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There’s a lot of rain this season, and I was beginning to become an expert couch-hunter. All work and no play makes Ben a dull boy, and so I determined to get into the bush come the weekend and stretch my legs. Where I live and hunt, there isn’t much chance of a wet season pig or buffalo, but there is a fair chance of a donkey, due to the fact that they seem to be more territorial than the other game, even when the rain comes.

On Friday afternoon, after work, the sunny day disappeared, and torrential rain fell for hours. My bold plan to hunt on the morrow wavered, but my wife said it would probably be clear in the morning, and she was right. Truth be told, I wasn’t up at first light, but as soon as I awoke at about 0700, I leapt out of bed, made a couple of cups of tea, assembled the kit and readied the rifle and ammunition. After a poor excuse for a breakfast on the run, I left town, accompanied by my single-shot Ruger No. 1 in .450/.400 3” Nitro Express, and a culling belt optimistically-filled with shiny hand-loaded cartridges.

The spear grass greeted me enthusiastically, and the first mile or so was quite a pleasant stroll. I descended into some low and swampy country, which really slowed me down, and although I could see where the occasional pig had wallowed, they weren’t proving to be hospitable. I was glad to leave it and gradually began a loop out into the higher, dryer, harder country that seems to be favoured more by our donkeys, the descendents of the African wild ass that were let loose by the teamsters when mechanised transport made its outback debut around ninety years ago. You may not be aware, but last time I counted, there were about 5-million feral donkeys roaming our Never-Never and interior. Happily, there are now only 4,999,999.

I wish I could write that I covered at least fifteen kilometres, but I cannot. You see, of all the actual ground-pounding hunters in the Territory, I imagine I am the weakest one, the one most prone to the relentless assault of the sun and humidity. However, I would rather live in no other place on Earth than here where the sun reigns supreme, as I love this sort of country and its game. I had perhaps covered three kilometres when I knew I had to steer a course for the Toyota. Despite glassing for donkeys, I hadn’t seen any. I hadn’t heard their majestic, thunderous braying either, to help guide me. But I had smelt them, and seen good tracks. However, my head was letting me know of my weakness, and my legs were beginning to show the first signs of turning into jelly. I turned for home.

Then suddenly, a casual glance across my left shoulder revealed that donkey form I know so well. It always surprises me how naturally-camouflaged these creatures are. They blend in so well, and I should’ve seen them earlier, but hadn’t. They were fast asleep in the heat, in a small stand of greener shrubs, the name of which I should learn someday. I could only see two, but knew there would likely be others laying on the ground and concealed by the long grass, or just plain standing and yet concealed by the grass and shrubs. Crouching-over, I altered my course to keep a tree betwixt me and the prey. I suppose the distance from the marvellous natural shooting platform I reached was about seventy or eighty yards from the donkeys, and the one that presented the clearest, side-on target was chosen. Slipping the safety off, I took aim and fired, collapsing the donkey with the 400 grain Woodleigh round-nose-soft-nose. The others erupted, about six or seven of them, and briefly pondered their downed member before galloping away in their usual wheeling pattern which has them stopping and glancing back. They had no idea where I was, and I could’ve pushed the issue; but I preferred to rest my rifle against the tree and quickly put the camera into action. Rather than indulge in a bomb-up, I preferred to save them for more sport at a later date. I took some poor photos, but they do show how very well they manage to hide. They eventually disappeared, and I walked over to inspect the fallen donkey, which turned-out to be a Jenny. The bullet had destroyed her heart, and smashed her off-shoulder upon exiting.

After capturing the memory on camera, I forced my weak legs and sore head to resume the plod back to the Toyota. On the way back, I bumped into the mob again, as well as one lone Jack. As the Jack turned to flee (for we had almost bumped into each other in a patch of thicker scrub), I wished him well until the next time that I haunt his wilderness. The tough, well-adapted wild donkey owns that wild, hot country; I do not, and am only a visitor there. It will likely rain hard again later this afternoon.

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