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Prologue – We had been on a very successful buffalo hunt in the Northern Territory with Hunt Australia Safaris. My mate Sean took a very heavy 94” bull on the first morning and I had backed it up with a 105” monster on day two, after crawling to within 25 metres of the old timer with my .458 Win Mag. Now we were on the lookout for a trophy scrub bull, of which there were plenty around – it was just a matter of finding ‘Mr. Right’!

As soon as the Landcruiser crested the rise I gave a slight tap on the roof, and our guide Leith Graham let the truck roll gently backwards toward the small creek we had just traversed. Given the benefit of elevation from the bench seat atop the truck, I’d seen a lone scrub bull just off the track ahead and was keen to sneak in for a closer look. Grabbing my Mark X .458, we snuck back up to the higher ground and took cover behind a handy tree. The binos revealed a big, heavy, cement-coloured bull with a decent set of horns. Leith commented he was as good as any we’d seen (which was quite a few!) but I was really more interested in holding out for a big red bull. Regardless, we planned our approach for a closer look. Dropping back into the creek bed and skirting around to our right should bring us out right below the bull – and indeed it did; as we poked our heads above the bank we were met with the eyes of one angry looking bull staring back from a mere 20 metres. We thought it wise to back off a few steps from within his comfort zone, and as we did he circled to our right, testing the air as he went. I got a rest and had a look through the scope, but declined the shot – a good bull allright but nope, not what I was looking for.

Back when this land was first opened up for grazing by our pioneer forefathers; it was their typically-European shorthorn cattle that they brought with them. Later generations determined that Bos Indicus cattle fared better in the tropical climate, and today it is Brahman cattle that make up the breeding herds and many of the original shorthorns ran wild. In my humble opinion only, too many ‘scrub bulls’ that are shot today have a large proportion of Brahman blood, where I was really on the search for a bull with shorthorn characteristics, a proper ‘big red bugger’, exactly what the landowners here don’t want breeding with their Brahman cows to muddy the genetics.

A day later we were rolling down a track, deep into the north of the concession. A pair of bulls feeding amid some timber were sized up, with one massive old fellow sporting a sagging horn on one side being a standout. I almost thought for a second about taking him as he would have made a very unique trophy, and perhaps now I think this is the style of bull I shall be on the lookout for next time I hunt them – something altogether different. That is one of the great things about scrubbers; there is so much variation both in horns, coat colour, and breeding. Strangely enough, just a few more kilometres down the track we came upon another bull, with one horn sagging on the other side and a brilliant jet-black coat. What a fantastic pair ‘the droopy brothers’ would have made on the wall, I thought!

That afternoon we had a long, thirsty walk up a semi-dry creek bed, and a big old trophy boar for Sean had thus far been our only reward. In a small basin we spied another pair of bulls feeding on some freshly-shot burnt country. Leaving Sean behind with his camera working overtime, Leith and I stalked in for a closer look. The red bull to our left was impressive but still a little young, but he kept a haunting eye on us the whole time as we crept to our right to get a better look at his offsider, a massive white bull dozing in the shade. We waited a long while for him to stand so we could properly inspect his headgear, all the while the .458 firmly in my grasp knowing there was another bull just metres to our left giving us the ‘hairy eyeball’. Alas, while the white bull had a massive body his horns we but average, so we headed back to camp to boil out Sean’s boar tusks.

The following day we had already sized up a few bulls, some with mobs of cows but most often just hanging out in a pair with another wild bull, when we found the bull we were after. A look through the binos and Leith and I quickly agreed this was ‘Mr Right.’ A massive red bull with horns to match was feeding his way across the timbered plain with another lesser red bull in tow (as seemed now to be the norm.) We had several hundred metres to make our approach and with the bulls feeding along away from us; we wasted little time in sneaking in through the trees. A dry creek wove its way across the plain between us and the bulls, and we would need to cross to get within sure range. Looking at the shoulder-high grass choking the creek, for a split moment of sanity I considered snakes; but then another look up at the bulls feeding away snapped me out of it and I plunged down the bank after my barefoot guide.

As we cleared the far bank we doubled over and crept in to 70 metres. “I can take him from here,” I whispered; but happily Leith was experienced enough to keep me calm and he knew we could get closer. And after all – that is the real thrill in ‘dangerous game’ hunting I think! By now the younger bull bringing up the rear knew something was amiss, constantly scanning in our direction. Thankfully the big fella was still feeding along, but still moving away from us. Crawling now, we moved in, ever closer, trying to move when the young bull wasn’t looking. Eventually, as the shadows lengthened we made it to within 35 metres, and with no trees nearby I ever so slowly took a sitting rest across my knees and lowered the bolt handle on a 480-grain Woodleigh handload.

A quartering-away shot wasn’t my preference for the first shot, but we had come this far, I had practiced hard and trusted the rifle and load in my hands. Visualising the far shoulder, I settled the crosshairs of the 1.5-5 Leupold into the bull’s ribs and stroked the crisp trigger of the Mauser. Kicking his back legs out, he instantly spun and hit top gear, overtaking his offsider and bolting across the plain the way he had come, from left to right in front of us. Just as quickly I sprung to my feet and emptied the remaining three shots from my magazine into the bull - swing onto his nose, fire! Swing onto his nose, fire!

I was confident of at least two more solid hits, but my hopes were almost dashed as the bull continued at full tilt. Then, just as quickly as he had started, he stopped, hitting the deck with nary a twitch! In the end, a classic heart shot and he was never going to make it far, though his mad 300-metre dash certainly created some excitement!

We made our way over to my bull, a huge blood trail marking the way that ‘Blind Freddy’ could have tracked. And there he lay, one big lump of a red bull with 62” horns, just the trophy I had hoped for and a fitting way to cap off a fantastic NT adventure.

A happy hunter with his NT trophies...

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You won't shoot anything at home on the couch...

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