Hunting after motherhood

I was a morning person once. A long time ago, at least 2018 BC (Before Child).

I now live in a different era, consumed by the juggle of swimming lessons, gymnastics classes, toddler birthday parties and exploring YouTube recipes for vegetables disguised as desserts. I’ve lost track of the amount of failed zucchini brownies I’ve had to eat by myself, and all the coco-choco-nut lattes in the world can’t get me out of bed before 7am.

Until today.

It’s rut month.

And I am going fallow deer hunting!

Parenting is a great job. You’re overworked and underpaid, underappreciated and over-occupied. Priorities shift. Instead of flicking arrows at a target on Saturday morning, you’re flicking at blowflies with a dirty tea towel because the kid left the screen door open again. The closest thing you do to hunting is searching under the bed for missing socks and puzzle pieces.

But this weekend, hubby kindly offered… suggested… demanded… that I go away for a ‘baby break’ while he and child stay home.

Around a campfire in the hills of Central West New South Wales, I have a full day ahead of me to enjoy the serenity, put my feet up and relax. Catch up on some writing. Read a book. Drink about seven cups of Instant Nescafe. And listen to the soothing, relaxing sounds of… fallow deer croaking! All around me.

Well, that’s enough relaxing. Time to hunt!

Now, one would think that coming back from a five-year break from hunting is like riding a bike. It isn’t.

There are things that don’t come back immediately. Like flexibility. I now more often attempt to crawl under fences than over them and fail at both. There’s physical fitness, or lack of… why can’t deer live in flat country? And my ‘deer-sightedness’ has been replaced by near-sightedness… Is that a deer or a burnt stump?

I am far less trigger-happy. Is it because of my new parent status, or a ‘problem’ with my birth certificate? The fact is that I’m closer to 50 than 30. Perhaps I’ve watched the ‘Bambi’ movie a few too many times. I have internal debates on whether to pick up a firearm or a camera, and the game have usually escaped from both before I have decided.

I am far more sensitive to smells. ‘Rutting stag 5km away!’ And my hazard perception is off the charts! “Don’t eat that!”, “You are too close to that campfire!”, “Tie your shoelaces!” This all being said to my 70-year-old father and 30-year-old brother.

But some things never change. Such as the enjoyment of being in the bush and watching wildlife in its natural environment. Hidden with my bow among trees on a dam bank, I secretly watch mamma does anxiously graze – on full alert status while their hyperactive fawns carelessly play. I am in total bliss, but I do miss my own little fawn and wonder how much mess she has made of the loungeroom. Did I sign that permission slip for daycare? Has hubby been feeding her vegetables?

All this is forgotten when a buck prances into my daydream to have a drink. He is 35m away and while I am fumbling between thoughts of motherhood and scrambling to nock an arrow, he walks straight towards me. He is front on at 20m, then 15m, then 10m. Meanwhile, I unsuccessfully attempt to come to full draw, wondering how close he could possibly get. Will he walk right over me? Luckily, he has an abrupt change of heart (I’m not his type) and direction, now perfectly broadside. He is at 20m, but now with his vitals behind a tree. I must hold at my, this time successful, full draw position while I wish I spent less time washing up and more time practising archery. Finally, he steps forward and turns to walk away, and I take a quartering-away shot. In bowhunting, the quartering-away shot is usually highly effective and I can’t restrain my relief and joy when I approach the buck in the bottom of a gully.

When Dad gets a phone call that we have a buck on the deck on the first morning, he can’t contain his excitement. I think he’s even happier than me! See, no matter how old fathers or daughters are, dads always find immense joy in helping their fiercely independent daughters with a difficult, gory or physical task.

Not long after, while Dad and I are dragging the animal up the hill, breathlessly tugging on a hind leg each, I think to myself, ‘I wonder if I will one day be helping my daughter to drag a rutting buck up a mountainside?’ I say this to Dad and we both have a giggle at the thought. Between gasps of overexertion.

Parenting is even more physically demanding than a mountain hike in deer country or dragging a carcass up a hill. I doubt no man or woman will disagree that the experience is life changing. It involves sacrifice, hard work, patience and a whole lot of legwork. Sort of like hunting.

But still, at the end of a day’s hunting, the does are truly ready to bed down. Uninterrupted sleep? Yes please, let me to my swag!