Lucky in Oz

I had never been to Newman in the Western Australian Pilbara, but the plan was simple enough, or so I thought…

I was to fly from Perth to Newman then, after my mate Chris knocked off work, we would pack the car and head to the station he had managed to get us access to. We hit the road and the drive south was uneventful, even though there were mobs of free range cattle everywhere and the level of road kill showed that they had no road sense whatsoever.

We got to Meekatharra just before the kitchen at the pub closed, so after we ordered a meal we checked with some of the locals as to the best route to take. The food was excellent, and armed with some local knowledge we started the last leg of the trip planning to take the shorter of the two routes. The difference being that the way we went was shorter but gravel, whilst the other choice meant quite a few kilometres of backtracking but we could stay on the bitumen to the front gate.

Well the road was pretty good and we only collected a couple of ‘roos so our spirits were high…well, that was until the car started to splutter and then died smack bang in the middle of nowhere. We popped the hood and by the light of our torches determined we had no idea what we were doing, so we made the decision to camp for the night and reassess in the morning. We got up the next morning and after Chris fiddled around under the bonnet for a while we came to the conclusion that the car was dead and that, according to the map, we were about 12/18km from the nearest homestead so we chucked on our day packs and legged it. It wasn’t that hot but the lack of obvious use of the track was a concern. After a leisurely three hour walk and a few billy goats sighted we came to the station homestead, which was deserted but did show signs of life.

We camped in the shade of the workshop and waited for the owner to show up, having decided that if we hadn’t seen anyone by nightfall we would use the phone in the hut to organize a rescue. The look on the owners face was priceless as he pulled up to find two blokes standing in his shed with no vehicle in site , so we quickly introduced ourselves and explained the situation. Mick (the station owner) was a top bloke who came back to the car to help get it started. After we had no success he towed it back to the shed were we could at least try sort it out. But it was to no avail and at about 3pm the Pajero was pronounced legally dead. (R.I.P. you P.O.S.)

While Chris went off to call the owner of the station and try to organize us a lift home, I chatted to Mick about the station and what was about in the area in the way of feral game. Chris wasn’t able to get us a lift home for two days, so the plan was to head back to the Meeka pub, drown our sorrows and hold a wake for the car when luck shone upon us. Mick offered us his spare farm ute and gave us the run of the place including a map with the wells marked on it. He also said we could hunt whatever, as long as it wasn’t his cattle, so things had started to look up. We quickly got our gear together and hurried off to check the first well.

Feral dogs have taken their toll on all the wildlife in WA’s pastoral lands and Mick’s place wasn’t any different, but we at least had a place to hunt and there was sign that goats were in the area. Mick had pointed out the areas where he had seen goats, so we concentrated on them. We got to a well and set up a rough ground blind close to a well-used game trail near to the tank. After waiting a while we got impatient and decide to change locales as Mick had pointed out a ridgeline that the goats were likely to bed down on. As we approached the tank we found ourselves without cover and a small mob of bialys watching from where they were drinking. We tried to edge closer but they headed off into the scrub. We gave chase and tried to position ourselves in an ambush, but it never panned out so we headed back to the car. As we headed toward the hills we spotted a mob that looked promising, so we checked the wind direction and worked out a plan. We had to drop over a ridgeline and catch up to them as they went through a draw. With the wind in our favour and the goats unaware we headed off at a semi-jogging pace to make up the ground. I heard a bit of a scuffle behind me and I turned around to see Chris carefully sidestepping around a bloody huge Bungarra (large Australian monitor lizard) that he nearly stepped on. The look on his face was priceless.

We dropped over into the gully and moved quickly to where we thought the mob should be and after a quick peek we realised they were moving faster than we thought so I upped the pace. The mob had stopped under some small stunted trees and was unaware of our presence so I quickly closed the gap. At about 20m I slowed my pace and tried to get my breathing under control whilst I got an arrow on the string. The wind was straight in my face and I was nearing my comfortable shooting range when I went to step up over a knee high rock but didn’t lift my foot enough. The sound of my steel cap hitting stone was all those bialys needed for them to do the Harold holt. Billy goats 2 Hunters 0.

The next day was uneventful as we tried to get to know our way around the station, being 350,000 acres meant it would take a while, but we did see a bit on our travels. There was a feral cat that got away cuz Chris was too slow to get out of the ute. We got a surprise when we found an old abandoned WW2 landing strip that was two miles long. We saw signs of camels and wild brumbies and made plans for future trips where we would set up hides to get a go at the feral dogs in the area. We had seen a few more goats, but nothing went our way so we returned to camp for tea.

Mick was off the next morning to do some business in Perth and this was the last day we had as Mark was coming down from Newman to pick us up. We had set a plan to find an area that Mick told us contained heaps of goats, it was just a matter of finding them. Well we rambled on for a while and ended up about 30km south back on the main road so we had to go to plan “B”. Chris suggested heading back to the tank were we had spotted our first mob of goats so off we went. As we got to the tank the mob was already there so we pretended to be the station owner and drove straight past and stopping about a kilometer down the track.

To get the wind in our favour we had to loop around in front of the mob, so we jogged till we had covered the ground and chose our spot for the ambush. The mob was feeding with its back to the wind and if they followed the same path they were on it would bring them right to us.

Chris was to have first shot, then it was open season. I was yet to take a goat with my traditional gear so my heart was hammering. I tucked myself under a bush that had a small game trail going past it about 2m away, however the goats had different ideas. A few bigger bialys started feeding on some low branches about 30m away to my right, with the bulk of the mob moving to my left.

As I was tucked up under the bush I wasn’t able to turn around without being spotted so I had to wait as they all filed past leaving these last few. Finally they lost interest in the tree and started to move off after the mob. The last two were nearly identical sable coloured billys and as they went behind some low scrub I stepped clear of the bush and prepared to shoot, It felt like hours but only a few minutes had past from when the ambush was set till this point in time. The sable billys walked clear of the bush and at 15m I picked a spot on the shoulder of the nearside goat. I heard Chris shoot and the goats pulled up looking in his direction, the limbs of my recurve came back and I watched the arrow sail straight into the goats shoulder putting him down for good.

I stood over the billy for a moment trying to take it in; the smell, the sound and the realization that I had taken game with traditional archery gear after what seemed like years of practice. I wanted it burned into my memory.

Chris came over to congratulate me, unfortunately he had hit his goat high and it was lost in the scrub. He headed off to get the ute while I stood there when I spotted three more goats that were trailing the original mob. I got into a position to head them off and after a bit of careful stalking the only thing between me and another trophy was a solitary shrub. I had an arrow on the string and had begun to draw when my mate, pulled up in the ute and tooted the horn. Goats 3, Hunters 1.

I explained the error Chris had made using the most colourful language I could muster, then we set up my trophy for pictures.

Back at camp we packed up our gear and I cut the horns off ready for the trip home. Mark arrived to rescue us and help me give Chris a ribbing about the fact that even with pins and wheels he was going home empty handed. Then it was the six hour drive back to Newman and the joy of the flight home. I can still see the look on the stewardess’s face when I climbed on board with a set of horns taped to my daypack.

Equipment Note: For the hunt I used my “Fox Breed” (a fifties style recurve specs 58#@28″ 58″ long), and Gold tip carbon arrows with Magnus two-blade broad heads.