“What was that?” The whispered question came from my left. A hurried rustling and snapping of broken twigs came from almost right under our noses.
“A big fox,” I whispered excitedly to Scott, my 13-year-old nephew, as a large dog darted away up the hill, pausing at the 200-metre mark to look back momentarily. It made me second guess myself on whether we should take a shot at it instead of the small mob of goats we were stalking.
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Six in the morning on the Central West ranges of NSW is mighty cold in June, especially on the westward slopes of hills. Scott and I had risen early and had a quick cuppa before venturing out and up the hills. I would not have minded a sleep in after a busy week in Sydney, but the smile on his cold, red face was worth it as he eagerly hiked into the hills.
The going wasn’t easy and we had travelled about 2km in semi-darkness when the sun broke the top of the mountain above us. We watched a few roos and an echidna going about their mornings. There was a stiff breeze blowing, clearing the skies after a week of rain and leaving a beautiful bluebird day, yet it was pretty soggy and slippery on the winter grass.
We spotted the goats grazing on a sun-drenched clearing on the mountain opposite us.
There were probably no more than a dozen nannies and kids, but there could be a billy among them, so we decided to begin a route that would have us appear on the high side of them, giving us the advantage of being on their sunny side. The downfall would be the wind. It was blowing from the same direction. We would have to be careful.
For cover, we had used a large dead tree that had fallen in a recent grass fire. That’s when we disturbed the fox from his hidey-hole. I was worried the fleeing fox might spook the goats, but no.
We were now within range and Scott had singled out a grey billy which seemed to be the most mature of the herd, grazing and keeping watch about 80m below us. He was no monster, but a worthy trophy for a 13-year-old.
Scott quietly chambered a round into the .243 and took aim. The boom shattered the morning, and two jets of vapour burst from either side of the billy as the 100gn bullet passed through both lungs. Another jet of vapour came as he took his last breath in the cold mountain air. He took a step and collapsed.
“Bloody great shot, mate,” I exclaimed. We rose to cross the open meadow and inspect the trophy. A few photos and a slap on the back concluded our difficult yet successful stalk.
— by Phil Self
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