plain out of place! Make no mistake though, this was fun and this was good hunting. I was 100% invested in this regardless of what the outcome would be. Bucks don’t get to be old by being dumb!

It was taking a fair effort but on the eighth morning the window of luck opened slightly to swing things my way. By then he had just started doing the occasional half-arsed croak, which on this morning let me set up when there was just enough light to get a clear sight picture but before there was enough light for them to see me moving around. Patiently waiting for what felt like hours as the darkness transformed into a new day I could finally see him and the girls moving away from me, out of range again and into some very ugly stuff higher on the hill.

Perfect!

With them tucked away for the moment, I high tailed it out of my snipers nest. Back, around and under them, I zigged then zagged and using some very convenient dead ground I was able to move into a position along the same contour but with a better angle and only 150m away. He was still in the ugly stuff and carrying on a little too much, which gave his game away. He was moving around like he owned the place, trying to maintain some control of the does. Eventually two does got a bit sick of his carry-on and came out to have a break from the party. I knew, or rather hoped, that he was going to step out himself and entice the girls back in.

Waiting and wanting it to happen, he finally stepped out. He was in nice and close to the girls, no doubt whispering his sweet intentions in their ears, but the does were blocking my shot. Finally, he was able to usher the girls back to join the party and was on his own, exposed, broadside and vulnerable. The deal was done with a 180g hug from a rifle built more than 100 years ago achieving a perfect outcome. It hit him hard and without taking more than a couple of steps he was a dead deer rolling down the hill, only stopping when he was unceremoniously tackled by a dead tree. Carrying out all the meat, the skin and head wasn’t a chore as it gave me time to reflect and replay each encounter we had, and to appreciate the old boy for giving me a great rut experience. This is why I love hunting the rut!