H&H - you gonna tell them about your harrowing experiences stopping the bull charge?
rbernie,
I've been waiting for my racing Adrenalin filled brain to slow down enough to where I could properly document the events of that fateful day. And now with the separation of several days and much reflection I shall try to tell the story of the charging bull.
The sun showed itself over the treeline a sultry ball of orange and the lower central Arkansas river valley escarpment welcomed her with glorious birdsong and animal calls. Gaiudo my Brazilian guide and spiritual adviser stood at my side and intently scanned the horizon. The years in the hot sun and the danger and stress of being a full time guide and PHD level student were starting to show on Gaiudo. His once handsome profile was starting to sag, stress lines creased his brow and his nose was growing a large hairy pimple right on the tip. My mind reflected to a younger Gaiudo and it was at this moment that I realized that this may well be our last hunt together, a man can only take so much adventure and danger in one life time. Yes this was to be our last hunt if we survived this one I was going to retire Gaiudo the poor man has had enough after this hunt and I planned on sending him to England for a long and boring sabbatical.
As the heat and humidity set into the sun drenched plain doves started flocking in, the barrels of my ancient, bush battered Webley & Scott 12 ga heated and smoke wavered from the open breeches with each reloading. Gaiudo's double was in full repose and often roaring skyward sending deadly columns of lead into the brilliant blue sky. The action was hot and before long we were waist deep in a pile Eurasion dove carcasses the expended hulls formed a small mountain behind and it looked as though we were to be overrun holding our well fortified but undermanned position was becoming doubtful. Just when all hope seemed to be lost our prayers were answered, out of the smoke and mist three figures appeared, in the background the song "Charge of the Valkyries" boomed and answering our heartfelt and much needed pleas for assistance Art, Justin and Gus confidently swaggered in guns shouldered, with bandoleers slung across their wide, powerful chests and joined us in our moment of need.
As the men settled into their deadly business with calm assurance, skill and grace I watched them and my heart sank a bit as I realized that they were the innocent ones they did not know what was in store if my evil and dangerous plan were to come to fruition. If any of them were to know of my plan I'm sure that they would have left as courage is stronger in the moment and having to prepare for an event such as I was planning can weaken the resolve of even the most brave hearted men.
For them it was simply a dove hunt for me it was the obsessive conclusion to a lifetime of danger. You see my hunt was far deeper and sinister than it appeared. I was on a quest for the holy grail of dangerous game hunting, the conclusion of my DF slam in which only one other in the history of man has accomplished though he died of his wounds shortly after completing his. Sir Vigor Torensten Winderschmeer my great uncle, after being mauled by the blue species of the deadly DF in Abyssinia wrote as his last quivering entry into his journal "I have reached the top I have seen, now, let no other man try for the price is to steep and gurgle, gurgle, ughhhhhh."
You see I had claimed the greater blue in Abyssinia, narrowly escaped a severe battering with a common brown in the Zambezi, almost got sorted by a massive green in the Yukon and had suffered severe life threatening psychological damage hunting the rainbow species in Tibet.
The only one left to complete my DF slam was the Yellow bellied greater Arkansas river savanna species. Also known as the yellow death of the river by the local tribes.
Often when pursuing the rare, dangerous and more intelligent species the best plan of action is no direct spooring or glassing you see yellow river death knows where you are and can sense your desire for mortal conflict. The big bulls are always watching and they choose the time and place a true dagga bull will never enter into a fight unless the odds are in his favor.
It was late in the afternoon and the merry group of hunters were tired, their shoulders raw, they had slipped into conversation and their minds were at ease. I noticed a nervous glance from time to time as the men could feel my tension and the severity of my concentration. They knew something was wrong. Suddenly like a vision from the 7th ring of hell he was there, his red thirsty eyes staring into my soul. I raised my gun to fire and vaguely remember Justin screaming NOOOOOOOOOO!! Gus tried to shoulder block me but it was to late I shifted my weight and Gus flew by, careening off into the jagged rocks below. Art simply shifted in his seat and accepted the mortality of the situation, guns at high port. I fired a right and then a left the yellow river death easily dodged both volleys. Deathly silence enveloped the valley smoke poured from my breaches as I fumbled for shells and shakily reloaded. Art was still sitting guns ready but poor Gaiudo was laying on the ground in a fetal position his eyes rolled back in his head sucking his thumb and mumbling in a unrecognizable foreign language.
All eyes scanned the distant horizon Gus was just crawling over the parapet his eyes wild and darting, when out of the eternal horizon he came. There was no calm this time, the beast was ducking and dodging up, down, left, right his battle fangs thrust into the kill position his rapier horn tips flashing. his claws extended and his tusks held high. He rapidly closed the distance on our position. I quickly swung the old Webbley and fired, he dodged the pellets and continued his deadly rush I waited until I could feel the wind being forced forward from his rushing mass and fired my last barrel. He jerked and his massive body shuddered his forward momentum stopped by the massive energy of the deadly pellets shearing into him and his life blood freely spew onto the ground.
He moaned a horrible bellow turned with one last hateful glare and lunged into the long grass mortally wounded. I raced over the wall followed by Gus and Justin guns shouldered ready for anything. The blood trail was heavy and the tracking simple when we found him he was poised to charge but his shadow to weak to launch his deadly maneuver. Gus and Justin shoved their barrels into his face and the old warrior rolled over and died knowing he had fought his last on the plains of the Arkansas river valley escarpment.
As we trussed him to a pole and began the arduous trek back to the village of Chief Ashcroft we could hear chanting, jubilation and drum beats coming from the natives living in the humble dwellings. Smoke began to rise from the ceremonial fire pit. Yellow river death would no longer stalk the night.
The Great Yellow Dragon Fly was dead.
