Well its that time of year again, and my thoughts were drifting back to the Cressbrook Valley, and the possibility of another crack at the stags during the red deer "roar".
A visit to my Mum'n'Dad in Brizzy was also well overdue on account of covid restrictions during the past year, so we fired up the campervan and made the long trip from the Top End to Queensland's south-east corner, pulling up at the wife's neice's farm for a couple of nights in the bush before hitting the big smoke.

I was relieved to hear a stag roaring high above the creek flats on the neighbor's place as we set up camp, and a few faint moans drifted down the valley from the mountains to the west. In recent years I had been forced by circumstance to hunt too early before the roar really got underway, but this year I hoped to be in the thick of it. Well, that was only the plan! With no cold snap yet, the roar would likely still be a bit "hit and miss".

Dense scrub along the creekline had provided me with several opportunities in the past, so that was a logical starting point for my hunt. Unfortunately the cattle had been using the area heavily and I kept bumping into them, making stalking difficult, so the decision was made to head uphill. Although no stags were roaring on my side of the main ridge, I crept up and down the spurlines, stopping to glass and listen every few steps until well after sundown, eventually staggering into camp right on dark. All I had to show for my efforts was a couple of encouraging rub-trees, proving hard-antler stags had been in the area recently, but no animals were sighted.

More a thrash-tree than a rub-tree!

Rub-tree with a view.

Undeterred by the previous day's lack-lustre results, I was back on the hill at first light heading for the divide. Hopefully a stag or two would give away their positions in the lantana-choked gullies and steep slopes of the northern break. By mid-morning however, not a single stag had vocalised and the day was quickly warming up. My chances of stumbling on a stag bedded down for the day were pretty slim in such close country, and I'm way too impatient to sit on a high rock for hours with binos glued to my face (...although I well-know that is the percentage game), so I decided to use the hot weather to my advantage and sneak in on a distant spring that had been wallowed extensively in past years.

With a kilometre or so still to go I was elated to hear a stag roar in the general direction I was headed. The wind was not cooperating however, being difficult to predict in the steeply undulating country, so I skirted wide and came to the conclusion there were two stags roaring, and one was on the move towards the other. Praying for cooperative wind, I judiciously followed!

Before long the wallows came into view. They were recently used but no deer were visible. The stags had been silent for a while now, so I presumed an errant breeze had given me away and they had long gone. Creeping past the wallows, I cautiously scaled a steep embankment and poked my head around a large lantana bush, coming face-to-face with a big dark-coloured stag! In the split-second it took me to confirm the presence of top-tines, I had closed the bolt on the Ruger RSI and aligned the crosshairs on the base of his neck, stroking the trigger without hesitation just as he began to recognize the danger.

The 150gr Sierra dropped him instantly, but a flailing hoof and then part of an antler appearing above the grass had me working the bolt and keeping the scope aligned in case the off-hand shot was less than perfect and he tried to get up. I needn't have worried: within a few seconds he was quite dead.

Then the strangest thing happened!

As I stood covering the downed stag, I was shocked by a tremendous roar emanating from the adjacent gully just beyond the wallows! Next instant, a big-bodied 8-point stag with heavy main-beams marched up onto the rise not 25 metres from me! This is less than 30 seconds after the thunder-clap of the .308 echoed off the surrounding hills, followed by the clatter of my hasty reload!

Unbelievable!

I stood stock-still as he roared again and then trotted over to look at the downed stag, the whole time covered by my rifle-sights. Had I wanted him, all I had to do was tighten my squeeze on the trigger. Then he seemed to get the smell of blood, or perhaps my scent, and cantered off with head held high. What a magnificent sight!
Knowing I had all the venison I could carry (and then some!) I left him unmolested to grow a few more tines for next time.
That stag has no idea how lucky he is: on many previous hunts I would have taken him in a heartbeat!

But its not over yet!

I had knelt down to prop up the magnificent 11-point head for a couple of posed photos with the self-timer, and upon standing up I was startled by a loud snort behind me! A young spiker stag was standing not 20 metres away, having presumably crept up on me out of curiosity, but he tore off down the slope when I made eye contact.

What an amazing morning in the hills! Love this stuff!

Of course, then the hard work starts: boning-out the hind-quarters and removing the backstraps, tenderloins, and blades (this time intact!) followed by the head. Then the really hard work starts: packing it all out over the range and down to camp. Man! ...the older I get, it seems the less I appreciate my fitness limitations! My knees may never be the same! Still, can't wait to do it all again next year.

Many might consider driving three and a half thousand kilometres to fire only one shot, then driving three and a half thousand kilometres back again, a little hard to justify. Even though I love my shooting, I still find that to be immensely satisfying.