Memories Of A Sambar Hunter
“BRRR, it’s cold, a bloke must be mad to be up here chasing deer,’ I muttered to no-one in particular as I was hunting on my own, much to my wife’s consternation. I was camping on private property, in the heart of good sambar country and as I crunched through the heavy frost, heading for the now defunct fire, I noticed the snow was down a fair way on the distant peak, highlighted in the brightness of the, now setting, full moon.
Kicking a bit of new life into the fire I quickly added a few sticks and warmed my hands in its feeble glow. After a quick breakfast and, with a kookaburra heralding in the new day, I was off along the old track, rifle over my shoulder and hands in my pockets. Today should be an easy hunt; with it being so cold the sambar are bound to be heading for a nice warm spot further up the hill to bed down. My plan was to find a fresh set of tracks and follow them for a way. It wasn’t long before I was bent over, gazing intently,
