Beginner’s Luck (65)

Beginner’s Luck (65)

“Are you the Red Hunter?”

I was in the company of some intoxicated rugby supporters when ‘Nick’ interrupted our little celebration with his dumb question. He was a real outsider, was Nick. My rugby friends were hoping I would crack a joke at his expense, but despite the alcohol, I decided to give the fellah a break.

“Only the hunting fraternity call me the ‘Red Hunter’,” I said, “or ‘Red’ for short.”

“I’m a hunter,” Nick protested. “Take me with you next time you go hunting and you might get a surprise.”

And so here I was at the crack of dawn waiting for Nick’s arrival at my place. I was hoping he wouldn’t come to be honest. Never allow the alcohol to do the talking. It never brings you good luck, I can guarantee you that.

I was just about to thank Jehovah and the promise of a hot day when Nick appeared poodling down the stony track towards my property on a motor scooter. He had an air rifle slung over his shoulder. Worse still, his scooter was pink. My misses pleaded with me to abort our hunting trip. I appeased her by promising to watch my back.

We set off in my truck with a couple of 44s and a young dog called ‘Lucky’. We were heading for Rakaia Gorge. Both Lucky and Nick were wet behind the ears, so hardly a cause for optimism. I decided I would leave Nick to his air rifle in the off-chance he might bag a rabbit. Or more likely a worthless rat.

Lucky’s role was purely tracking. He had a good nose and little else in his favour. The rest of the litter he came from had been disposed off somewhat cruelly at a water hole. Only my intervention saved Lucky’s life, hence his name.

Shortly after turning off the main highway, we hit the rough stuff. Both Nick and Lucky were having a ball. Their optimism left me with a growing sense of impending doom. They both struck me as simply too genial for the hunting game. I prefer to hunt with the cynical kind like ex-war veterans, former commies missing their AK 47s, or guys carrying a sobering shoulder chip every time they take aim. Safer that way, take it from me.

Eventually I found a bit of recently disturbed earth along side the track we had travelled down. With the wind blowing in our faces and the scrub becoming dense, it was time to park up. We continued on foot.

I kept ‘Lucky’ on a tight leash. Lucky was keen enough, and thankfully he didn’t bark either. Getting Nick to tone it down a bit was another matter. I would have liked to have put an electric collar around his neck. I can imagine that stopping him speaking out of line.

I knew we were getting warm by Lucky’s excited behaviour. Any pigs in front of us would be pretty much trapped. Yet visibility was not good so I was keen to stalk our prey slowly and carefully. Best, I thought, to allow my rifle to announce our arrival.

We were not far from the gorge when we sighted fresh diggings. They were there alright. Then Lucky became ecstatic as we sneaked upon a decent sized boar with tusks and what appeared to be its sow, both within shooting range.

As I grappled with my rifle, Lucky took a massive leap pulling the lead out of my hand. He was away after the pigs immediately. Nick took off about the same time with his 22 air rifle in tow.

I shouted “stop, stop you stupid ..” It’s probably better if I don’t spell out the expletives I used. Both dog and man were too excited to heed my warnings. By now the pigs were lost from view. I was left with no option but to pursue Nick and Lucky in the hope I could prevent a real mischief from occurring. I was hampered by a mixture of foliage and the ‘red mist’ in the eyes of my two travelling companions, man and beast.

Suddenly I was confronted with Nick and Lucky running clear of some bushes with one angry looking sow on Lucky’s tail. Nick was heading towards me.

I took a shot at the pig and missed. I tried a second and my rifle jammed. Lucky, alerted by the crack of my rifle, decided that I might be its best hope of survival. I dropped my rifle without thinking and ran at full speed away from Lucky, with the pig and Nick still in the thick of the action.

I had a head start over Nick and Lucky, and I wanted this advantage to remain. It was my life I was concerned about. I had only covered 50 or so metres when a shot rang out. I stumbled to a halt.

Lucky continued to race like the proverbial bat out of hell. Never mind the heat, enough is enough. From its new direction, I could assume it was now heading towards where the truck was parked. Lucky was the least of my worries. And then a voice in the wilderness brought me back to reality. It was Nick.

“I just bagged us a big fat pig with your rifle. What did you drop it for?” Nick’s double edged proclamation left me in a state of shock.

First of all my rifle had worked perfectly in Nick’s naive hands. Yet the real miracle was that Nick had struck down a pig on the move with a single shot. It took me a few precious moments to get over that one.

“It was jammed,” I answered.

“Worked like a treat when I used it. I suppose that makes me the ‘Red Hunter’.”

An ominous silence followed allowing me enough time to think of the perfect comeback. “With that pink scooter of yours, Nick, the ‘Pink Hunter’ would be closer to the mark.”

“You are just a bad loser,” Nick said. He was probably right.

“Beginners luck,” I mumbled under my breath before deciding to cut my losses. “Lets grab the pig and head back home.”

Nick asked to be dropped off where he lived. I left him with a half share of the sow. It must have been well over a 100 pounder, so not a bad pig to score by all means, yet I felt gloomy to say the least.

A week or two later I heard Nick had gone to North Island to be close to some lady he had become acquainted with on the internet.

His pink scooter is still at my place parked up in the garage. After a few snide remarks from some mates, I hid Nick’s scooter under a tarpaulin. Talk about an unwelcome guest. My misses refuses point blank to bail me out on this one. “I warned you not to go with him. But you wouldn’t listen.”

After scoring an Arial Red Hunter a while back and being named accordingly by the hunter fraternity, naturally I feared the worst. In other words Nick’s pink scooter being hung around my neck in the form of a derogatory name tag. An albatross would be more welcome, dead or alive, black or white.

With this in mind I determined to offload Nick’s scooter on some vacant lot in Ashburton. Being in Nick’s debt had left me somewhat pink with embarrassment.

Hopefully by the time the word gets out about Nick saving my bacon, I will have bagged a decent sized boar with my Rossi 44. That will put an end to any doubts expressed about my hunting prowess. I’m the Red Hunter, and don’t let anyone tell you differently; especially a nobody called Nick.

The End

© Frankie Espirit