TWO HOURS into my first High Country sambar hunt in years, a stag lies dead at my feet. It had a head worth taking — it must have been because it wasn’t there any more. Nor were his backstraps or hind legs. I was gutted. Someone else had shot him less than two days ago.
MATE, I’d put in such a good stalk, too! I’d followed his game trail, noting all the fresh rub trees along the way. The wind was in my favour and it was early enough that he wouldn’t have bedded yet. All the signs indicated there was a stag active in the area and I felt confident I’d find him. In the cold, damp conditions, his droppings still looked pretty fresh.
I’d seen the low-flying wedge-tailed eagles overhead and heard the crows calling but I never dreamed they’d be gathering to feast on the stag I was hunting. Now it was obvious because they’d been stripping the remaining meat from the exposed ribs.
Bugger.
