Well, there was no disguising the fact: it was bright purple!  I had offered encouragement to my wife Rebecca in her renewed interest in bushwalking, on the understanding that a little hunting should be included.  Now she had her eye on a new Berghaus back-pack, and while I had to admit it was probably the pick of the offerings at the NT General Store, I feared it would be a 'neon light' to any potential game animals during our proposed joint activities.  Clearly we were going to test the theory that game-animals really are colour-blind!

After a couple of warm-up day trips to iron out any wrinkles in the good wife's new gear, a serious walk was planned around one of my favourite hunting areas.  From a remote track where the Landrover could be safely 'abandoned' for a couple of days, a string of waterholes and grassy flats led east to an overnight camp-site on a spring-fed stream bubbling out of the sandstone escarpment.  The return trek next day would include a couple of extensive paperbark swamps, and a productive pair of twin-waterholes where I had experienced some good luck with buffalo and boar in previous years.

I would be carrying a short, heavy-barrelled side-by-side double rifle chambered for the .577 x 2 3/4 Light Nitro cartridge, purely for the wife's protection you understand!  This particular rifle had been built on the Greener 'Empire' action in Melbourne, and although I was its third owner in as many years since the re-birth, it was not likely to change hands again in the foreseeable future!  I had already deployed it successfully against a number of good boars, and secured a couple of trophy buffalo bulls without fuss.  The gun was quickly becoming a firm favourite, especially where those big black bovines are a likely prospect!

The nominated weekend arrived soon enough.  During the drive in, I couldn't resist checking out a secluded floodplain, which had often been worth a look in the past.  Parking the truck under a shady blood-wood, we made a brisk pace up the overflow to a shallow depression known to hold the last water for several miles, and sneaked through a fringe of paper-barks to surprise any drinking or wallowing game.  Vacant!  Perhaps it was a bit early in the day, the late-September heat had not yet begun to build.  There was plenty of fresh sign, though, so they couldn't be far away!

Against the protestations of my impatient spouse, I made up my mind to examine a dense clump of trees further along the drainage line, and had not covered half the distance when movement in the deep shade of an old Banyan vindicated my decision.  A mob of pigs had sought refuge amongst the buttresses and trailing roots.  After a long hard look at all surrounding cover had failed to disclose the inevitable trophy boar, a short stalk was attempted over fairly open ground.  Perhaps I was careless, or maybe the fickle breeze gave me away: in any case the mob became restless and began to mill about.  Selecting an old sow for openers, I shattered the silence with the first barrel, and then swung with the largest of the fast-departing animals which performed a clumsy somersault as the heavy double bucked upward for the second time in as many seconds.

With the remainder of the mob kicking up spurts of dust from the sun-baked earth off in the distance, my attention was drawn to a straggler hanging back amongst the regrowth.   A patch of red on its flank indicated a hit, clearly a second casualty of the first shot.  Even the soft-point .577 Woodleighs barely slow down when passing through these medium-sized pigs.  A short follow-up quickly ended any suffering.  That first shot had exited the second pig as well, still going for all I know!

A half-hour later the vehicle was harboured up in a small clay-pan to reduce any grass-fire risk, packs were shouldered, straps adjusted, and a bearing set for the first waterhole.  Encouraged by events so far, a couple of fat cartridges were plonked into the Greener's breech in expectation of some early action!

The shimmer of water was soon visible through a belt of trees ahead.  At first glance, the waterhole appeared unoccupied, then a small black protuberance in the deepest corner sent out a judder of ripples, then slowly grew into the head and shoulders of a large buffalo bull as he emerged from his amphibious repose.  He stood broadside-on at the water's edge for fully half a minute, trying to make us out, and all the while offering an easy shoulder or lung shot at around sixty yards.  Although quite reasonable by today's standards at perhaps 95 points, he was not going to tempt me this early in the trip.  As we stepped out from the deep shade, he suddenly recognized the danger and hit full stride in a shower of water and mud!

Spooking the bull turned out to be a costly mistake, however.  As we cleared the opposite tree-line, a large spotted boar could be seen making off towards the high ground at a fast trot.  He was already way too far for a confident shot, but I took a careful rest against a young Ironwood sapling and holding well over, sent a 650-grainer after him.  The only hit was the boar instantly hitting high gear!  I humbly saved the second barrel for a more realistic opportunity, perhaps at the big swamp a few kilometres further on.

Downing packs in the shade of a stunted old Lophostemon an hour later, I glanced around at the oddly familiar dry flats shimmering in the midday sun.  I knew I'd been here before, but couldn't remember how much further to the sanctuary of the cool, shady swamp?  Had I missed my bearings?  Suddenly the penny dropped:  we were exactly where we were supposed to be!  In previous years, this had been the very centre of a magnificent wetland stretching several kilometres out from the sandstone escarpment, filled with luxuriant swamp-grasses and reeds, and usually dotted with feeding or wallowing buffalo and boar.  It appeared that Mother Nature had pulled the plug on this extensive wetland, the springs had obviously dried up this year, and the whole system had withered in the long, hot dry-season.  Admittedly the previous 'wet' had registered below-average rainfall, in stark contrast with the series of record wets during the 1990s.  I had simply gotten used to seeing this spring-fed oasis at its very best!  No point in hanging 'round now, though!

As we skirted another dry basin fringed with paper-barks half an hour later, a lone boar came into view staring back at us from his dusty bed under a leaning tree-trunk.  There was no doubt in my mind that he had been alerted by the wife's purple pack!  In hopes of his continued interest in her direction, I moved slightly forward to line up a Melaleuca trunk with the bedded boar.  The plan appeared to be working: he continued to stare fixedly in our direction but showed no immediate signs of bolting.  Using the tree-bole for cover, I crept forward, hoping that the bits of me protruding each side would not unduly alarm the alerted quarry.  Unbelievably, I made it right up to the paper-bark tree only 20 metres from the young boar, slowly shouldered the Greener, and ever so carefully began to move the rested muzzles round the side of the trunk.

I was almost lined up when the boar decided enough was enough, and before I could squeeze the trigger he was up and off!  As he cleared the leaning tree, I was hoping for a clear shot, but he entered a scattering of timber and was very difficult to follow over the sights.  I could see that, with luck, he would soon cross an open glade out around 100 metres or so, and steadied the sight-picture on the narrow window to await his re-appearance.  Luck was with me:  as he crossed the opening I held slightly forward and slapped the front trigger.  Instantly I was engulfed in a huge cloud of white snow!  The muzzle-blast had shredded all the paper-bark off the right-hand side of my make-shift rest, covering me in a layer of pink and white dust and confetti!  For several vital seconds I couldn't see a thing!

There was now no sign of the fleeing boar, and Rebecca's position had prevented her from witnessing the results of the shot.  I was not optimistic!  After dusting off, and rubbing most of the shredded bark out of my eyes, we headed over for a look.  The first thing we noticed on approaching the little clearing was the beginnings of a copious blood-trail heading round behind a thicket of re-growth.  The blood-spoor was almost a foot wide, and looked like it had been poured out of a cream-churn!  How on earth he managed to make the 30 metres or so to his final resting-place, I'll never know!  The big bluff-nosed Woodleigh had punched straight through the heart, producing a drain-hole the size of a 50-cent piece!  He was running on empty the whole way!

No tusks to speak of, so a quick photo and we had to move on.  Twilight was fast approaching, with a couple of kilometres still to cover before rolling out our swags at the sweet-water springs.  Despite the wife's urging, a pair of large sows grazing like sheep in a grassy depression had caught my attention, prompting one last stalk for the day.  A huge deadfall offered perfect cover for the hurried approach, and with eyes glued on the two pigs I failed to notice a large boar bedded amongst the tangle of branches and wild passion-vine.  As I stooped alongside the main trunk some 30 metres from the intended quarry, his nerve cracked and with a loud 'Woof!' and a clack of ivory he bolted out from the deadfall literally at my feet.  I nearly died of fright!  With his hackles up in full flight he made quite an impressive sight, and it took me long seconds to regain my composure and swing the sight-bead ahead of his ribs to make the shot.

The hit was a little far back as it turned out (he was really moving!), but that heavy slug ranged forward to exit through the off-shoulder, bowling him over in fine style.  I was quite pleased to discover that this rangy boar sported a worthy pair of tusks, and set about relieving him of the ivory amid continuous spousal reminders that we were still a half-hour from the creek, and light was fading fast!  Thank God for the humble box-cutter: coupled with my neat little Gerber hatchet they make jaw-removal a snap!  We staggered into our intended camp-site right on dark.

Not until daylight next morning would we fully appreciate the beauty of this magnificent stream.  A series of deep tranquil pools, featuring under-cut banks and overhanging Pandanus, was punctuated by short noisy rapids as the crystal-clear spring-water cascaded over matted tree-roots and the occasional rock-bar.  Meanwhile, the difficult business of gathering fire-wood in the dark was an essential task for replenishing our drinking water.  Even though the stream looked clean enough to drink, the high concentration of feral animals along this water-course in the dry season mandates the boiling of all water for human consumption.  Wild boars and cranky bulls pale to insignificance beside a dose of amoebic dysentry!  The billy was quickly pressed into service to meet the required 4 litres each for the next day's activities.

I regretted the decision to omit fishing gear on this occasion, as the head-torch revealed a number of sizeable sooty grunter in the deeper pools, and the red eye-shine of an occasional small barramundi hunting in the shallows.  Grilled barra would have made a very welcome addition to the re-hydrated fare of the back-pack camper!

As the new dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, I was awakened by the sound of porcine grunting close at hand.  Three little pigs were looking down at us from the levee, and appeared to be having a heated discussion over this strange intrusion into their domain.  They took off in unison as I rolled over and sat up, their noisy retreat marked by rustling pathways through the yellow spear-grass.  A leisurely breakfast was followed by a quick wash in the rapids as the overnight coolness dissipated ahead of the sun’s first rays.  With packs on backs once again, we set off for yet another swamp about an hour's walk to the south-west.

Rebecca hung well back this time as I sneaked quietly towards the tell-tale stand of paper-bark trees.  The swamp was almost entirely cloaked in shadow, with a few slanting rays of morning sun barely penetrating the gloom.  I carefully searched ahead, trying to make out any feeding boars amongst the tree-trunks and fallen timber.  Stepping round the end of a huge log, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and glancing down, instantly found myself staring straight into the eyes of a bedded boar just as he lifted his head in surprise!  Only about 4 metres separated us!  This is where the quick-handling qualities of a short double really come into their own.  I had the express sights aligned in an instant, and before he could even think of bolting a 650-grain Weldcore had punched through both shoulders and on into the ground, anchoring him in his earthen bed.  We dragged him out into the sunlight for a photograph, but the tusks were a little disappointing so we left him in full possession of his ivory.

A young buffalo bull eyed us off suspiciously as we waded through the spear-grass out in the open country en route to the next water.  At one stage he gave Rebecca quite a start by moving towards us at a brisk trot for a few seconds, perhaps to get a better look since the wind was not in his favour.  Cheeky bugger!  He pulled up dead when we turned to face him, and thereafter began to gradually increase the distance between us until he was eventually lost from view in the endless savanna.

Although quite extensive, the next swamp was completely devoid of free water.  Nevertheless, every hollow had been churned into a muddy morass of rootings, wallows, and trotter-prints.  Plenty of fresh sign, but no-one home!  Rebecca chose a convenient log under a shady curtain of Melaleuca leaves for our mid-morning snack of dried fruit and a muesli-bar, topped off with a juice popper.  Although we kicked back for a while to watch and wait, nothing disturbed the intensifying heat, so it was on to the next swamp.

In vivid contrast, the next venue was incredibly wet for this time of year, with at least 5 hectares of free water remaining.  Listless paper-barks cast welcome shade around the swamp margin, while emerald-green patches of spike-rush dotted the open water and a mantle of yellow fringe-lilies cast a golden hue across the shallow bays.  We had almost circumnavigated this picturesque wetland without incident, and I was convinced we were going to draw another blank, when a succession of low grunts could be heard approaching from out in the sea of spear-grass.  Soon, the first pigs emerged and crossed the open ground within a hundred metres of us without a sideways glance.  They had only one thing on their minds, cool water!  As the last of the thirty-strong mob splashed noisily out into the swamp, I moved quickly forward to a clump of regrowth not 20 metres from the nearest pigs, and settled in to wait in hope of a big old patriarch joining his extended family.

After some 20 minutes of enjoyable observation, no trophy boar had materialised and I began to sense a slight wind-shift on the back of my neck.  By this stage, I had already picked out a young boar looking a little better than average, and since he was now on my side of the group and in the clear, I decided to commence proceedings!  At the shot, the boar dived forward into the shallows and lay kicking out his last in a flurry of muddy water and lilly-pads.  Well, didn't that motivate the remainder of the mob!  The swamp literally erupted, with pigs tearing off in every direction and spray flying high!  A couple passed within a few metres of my position, and I couldn't resist pasting another young boar with the contents of the second barrel as he rocketed past.  When the mayhem finally subsided, I looked back over my shoulder to see Rebecca sitting on a log grinning from ear to ear.  She had positioned herself for a grand-stand view of the action!  Next trip that purple pack of hers will be a pound or two heavier, with the video camera on board!

The final paperbark swamp had dried up several months ago by the look of it.  The only fresh sign was an extensive dust-bath belonging to a mob of feral horses eyeing us off from a low ridge as we plotted a course for the twin-waterholes.  The hunt (..sorry, 'bushwalk') was almost over, and I found myself wishing for another crack at the likes of that buffalo bull passed up the previous day!  As we neared the falling ground, however, any regrets were quickly dispelled as more feral horses and a small mob of scrub-cattle came into view on the grassy verge near the water's edge.  Hopefully a shootable buff or good boar would offer one last chance for a shot.

Great care was required to approach the first waterhole without spooking the cattle and horses, while still being able to work the shoreline for worthy game.  By taking it quietly, we eventually convinced the unwanted animals to wander off without spooking, and could concentrate on hunting the best game habitat along the water's edge.  We didn't have far to go.  The hind-quarters and back-line of a good boar were soon spotted amongst tall clumps of wire-grass off one end of the first waterhole.  He was clearly engrossed in digging out some tasty morsel from the moist soil, and the wind was favourable for a quick stalk right up to the patch of grass.  The conclusion was somewhat anti-climactic:  at the shot he simply dropped on the spot, kicked a few times, and lay still.  He sported a worthy set of tusks however, so they were added to the trophy-bag in short order.

Unfortunately the second waterhole was too close to expect a realistic opportunity after 'disturbing' the first!  Its always possible that an alerted animal might have resisted the urge to bolt, but one glimpse of that bright purple pack coming through the trees would have been too much I suspect!  We gave in to our tired feet and headed for the Landrover.  Despite my light-hearted ribbing about the wife’s back-pack, I had to admit that the joint activity of bushwalking and hunting had worked out pretty well.  A couple of nice trophy boars were added to the season's tally, and some very pleasant experiences added to the memory-bank.

Plans for the next 'joint operation' are already well under-way!  Meanwhile, if anyone knows how to make Cordura nylon fade, please let me know!