Adventures Down Under

The old buffalo bull swung his massive head in my direction, fixing a baleful glare into the scrubby bush we were crouched behind, 75 yards from where he stood. With no time to find a rest, I hastily placed the .375`s forestock onto my guide`s shoulder for stability, and as the bull`s head rose up to its full height, I placed the crosshairs onto the center of his huge neck and squeezed the trigger.

OK, I guess I can admit, I`m somewhat of a worldly traveler when it comes to big-game hunting. I tell myself that I do it for inspiration for my artwork, which centers around the species I hunt. But heck, I`m not fooling anybody; I just love to hunt, and I enjoy visiting new places and chasing exotic critters from other countries. I`ve been to Africa 13 times, and I reckoned it was time for a new continent and new adventures. So I booked a trip to Australia to hunt water buffalo and rusa deer with Hunt Australia, with a side trip to New Zealand for tahr and chamois. I really had no idea what to expect; I`d heard nothing but good things about visits to New Zealand, but I didn`t really know what might happen during a trip Down Under. I planned on borrowing rifles at each location; traveling with a firearm can be a daunting prospect sometimes, so I usually leave my favorite rifle at home.

Fifty hours and five planes after leaving Montana I arrived, disheveled and exhausted, at the somewhat spartan airport in Gove, the Northern Territories, at the top of Australia. A transport vehicle had been hired to take me to the Gan Gan buffalo camp, in the heart of East Arnhem Land, 600,000 acres of Aboriginal lands that stretched hundreds of miles from the east coast towards Darwin. We drove 150 miles down a remote dirt track to get to the tent camp, arriving at midnight, and after swatting a few dozen mosquitoes I fell gratefully into my cot.

The next day was slightly cooler than the expected 90 degrees, and I cheerfully climbed into a well-used Land Cruiser with my guide Mark to start looking for buffalo.

These buffalo are indigenous to southeast Asia; 80 animals were introduced to Australia around 1825. They now number in the tens of thousands, and without any natural predators and living in a natural salad bowl, life is pretty good for these huge bovines. The strategy was to drive along vague tracks through the bush, hoping to see bulls as they headed to shade to rest during the heat of the day. I noticed rather quickly that these buffalo are a tad different than the Cape buffalo I`d spent a lot of time studying; they were quite tolerant for the most part, even curious, and we could sometime get pretty close for a better look. But as with most trophy animals, the really big ones made themselves scarce. The rut was commencing, and most cow groups had a bull in attendance. The eucalyptus forest was interspersed with huge floodplains full of water birds and sprinkled with buffalo...it was an idyllic setting for wildlife viewing.

As we spent more time watching the buffalo, I noticed the differences in the bulls. Some were "lunars", because their horns swept back in a graceful curve, a half-moon shape. Others had horns that were flatter, stretching out almost straight from their skulls, a "sweeper", and it was this type I had my heart set on. The magic score for a good buffalo is 100 inches, a combination of each horn`s length and the circumference of the base, and we analyzed each bull for these qualities.

While searching for a trophy bull, we came across a few other creatures of interest, like wallabies, large moniter lizards, dingos, feral pigs and a few scrub bulls, another trophy species that arose from domestic cattle stocks. This area is so remote that there is no agriculture or livestock; the land is in its original state, with hardly any effects from people, and only a few scattered Aboriginal villages.

We returned that first day to find that the other hunter in camp had taken a lovely old bull on his first day. I was somewhat envious, but also glad that I had more time to look for the perfect buffalo. We all enjoyed a wonderful meal, reliving the day`s events. Although remote, the camp had a generator providing power for part of the day, and Joy, a sweet woman from New Zealand, prepared our meals and did the laundry. I had a rather blonde moment when I tried to pick up an innocent-looking little yellow snake outside my tent that night, only realizing after he slipped out of my grasp that I was in AUSTRALIA, the land of poisonous snakes. Turned out it was probably a young taipan, the most venomous snake around...my guardian angel was working hard that night.

We continued our search for a few more days, seeing scattered herds, but no trophies. For a change of pace, I hunted with the head guide Peter on day four, and he took me across a lily-pad covered lake to a new area, where a truck awaited on the bank. Normally this area was too marshy to hunt, but the dry conditions meant the wetlands were navigable, and we took quick advantage, cruising the forest edges and doing a few stalks after promising bulls. I spotted what looked to be a pretty good bull on top of a hill bordering the plains, and we quickly jumped out and snuck closer. He turned out to be the one, nice and wide, and he gave a mighty jump and spun around at my shot. I quickly did a follow-up into his shoulder, and he dropped into the dust. What a monster. These buffalo are larger, body-wise, than Cape buffalo. His horns measured about 103 inches, and he was a magnificent, ugly, hairless old beast. I loved him. Peter made quick work of caping, and we headed back across the lake.

On my last day, I decided that a big old cow would make a neat European mount, and Mark and I spent a long hot day looking for a nice cow. And we found her, lying under some trees with a herd to escape the heat. When they finally winded us and gathered in a tight group, I noticed that she was the tallest buffalo in the herd, and I was forced to place my shot over her herd mates into her spine; she dropped instantly. The bull wasn`t pleased, and almost charged us as we approached, but finally moved off. I was tickled with the cow; she was almost as wide as a good sweeper bull, a dry, bony, half-blind cow, a great trophy.

For a special treat that night, we went fishing for barrumundi on the lake. We used spinning rods and huge Rapala lures, with me catching a lot more plant life than fish, but in the end I did land a nice 9 pound saratoga before the mosquitoes drove us off the water. We spotlighted for crocodiles as we returned to the bank, and saw at least a dozen. I decided NOT to try to catch one, although I did examine several humungous cane toads, invasive and highly poisonous amphibians that are wreaking havoc in the Australian bush.

It was time for my next adventure, and I left camp at 4 am for the airport and my flights to Melbourne, all the way at the bottom of Australia. On my arrival, the weather was decidedly cooler, and my new guide Darryl whisked me away to a 2500-acre estate in Warrigal for my rusa and red deer hunt. Quite a change of pace from the bush; the countryside was lovely, reminding me of areas I`ve hunted in Britain.

The estate owner had a large herd of Javan rusa deer, along with fallow deer and red stags, and we lost no time the next morning cruising the area looking for a promising stag. Most rusa hunts take place on the island of New Caledonia, but due to time and cost constraints, I was happy to have an alternative, and I enjoyed watching these unusual and exotic deer as they displayed and jousted, feeling the effects of the rut. I chose a stag with a thick cape and a small non-typical point, and I was quite happy with his heavy beams and long brown ruff.

We had noticed two old red stags on a nearby hill, watching the action, and once the rusa was taken care of, we made a long stalk on the stags; he never knew we were there, and I was pleased to take such a majestic old gentleman.

With three days left in my hunt, Darryl decided to take me to his home in Mansfield, where we would hunt sambar deer, one of the hardest free-range deer to see, let alone take. And hunt we did; up early to spot and stalk, spending most of the day trying to silently creep through the native forest, hoping to catch a glimpse of a big sambar bull before he saw us. And we actually did see sambar each day, which was a rare thing; I even got a shot at a bull as he trotted up a ravine 400 yards away, but alas. My respect for these animals is high, and I hope to return someday and give it another try; this is a hard hunt!

Now, it was on to New Zealand! As I sat on the plane scratching my 23,890 mosquito bites from the buffalo hunt, I wondered how the weather would be, with this being the dead of winter in the southern hemisphere. I arrived in Christchurch on the South Island, and the lodge owner John Gemmell picked me up the next day for the 80 mile drive to Hanmer Springs, a beautiful mountain village north of Christchurch. The scenery was breathtaking, with majestic snow-covered peaks reminiscent of my home state of Montana.

The lodge was also lovely, but there was no time for lounging: the sunny weather was due to change soon, and it had been decided that I would camp out in the mountains with my guide Jim so we could be in a good position to hunt for chamois the next morning. John drove us up into the nearby mountains, through about a foot of slushy snow. But the sun was shining, and Jim and I set off with high hopes. Unfortunately, the wind turned to a gale about two hours into our hike, and under black threatening skies, Jim wisely called off our camping trip.

With sketchy weather expected, John took me out the next day on a duck hunt for paradise shelducks, a gorgeous native goose with striking plumage on both the male and the female. We set up a spread of silhouette decoys in a grassy field bordering a local dairy farm and hid ourselves in a hedgerow.

The birds soon drifted in, and despite a rather embarrassing testiment to my rusty shotgunning skills, we soon had over a dozen birds down, more than enough for me to pick a few good ones for mounting. Bird hunting in New Zealand is pretty nifty; fully automatic shotguns, no plugs, lead shot, and trusting birds due to the low hunting pressure. Upon our return to the lodge I discovered Jim`s other talent; he`s a gourmet chef, and the meals that week were unsurpassed.

Day three dawned clear, and we decided to give the chamois another try. Often a helicopter is used to deposit the hunter on top of the mountain, thus saving time and effort getting to where they live. But not us; it was hoofing it all the way. We hiked over many hills, down into the river valley, and eventually ended up at the base of several mountains where chamois had been seen in the past.

And we did see one, way up a scree slope. We climbed, slithered and stumbled as best we could, but the buck was wise to us and we never saw him again. Then it really started to snow, visibility disappeared, and we headed back, hiking over 12 miles for the day. Here it was, the fourth of July, and I was slogging through a blizzard, half hypothermic, having daydreams about roasting hot dogs and watching fireworks. It sure felt good to get back to the lodge that night.

It was time to chase tahr. I was dropped off in Christchurch, and another talented guide Ian took me south three hours to a fancy lodge near Fairlie. After sighting in his 7 mm Remington in the biting sleet, we prepared for the next day`s hunt. The tahr area was in Dry Creek Station, a 33,000 acre sheep ranch, all free-range. It took me a while to see the tahr, as they blended in very well with the tussock grass, spotty snow and rock slopes. I was more interested in the quality of the cape on the tahr than the size of the horns, and we looked quite a few over, hoping for a standout animal.

Ian knew of a hidden valley, and we climbed up some really steep hills, peeking over into the basin. There were half a dozen rams in there, feeding and resting. And one was really blonde, with long hair blowing in the breeze, absolutely gorgeous. So we set the rifle up on a good rest, and waited for him to come out of the long grass. And waited. I was starting to freeze up when he finally presented himself; my first shot missed, but I connected on the second, and down he went. Luckily the wind died down and the sun came out for pictures; he was a lovely ram, not the biggest one ever, but surely one of the blondest. And that suited me just fine!

I know I`ll return to Australia and New Zealand; I barely scratched the surface with regards to sightseeing, and what little I did see and do was great fun. Terrific people, easy countries to travel in, lots of game—get in a trip to the South Pacific someday!