The three of us were starting to drag our feet a little, as the scorching-hot September sun approached its zenith and started baking the dry Top End woodland in earnest. We had hunted up a likely creek-line right to the sandstone foothills, and with the exception of a couple of 'terminal ballistics' experiments on the ubiquitous feral horse population, we had largely drawn a blank. A group of young buff now had a supporting role in Marty's next hunting video, and a rangy scrub-bull had almost tempted Nigel into parting with a couple more Woodleigh Weldcores, but that much-needed buffalo bull or trophy boar had eluded us all morning. Reluctantly, we turned west towards the truck.
Rather than covering old ground over again, we discussed the possibility of heading across-country on a compass-bearing to a secluded water-hole which might still have a little of the precious fluid remaining. At this time of year, it was a bit of a long shot, however Marty and I had made the effort several times in previous years with surprising success. If water was still present it had always held game, turning up the odd buffalo, one notable scrub-bull, several mobs of pigs (up to 100-strong on one occasion!), and a couple of loner boars sporting worthwhile trophy tusks. The decision was unanimous!
An hour later, the falling ground and converging animal-tracks signalled the waterhole's close proximity, so a slight detour round to the north to put the breeze in our faces was followed by a careful stalk through the fringing paperbarks. As we approached the central clearing, two things became apparent. There was still a small patch of free water right out in the middle of the open 300-metre wide pan, and there was no-one home!
Well, it had been a long shot, but we were still rather disappointed at having slogged through the stifling heat for no result. Meanwhile, the shady grove of paperbark trees offered a welcome respite from the relentless sun, so a rest-stop was called for. There was a fair chance that some nearby game might also be feeling the midday heat, and be tempted to wander down for a drink and a wallow. We lay back in the deep shade to rest our weary legs and await events. "Give it twenty minutes" suggested Marty, the eternal optimist!
Would you believe it? Exactly 20 minutes later, there was movement in the shimmering mirage across the far side of the depression as a somewhat scrawny pig emerged from the surrounding scrub and made a bee-line for the central pot-hole. It had been Marty's call, so he was clearly owed the shot. Settling down beside a stout paperbark trunk, he followed the porker through the scope but chose to wait till it reached the water and stopped to drink. Sloshing out into the liquid mud, the pig promptly slid onto its side in the thick black slop and lay still! It was now quite difficult to distinguish pig from mud, and the exposed target area was considerably reduced. Marty was forced to cop a bit of quiet criticism from his two 'helpful' mates about the wisdom of delaying the shot!
With a solid rest and plenty of time for a steady aim, the 180-grainer flew true to the mark. The stricken pig simply flopped around a couple of times in the mud and lay still. We headed out across the sun-baked pan to take a closer look, Marty pacing it off at an estimated 145 metres. Retrieving the quarry from the sticky ooze was not an easy task, at the end of which both the hunter and his victim were posing for the photo sporting a liberal coating of black mud! Not one for the frontispiece of any hunting album!
Marty with his muddy pig extracted from the mire.
Back in the sanctuary of the shady paperbarks, we again 'kicked back' to see if any more visitors might offer a chance for sport. "Give it another twenty minutes" offered Marty, during which time we reached agreement that any further game would have to be anchored BEFORE making it into the mud!
Well, you guessed it! Right on twenty minutes later, a solid boar emerged from the same spot and trotted head-down straight for the water. Even at that distance, we could tell from his gait that he would easily top 100 kilos. This was better! Since my Jeffery double-rifle wore only express sights, and the quarry was approaching from the far side of the waterhole, Nigel elected to take the shot. Chambered for the 9.3 mm Brenneke cartridge, his scoped Franconia Mauser was more than capable of dealing with this big Northern Territory boar even out at 200 metres. By the time he was settled with a chambered round, however, the hog was fast approaching the stagnant pool.
Our urging to "Hurry up and shoot" fell on deaf ears, as the pig continuously changed direction slightly while lining up its entry-point, and the sight-picture was never quite right. To our exasperation, the boar waded out belly-deep into the very centre of the pool, drinking deeply, in complete silence from Nigel's gun-barrel! "Waiting..till..he..turns..side-on…" was the response to our howls of derision, however the animal soon obliged and Nigel was quick to capitalise. The hapless hog dived forward and thrashed about violently for a few seconds, but with both lungs completely wrecked it was soon over.
Standing at the water's edge a few minutes later, we could only admire the boar's enormous size and healthy curl of lip from a distance. This was undoubtedly one of the better boars to be taken on the property, well over 100 kilos and very good ivory to boot. Lying on his side in the very centre of the quagmire however, he might as well have been on the moon! It was Nigel's trophy, so he was treated to a barrage of encouragement and clever suggestions but a complete absence of volunteer helpers! In the final analysis, the sheer mass of the animal, coupled with the depth of sticky mud, the heat, distance back to the vehicle, and complete lack of clean water to wash up afterwards, had all conspired against the retrieval of this worthy trophy. Sadly, it was left where it had fallen.
Nigel contemplating the difficulty of retrieving his trophy boar!
As we walked back to the tree-line, I ribbed Nigel pretty severely for allowing the boar to make it into the bog! Not even a decent photo would mark its passing! What a waste! I should have been thinking more about the opportunity my two mates might soon have to even the score! "Another 20 minutes..?" suggested Marty, as we settled back in the shade once again!
Sure enough, almost exactly to the minute, a third hog detached itself from the distant heat-haze and began closing on the waterhole at a fast walk. Well I may be 'handicapped' by a .400 double rifle with open express sights, but I had given the lads plenty of stick over delaying their shots, so it was now time to pay the piper! Shrugging off the condescending comments of "Don't worry, we'll back you up", I quickly settled elbows on knees, rested the back of my left hand against the paperbark trunk, and flicked up the 200-yard sight-leaf. Ignoring their pleas of "Wait 'till we're ready too", I steadied the gold bead just ahead of the moving pig's nose and keeping pace, carefully squeezed off the shot.
There was an explosion of dust some 15 metres beyond the spotted hog, followed immediately by the animal collapsing in a heap and kicking out its final moments on the sun-baked earth. The 400-grain Woodleigh soft-point had entered on the front of the forward shoulder, and exited at the last rib on the off side. Perfect placement! The distance was paced-out at 175 metres, and I was relieved to note that the pig was still some 30 metres short of achieving the wallow. At least ONE of the day's photos would turn out okay!
Fast-walking hog taken with a Jeffery .400 double from the tree-line in the back-ground.
I hunt a lot with open-sighted double rifles these days, and have complete faith in the skill and ability of last century's British gun-makers to properly regulate their arms. If a sight-leaf is marked with a particular distance, you can be sure it was test-fired at that distance and the sights carefully filed-in to place the bullet on the mark. This is more than can be said for the open sights on most modern sporting arms, the vast majority of which will be scoped before leaving the retailer's premises.
The early hunting literature is rich with tales of satisfying shots made with open-sighted doubles and stalking rifles, both in the highlands and the far-flung out-posts of Empire, and they are no less accurate today than during the hey-day of British gun-making a century ago. For some reason, the shallow-vee express sights, and British doubles generally, have lately been accused of mediocre accuracy at best, when nothing could be further from the truth. Admittedly some specimens have suffered greatly from the ravages of time and ignorance, but the majority of surviving examples are well cared-for and capable of delivering 'every satisfaction' as far as hunting accuracy is concerned.
In practice, I rarely deploy the flip-up sight-leaves on sporting rifles, as they are so infrequently required in the hunting field. Nevertheless, it is reassuring to know that when a long-shot is called for, these marvelous rifles from a bygone era are still capable of holding their own in any company!