From as long as I can remember I have had a fascination with the outdoors and hunting, my pocket money was carefully deposited in an old wooden tea box with the sole purpose of building an inventory of equipment with which to persue my passion.
First came the backpack at $15.00 then the sleeping bag and tent.
At the time I was too young to own a rifle so I had to settle for trapping to satisfy my desire to hunt, I would spend my school holidays camped in the bush, waking half frozen at daybreak to patrol my line of traps. One of the remarkable benefits was that this past-time served was to increase the weight of the old wooden tea box and eventually I bought my first riflescope, a Weaver 4 x 28 for $13.87.
By this stage in life I was fast approaching the age where I could own my first rifle, every Friday night for about 6 months I had a well established ritual of going to the towns only gun shop and gazing at the rifle I would one day own.
Finally that day came, I went to the local Police Station, spoke with the local Arms Officer “Tom Shaw” and proudly exited with a “permit to procure” in my hand.
A few days later I shot my first wallaby with that rifle, it was a misty day at Mount Michael when I saw it hop into the middle of the track about 100 yards in front of my father and I.
I fired once, the wallaby turned almost like it was unaware of our presence let alone my attempt to take it as a trophy. I fired two more shots and the wallaby hopped off the track into the scrub.
When my father and I arrived at the point where the wallaby had stood a minute earlier we saw it laying not more than a few feet off the track. Subsequent skinning revealed that my three shots had all hit within the region of its heart.
To this day I still have the skin and my first rifle.
Sadly my father passed away some years ago and perhaps it is not being able to share my passion with him or the onset of middle age but adventures are now few and far between.
How times have changed…