We packed our camp and embarked on what would be an eight-hour ride into a vast and rugged valley. As we entered the head of the valley we stopped at a small house where a family of yak farmers lived. This turned out to be my guide Erlan’s home where he and his extended family lived. Their home was a small transportable building that had rooms made of mud with straw walls added to the side. From the home emerged his wife and two young daughters. Erlan smiled as he saw his daughters run from their home. It was clear that I was an unfamiliar sight to the family who would stare with relentless curiosity as if to work out what I was.
This second article in the series presents a synopsis of the data from the broadhead evaluation of the Natal Study and some of the associated information that surfaced during that study. It also examines arrow shot placement as a factor in lethality, and how broadhead selection impacts on the effectiveness of the various hits. The full report is too voluminous for presentation within the confines of limited space. The graphics presented in this article are drawn directly from the report and are numbered as in the original report. Some graphics, not directly related to this synopsis, have been omitted.
In September of 2016, I went on my first hunting trip to northeast BC in search of moose and elk. As a lifelong BC resident and hunter, I have no valid explanation as to why it took me that long to venture North. Nevertheless, the story unfolded as it has for so many before me, I fell in love. A deeply primal feeling was ignited in me on that trip and I yearned to be back in the wild the moment I had left it. I returned the following year to a nearby area in search of sheep. The flame burned hotter still. I made plans for this year to see yet another far-off corner of the province, the Cassiar Mountains.
My lungs burned as I pulled in deep breaths of freezing air, physically unable to keep up with the oxygen demand. I laid into the toe of a moraine pile, the shelter we’d sought after sprinting across an exposed hillside. We were close now but unsure if the ibex were still there. Did they see us cross the open face and are they still feeding towards our location?
Peeking down on the rams at a mere 200 yards, we surveyed the situation. In total, twelve of them lounged around the slope below us, but one stood out. I eased up my big 500 mm lens and snapped a couple of photos as he laid there, oblivious to our presence. He stood out enough that I decided I’d be happy to tag him. Unfortunately, I had a couple of issues to debate on. To shoot him in his bed would be risky, as he was partially hidden by the rocks around him. However, if I waited for him to stand, a couple short steps would take him out of sight.
Mountain hunters understand and accept the inherent perils of their pastime. When getting to the mountains is more dangerous than hunting in them, it’s not so acceptable. Given the option of riding “shotgun” I gladly accepted, avoiding cramped 3-wide seating in the rear of the American-made Toyota 4-Runner. The broken front seatbelt was a minor concern at the outset, but that quickly changed. Kyrgyz drivers make their own travel lanes despite painted delineators, and passing blindly is engaged like it’s a sporting event. Speed sometimes doubled the posted limit – a fact that did not go unnoticed by traffic authorities. We were stopped twice, and these were the shortest duration traffic stops I have ever witnessed. The “fines” were paid in a matter of seconds with pre-counted bundles of cash, and no paperwork. Additional stops for food and fuel and camp supplies and “rest” for our drivers made the 12-hour trip drag on, and on…
There are few things in life more satisfying than setting a lofty goal and then achieving it through hard work and sacrifice. Honestly, I’m not sure what motivates a man in his Medicare years to attempt a notoriously difficult hunt in some of the highest and most rugged mountains on Earth. The progression from young and invincible to aged and vulnerable is slow and often laced with mental anguish – particularly when contemplating physical limitations imposed by Father Time. Taking a mature bull elk at 9,200 feet with a well-placed arrow while hunting solo the previous year in Arizona may have extended the window, but there were times when it seemed to be closing quickly. That hunt clearly infused some confidence. Nevertheless, uncertainty loomed… did this old graybeard, now sporting multiple shades, have one more mountain hunt left in him?