Los Angeles is not one of my favorite places, but I knew I was in the right
place when I ran into a long line of surfboards – except I wasn’t climbing on
board Quantas to surf. I wanted to explore the Outback and meet Crocodile
Dundee, varmint-hunting style. Australia...it seems a lot of great hunting
places start with the letter “A,” and of course, Australia is no exception.
Little did I know that before the trip ended I would meet the real Crocodile
Dundee in spades.
Some of the best outdoor adventures available mean long plane rides;
Johannesburg is 14 to 15 hours from New York, depending on winds. Beijing, the
new jumping-off spot for hunting in China and Mongolia, is a long 14 hours from
Detroit. And Sydney, 14 hours from Los Angeles, is certainly one to be reckoned
with for the saddle weary. But like the return from Africa, the flight west
takes place at night, moves across the equator (meaning it takes a while to
cross lots of time zones), and allows one to sleep. Before I knew it, I was in
the famous city of Sydney.
I traveled to Australia with my girlfriend Catherine. She lived in Australia
for two years, has a house in Perth, and maintains residency there. To say the
least, she has friends all over the continent. I did not plan to bring my own
guns, but I did plan to bring some ammo. Catherine’s friends Glenda and Wade
own a farm near Brisbane, and after spending an urbane weekend in Sydney we
intended fly there to shoot some rabbits and other vermin before heading west.
I had my travel agent contact the Australian consulate in Los Angeles before
leaving, and was assured that bringing ammo to Australia would not be a problem.
As you guessed by now, it was. Without a permit, my ammo was confiscated by
customs. Wade, my new-found friend in Brisbane, was able to eventually claim it,
but we never did shoot it while I was there. Incidentally, I thought the gun
laws in Australia were absolutely oppressive. When I returned to the US I
discontinued my long-standing practice of annual NRA memberships and instead
became a life member.
My first varmint hunt in Australia was a hunt to remember, for it was the first
time I ever jacked rabbits. We traveled to the home of a local farmer named
Tom. We sipped coffee and talked about hunting as the sun set and it grew
darker. Finally, Tom said it was time to go, so we loaded up a four-wheel drive
pickup; the ladies in the front and the shooters in the rear of the truck (not
that ladies cannot be shooters – but in this case they were not). The method
was simple – we drove crop fields and stopped occasionally to paint the fields
with piercing white light. The bunnies would temporarily freeze, allowing us a
few seconds to bring arms to bear, in this case, .22 rifles. We had to shoot
quickly. We gave a few bunnies a cheap case of lead poisoning, but for the most
part they were safe. Too bad for Tom – these bunnies are the Australian version
of a prairie dog. But somehow, rabbits just didn’t seem like varmints to me,
especially in the land of the platypus and kangaroo. But we never failed to
have fun in Brisbane; we had an enjoyable day kayaking a local river, then
camped out while catching catfish at night. Wade and I spent an afternoon
shooting one of his many single action pistols – cowboy action shooting is very
popular in Australia. Shooting tin cans at 15 paces is the complete opposite of
varmint shooting at long range, but it was a lot of fun.
After a few days in Brisbane, we boarded another domestic flight and winged our
way to the other side of Australia, landing in Perth, a beautiful city located
on the shores of the Indian Ocean. In Perth Catherine and I went for a run most
every morning. But unlike our country setting in Brisbane, Perth is a bustling
city; I almost got killed on one of our morning runs to the nearby beach when I
looked left for cars as I ran out on the highway (they drive opposite of us).
Shirking death, I rewarded myself with a charter fishing trip. I caught a nice
King George whiting and red snapper, which I barbecued that night for a small
dinner party that we hosted for Catherine’s friends. We then we headed south,
where we met up with Steve, a former professional hunter and a character that
even now seems larger than life.
“Steve will take you pig hunting, John, but he has one rule: no guns,” Catherine
explained to me even before the trip began. “You might get to shoot a kangaroo,
but only knives are used for pigs.” I gulped hard, but hey, it sounded like
story material for The VARMINT HUNTER Magazine, even if it did sound a bit
eccentric.
The southwestern coast of Australia consists of rolling hills covered with lush
vegetation the color emeralds. It is truly one of the greenest places I have
ever seen. But on the day I met Steve, it was also one of the wettest. Rain
cascaded down in sheets as we drove up a hill to an old Quonset hut that would
serve as hunt central. Steve was brewing a pot of coffee and getting the dogs
ready. It was nice to be out of the rain. I noticed both of the dogs had
collars with spikes on them – I thought only people who liked leather wore
those, but I guess I didn’t know these dogs. I didn’t know the dog’s names
either, but I knew without asking that neither were named Spot or Old Yeller.
“Well, if it wasn’t raining so hard, I’d let you shoot a ‘roo, but with this all
this rain, let’s just stick to the pigs,” Steve began. I am sure the pun was
intended, but just so there was no doubt, Steve pulled out a long bladed knife
that looked like a bayonet. He continued. “We’ll take to hills and let the
dogs loose. If they pick up a pig trail, the chase begins. If they can catch
the pig, the bigger dog’ll grab the pig’s ears and hold ‘em. That’s when you
run up and stick the pig with this knife,” Steve said as he handed me my own
knife. I strapped it on. “Better take this, too,” he said, handing me a bush
hat, “it will keep the rain off your face.”
Catherine seriously thought about coming with, but in the end left me to do
something about as idiotic: ride a mountain bike in the rain. I was certain if
a car did not hit her, a kangaroo would. After she left Steve showed me his
collection of pig tusk scars. Frankenstein had smoother skin.
We arrived at the hunting grounds, which were actually reclaimed mines operated
by Alcoa. I must say, they did a spectacular job reclaiming the land – with the
exception of a few access roads, it looked pristine to me. We let the dogs
loose and soon were making boot tracks in the mud. I was immediately in love
with the park-like setting. There were tall trees, included palm trees, with
interspersed “palm bushes.” Green grass that looked as if it was mowed covered
everything else.
As we hunted, Steve pointed out various pig spoor: tracks, dung, and places they
had rutted around digging up roots. Like any veteran hunter, Steve could pick
out the fresh stuff and mentally discard the old. We immediately started seeing
kangaroos, and even if I couldn’t shoot bullets, I at least wanted to shoot some
film. Steve told me during a break in this hunt that kangaroos are truly
varmints – in the eastern part of the country they can consume as much as 25% of
the pasture capacity of some farms, while in the West, they were so thick that
they caused many accidents. I noted to Steve that just about every car had
“’roo bars.” “Well, I hit 24 ‘roos in the last 12 months,” Steve replied
sardonically, “so I think I’ll keep my bars.”
As we crossed the side of a hill, Steve pointed out a bunch of kangaroos. As he
waited, I crouched down, slipped off my daypack, and pulled out my camera. I
jacked in a 200mm lens (a shutterbug’s version of a .223 Remington) and began my
stalk. The thick vegetation screened me fairly well, but I soon came to a
wide-open grassy area and took my shots from there. Since I shoot slow speed
slide film, the low light from the rain provided quite a challenge. But I did
manage to get what I thought were some respectable photographs of kangaroos then
and throughout the day. Mission accomplished, it was back to try and get a
photo of a pig – a dead pig, preferably.
Soon the dogs were on to a pig trail. Surprisingly, we did not have to run to
keep up, just walk fast. And unlike some hounds, these did not beller out as
they pursued their quarry. But after an hour we lost the trail. Perhaps the
rain made it difficult. When the rain slowed to a veritable mist we stopped
for lunch. As we ate lunch, Steve told me of his days as a professional hunter.
“Australia is funny about her animals,” Steve began. “Only aboriginals can kill
species indigenous to the continent, with the exception of kangaroos. Anyone
can kill those. On the other hand, there are huge numbers of non-indigenous
species brought her by settlers. These include water buffalo, camels, and
donkeys. The water buffalo are found in the Northern Territories, but the other
large “varmints” are found all over Australia.”
As Steve talked, he described his life as a professional hunter. He camped in
the Outback and shot kangaroos, donkeys, and camels. He sold the meat to dog
food companies, but he was not afraid to eat anything he shot if he was hungry.
He waxed on about the wonderful fat from the humps of camels; rendered, it made
excellent lard.
I asked him what the most important skill was to be a good professional hunter.
I expected him to talk about shooting. “You have to learn to take their shirts
off, and fast,” he spat back immediately. “Shooting is the easy part, but if
you spend all day skinning you won’t make a dime. I got only 25 cents per pound
for dog food meat, so I had to be fast.”
“How long would it take you to skin a camel?” I asked.
“About 15 minutes,” Steve replied. “And one more thing – you have to be able to
sharpen knives very fast as well!”
As we finished our lunch, the skies began to darken once more and sure enough,
it began to rain again. By now I was absolutely soaked, but I did not get cold
as long as we continued to move. Soon the dogs were hot on a pig trail.
This could be it, I thought to myself. As the dogs pursued the pig, we
walked as fast as we could to keep up. But to my dismay, the scent died and the
dogs were left pigless.
Steve decided that the he had enough. The rain was making it difficult, and
besides, we had been at it for most of the day. We hiked back to the truck and
drove back to his brother’s house, with whom Catherine was riding a bike. I
shed my wet clothes, changed to dry ones, and had a cup of tea by the fire. I
thought about how this trip once again taught me a lot about how great we have
it in North America – the hunting, varmint or otherwise, is really pretty good,
and anyone who cannot hunt internationally should not feel terribly cheated. At
the same time, just getting there is half the adventure – international hunting
offers a guarantee of fun even if you don’t kill anything. But at the same
time, what is really peculiar to me is that as I hunt more frequently on other
continents, simple pleasures such as the deer shack in Minnesota mean much more
than they ever did before. In the middle of pondering all of this, Catherine’s
ever-smiling face burst into the house to inquire about the results. “Good ‘roo
pics, but that is about it,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “Next time we come back, why don’t you just plan on a buffalo
hunt?”
