Whistling foxes in a wild wind

I’d been drooling over the mere thought of my first fox hunt for the new year and had planned it in detail to maximise the chance of success. A dozen foxes was set as my goal for the day’s hunt; an achievable number but by no means guaranteed. As I hit the road, positive hunting thoughts were swept away by a strong south-westerly wind. The trees swayed back and forth violently as if being assaulted by the wild wind, convincing me I was in for an ordinary day. How wrong I was!

For those new to fox whistling, hunting on a windy day has several drawbacks. Firstly, it makes it harder for the distress calls you’re making to reach the ears of foxes. Secondly, more foxes will be underground or tucked well away to gain shelter from the wind, especially if it’s cold. My father hunts foxes using the fox drive method and on a cold windy day, the results are terrible. Quite simply, the foxes are down in their dens out of the bitter conditions. At least today the wind wasn’t cold.

Through the squeaking farm gate and past the peacefully grazing sheep, I drove until the farmhouse was reached and organised my gear for the hunt. I headed toward a section of creek flat to call one up. Backed up against a blackberry bush for concealment, I began with the button whistle, as it was a crosswind and not directly into my face. No luck. Then the ever-reliable predator call blasted out across the paddocks, pushing well into the tussocks and thick blackberry bushes that choked the meandering creek bed. Still nothing – not a movement.

The next calling spot was at the junction of two main gullies, usually the most productive area to call up foxes on the property. Using the same sequence of calls, a young fox slipped out of cover to stand broadside among the green blackberry leaves, offering a nice shot. The .17 HMR cracked and he jolted with the impact before bolting into cover. Instantly, movement to my right revealed a mature vixen bolting back to safety. Quickly cycling the rifle’s bolt, the vixen propped at the sound. The rimfire spoke and she crumpled, while further movement to my left showed another young fox across the gully. Reload – bang! He lurched into the blackberry bush he’d been standing against and disappeared. Man, that all happened fast! I recovered two foxes, with the last lost in the blackberries, though I knew it was dead. Onto the next spot.

At the next location I walked down the hill, the wind constantly changing direction. In no time my human scent had been cast all around the hunting area like confetti at a wedding. As expected, nothing moved despite trying every call I had.

I wasn’t hopeful as I walked to the next point, but to my surprise foxes were bolting out of the berries like rabbits with a ferret in their warren – except they were running toward me, not away. I was ringing the tucker bell and they were hungry! Empty brass cases flew from the rifle’s chamber among wisps of gun smoke as four more foxes lay motionless on the hill.

Now I had a daypack, rifle, shooting sticks and four foxes to drag back to the vehicle – times like these remind you you’re getting old. Over the fence and up into another gully I went, passing resting roos that bounded off, twanging the fence wire like a guitarist tuning strings. One buck roo stood defiantly with long wisps of saliva stretching a metre in the wind. I didn’t know what his intentions were.

I’d been calling for a while when a big old dog fox was noticed sitting just out from the serrated tussocks. His eyes were mere slits, so I helped him out and as his legs stretched upward toward the sky, I had number seven.

I strolled up the hill to try another location, but with the wrong wind direction it was a waste of time. As I made the long walk to the next position, I noticed a fox sitting up beside a blackberry bush before slumping back down to sleep among the swaying dry summer grass. On my hands and knees, I crawled up to my usual calling spot and set up over my shooting sticks. Soft whistles drew no response, so I tried something louder – and there he was.

Among the long grass at about 70yds, I thought I could make out his chest and sent the projectile on its way. To my disappointment he threw himself around, bolted up the hill and away. I hate missing foxes.

I sat for some time until the self-loathing had dissipated slightly. Back to calling with the old faithful predator call and another fox came running over the hill above the tussock covered creek flat. Her colour contrasted with the landscape as she stopped abruptly by the clump where the previous fox had been bedded. She needed several calls to get her mind back on hunting prey. I let her come to within 20yds and squeaked my lips to prop her. Thwack! No mistakes there.

Dragging the fox with me, I headed up onto the ridge and left it in the shade before continuing. Beneath the canopy of swaying wattle trees, I disturbed numerous bedded roos that bounded off, dust trailing behind them in the gathering gale.

With the shade of the wattle trees and open ground before me, I tried a different call and soon had a young fox casually trotting toward me, dead leaves blowing across the ground around him. I waited for it to pass some fallen timber and as he paused to relocate his intended prey, the HMR spoke. He ran a short distance before piling up in the head of a dead tree. I repeated the process and shot another two from the same spot. That’s more like it! At the next property the paddocks were occupied with horse riders, so I moved on.

A cormorant glided over the trees looking for a dam while kangaroos rested in the shade. I settled into the usual calling spot as clouds gathered and the wind gusted through the bush. Two foxes appeared on the lip of the creek bank, one older than the other, both cautious. I wasn’t sure why – they didn’t have my scent. Eventually I got the younger fox to venture up the hill, though he stopped frequently to survey his path. Letting him in close, the 17gr hollow point dropped him clean.

Turning to the loudest and most distressing call I had, I tried for more. Rain began to fall as I scrambled against a tree trunk to avoid the heavy drops, with trees swaying violently around me. It wasn’t long before the day retuned to blue skies and another two foxes were taken. The third refused to come closer, showing only his head and neck above an old grey log. But that was enough and he crumpled at the shot.

The next area was a huge gully system choked with blackberries. To my surprise I saw more deer than foxes. On the way back to the vehicle I was forced to sit in a spot offering limited vision if foxes approached from a certain direction – and of course they did.

In no time two foxes, one directly behind the other, bolted up the hill toward me. The big dog fox in the lead was coming in crouched low with incredible speed, his colourful coat and predatory approach looking spectacular against the lush green grass. He was going to be in my lap any second and as I moved to shoot he simply turned on a dime, leaving me watching two foxes high-tailing it down the hill.

Calling again, a youngster came running in from the right and propped at 20yds. Shooting through a blackberry bush, he bolted unscathed, likely due to a deflection – I knew that shot was good.

Back near the vehicle I tempted a mangy dog fox out of cover and took him with the usual chest shot. I had another fox – albeit a mangy one.

I was now driving toward a property I had been night hunting rabbits on a week earlier. That night I’d observed several foxes on the neighbouring property, so I stopped with some hope.

I sat and called from the usual spot into an absolute gale. I doubted even my noisiest callers could reach the foxes. Two foxes hunted in the open paddock but ignored the calls. Moving down the hill to call again produced an unexpected result. They lifted their heads and bolted toward cover. Quickly grabbing another call, I blew some squeals and they turned and headed toward me.

Letting the first one under the fence and in close to provide time for his partner, I was ready. As they sniffed about, I fired, reloaded, and fired again. Two redcoats lay amid the green grass.

Time to squeal again. Another two appeared, one more eager than the other. As it slipped through the fence to sniff the others, he too lay still. It took a lot of calling but eventually I also had the good-sized dog fox to go with the other three. By now I was slowing up. I drove down to get the foxes rather than drag them uphill. I had 19 foxes but wanted one more. I returned to the area where the horse riders had been and was glad to find it quiet.

The property owner joined me and we headed down to try our luck. As soon as I called, two foxes appeared but I had trouble seeing them and they bolted back to cover. I enticed one back and dropped it at 15yds.

Eventually another came up the opposite side of the gully and after sitting behind a tree it crossed the swampy cumbungi gully and climbed the creek bank – only to be greeted by the .17 HMR. With no further takers, we moved closer to the boundary and sang our torturous tunes. Suddenly, movement – there stood a young fox locked onto us at 10yds in the long grass like a pointer. Inch by inch I moved until I was looking at him through the scope on 9x power. Between the grass and the magnification, he was just a blur, but the bullet’s impact sent him sliding down the hill.

One more spot: I called a fox up from a long distance but he caught my scent and bolted back down, sitting watch from afar.

I quickly set the foxes up for photos as the trees around me thrashed in the wind. If anyone had told me at the start of the day that I’d have a hunt like that in those conditions, I’d have said they were whistling in the wind.