I thought I'd get it up here first, and put it on Lore & Legend pages later, since my software is undergoing 'difficulties' at the moment
[/b]WALKING ON THE LEGS OF A YOUNG BLOKE
By Bill Baker
I crawled out from under the fallen log well before daybreak. The rain had stopped but the moon was still covered by a heavy blanket of cloud. I had abandoned my Mozzie-dome about 2:00am. when the rain began to fall in ernest and climbed in under the log. I had pulled my sewn sheet up over my head and listened to the sound of the falling rain and hungry Mozies but at least I had stayed fairly dry.
It didn’t take long to coach the fire to life and get the fruit tin, [which had been desert the night before] full of spring water to the boil. After quick feed of toast and tinned salmon, washed down with army coffee we were ready to hunt the swamps.
My crook knees weren’t going to let me travel far in the basalt so I drew my two mates a rough mud-map and watched with envy as they crossed the big swamp and headed north in search of hogs. As I sat there drinking my second cup of coffee I couldn’t help but think of all the great hunts and all the hogs I had put to rest in the swamps where the boys were headed. Hell if I couldn’t hunt the basalt, I could at least poke around the open swamps to the east of our spike camp.
I had harvested a young pig just before dark with a sharp broadhead through the shoulders and dressed it by the creek in the moonlight. “ Red “ had harvested one a little larger, about the same time, 29 2/8 pts. We wouldn’t be eating it but that’s another story.
Anyway after hanging the young pig in the shade of a large Fig tree I touched up a couple of broadheads. Grabbing my longbow, bumpack, digital camera and walking stick I crossed the creek at a shallow place and ventured east in search of a good boar.
I’d like to take the time out here to tell you a little about the bow I was carrying. I had taken a great liking for that bow from the very first time I had shot it, when Dave Pender was the proud owner. Then while I was busy buying a round of beers at the Gladstone shoot my GOOD friend Al Kidner slipped in under my guard and cut a deal with Dave and bow then became Al’s, much to my disgust. Al had Glenn recoat it and at the same time name it “ Bloomslang “ but I had to have that bow! So I hounded him relentlessly and he began to weaken, even to the stage that I was sure I heard him say that he would sell it to his old mate Bill! Well Al went off to East Timor and Kelly knew no better and soon “ Bloomslang†was in the hands of it’s right full owner. God bless that girl!
So there I was, a bit stiff and sore but happy as a pig in poo, poking down the edge of a long waterway surrounded by basalt, a good steady breeze in my face and “Boomslang†in my hand. Half way down the edge of the swamp I came across fresh pig dung, using the back of my left hand [for obvious reasons] I found it to still be warm. I had no need to slow down as I was already travelling with the add of my walking stick and spending more time looking then moving.
That old familiar feeling, the one a seasoned hunter feels when things are about to hot up, began to surface. The walking cane went down the back of my belt and it helped to hold my camera out of the way. Next I slipped an arrow out of my bow-quiver; there was no mistaking this arrow it was the only one in my quiver like it. It was stained the colour of Rosewood, had three white fletchers and was crested. Below the cresting was Razor Edge stamped in bold letters and on the business end was a razor sharp Grizzly broadhead. Dave Pender had made six for me and this was the first one to come for a hunt.
I knew this swamp would end shortly and that the water disappeared under the basalt. It would also mark the end of my hunt, as I knew that I would need to look after my knees so as not to be totally useless, when it was time to pack out of here. Just as I was beginning to think that the hunt was all but over an ear flicked and I slowly turned my head to see a medium size boar feeding in the very far corner of the swamp. He had no idea that I was there. While he was feeding in the other direction I unloaded my camera and cane.
I eased Dave’s arrow onto the string and began to close the gap. Broadside, quartering away or nothing I told myself. Boomslang is 70lb @28,†on a good day I’d draw 27â€Â, I was hoping for a good day! The boar had his own plans though and began to feed up into the basalt. The swamp was narrow and shallow here, at its eastern end.
It was like I’d stepped back in time twenty years. I crossed that swamp on a young bloke’s legs. I could see that the boar was angling across the basalt towards a well- worn pad to my left. If I could get up the rock a little without being busted or going A over T, I might just close the gap enough. Then the boar made a costly mistake; he stopped to nose around in the basalt with his head behind a thick bush. His tail told a story of happy thoughts as I tiptoed across the lava.
I was still about twenty paces away when he began to move. There was no more cover only open ground and loose rock. The boar stepped onto the pad at a quartering angle and I burned a hole in the back of his ribs with my eyes. Boomslang’s limbs curved back as if by some force, of their own.
That arrow flew as sweet as any I can ever remember and finished it’s journey in the back of the boar’s ribs. The Grizzly wedged into the off side shoulder and as the hog reacted to the shot he snapped the head clear of the shaft. The boar travelled less distance then the arrow had and was down and out in seconds.
I just stood there and soaked it all in. I thought of the bow, the arrow, the boar and of my mates. I thought of how many years had passed since I had taken a boar here deep in the heart of the basalt with the simplicity and beauty of a stick bow.
I walked back to my camera and cane. I tucked the cane down my belt; I wouldn’t be needing that for a while. I was still walking on the legs of a young bloke.
