With the weather warming-up, the ferals have been a little easier to find, but only in some places. We seem to be finding them in the high, dry and harsh country, rather than in the lush swamps and creeks, which out this way have zero swine-sign and are still chockers from a big wet. The first to fall was a brumby (always a bit sad) to the born-again Winchester M70 .458WM, my first bush experience with this calibre. Then I had one of my most rewarding hunts, when I was able to guide a keen young fellow on his very first hunt ever, in which he bagged a nice little boar with a perfect heart shot with the Ruger No.1 .300H&H. After his shot, I went to work with the .458WM, frightening a few of the bomb-shelling pigs and knocking one little one over, a fact that the young fellow won't let me forget. The next day a hunt with my old mate Ronny saw us watching wildlife at a dam in a fruitless ambush for pigs that didn't arrive. So, we went walking, and spooked another bunch from some pandanus. I missed and hit a tree, but Ronny came good on a sow with his old Lee Enfield .308. Later, a small family group met a sad end with a "Ronny and Ben Bomb-Up", shot from the shady pandanus in a dry creek bed, with me trying to redeem myself for not having handled some previous running shots very well (surprising as it may seem, this was my first time hunting thick pandanus with a rifle, and I didn't handle some of the sudden explosions very well in terms of marksmanship; so on this last one I really made a point of telling myself to slow down and be more deliberate with each shot). So, no trophies (except for the young bloke's first set of little hooks) aside from memories made with good mates, but the native flora and fauna can once again breathe a sigh of relief (yeah, I know, it's just a drop in the bucket). Here're the pictures: