This story deserves a segment on “The Blackness of the Buffalo” for reasons analogous to Melville’s chapter “The Whiteness of the Whale” in Moby-Dick: Perfect lightness or perfect darkness seems to represent all the human mind needs to know in order to understand each of these imposing creatures. The first time I saw a wild Asiatic buffalo lumbering toward me through the lush green cycads that blanket Australia’s Melville Island, its mud-streaked ebony hide bespoke trouble as eloquently as the contempt in its eyes.
The creature was perhaps justified in his disdain. Aussie mates Bill Baker, Brad Kane, Dan Smith, and I had organized this trip to explore the possibilities of guiding bowhunters in pursuit of Australia’s most dangerous big game animal. Despite his well-deserved reputation as one of the country’s best bowhunters, Bill had never connected on a buffalo despite multiple frustrating attempts in other areas. Bill was carrying his recurve that morning, but I couldn’t even manage that much: Recent neck surgery to repair a damaged nerve had left me unable to pick my nose with my right arm, much less draw a bow heavy enough to kill a tough one-ton animal. Furthermore, in a classical example of “It seemed like a good idea at the time” thinking, we hadn’t brought a single firearm with us to the island.
The bull ground to a halt 15 yards away and gave us the stink eye, and our plan was that Bill would put an arrow through him while I backed him up—with my camera. The bull’s belligerent attitude had already eliminated the need for an elaborate stalk; he had been closing the distance between us since first making eye contact. Unfortunately he was facing us head-on, and a frontal shot with a bow at any big game animal—let alone one that large—is a recipe for disaster. There was nothing for us to do but wait, and nothing to do while we waited except gauge the distance to the nearest gum trees and decide how we’d try to climb one should the situation go to hell in a hurry.
For some reason I glanced at my watch at the beginning of the standoff, which is how I know that all of us (including the buffalo) stood motionless for exactly 29 minutes. The arrow on the riser of Bill’s bow began to shake. I struggled to control the cramps developing in my legs. The buffalo began to drool and run his tongue inside his nostrils in an attempt to pick up more of our scent, a doomed effort since we had been careful to put the wind in our faces as soon as we spotted him.
Finally, the bull appeared to decide that we just weren’t worth his time; he began to turn and walk away. The moment the axis of his body reached a full broadside angle, I watched Bill come to full draw and release the arrow. The impact made a sound like a baseball bat hitting a pumpkin, and the stricken bull seemed to hesitate between flight or fight. Fortunately he chose the former, and the long spell broke as we listened to him crash off into the brush. Had my outstretched arm not come up solidly against a gum tree, I might have collapsed to the ground.
We easily located the fallen bull 50 yards back in the brush. Bill’s long quest for a buffalo with his bow was over, but three seasons’ worth of adventure on Melville Island had just begun…(continued)
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The bull ground to a halt 15 yards away and gave us the stink eye, and our plan was that Bill would put an arrow through him while I backed him up—with my camera. The bull’s belligerent attitude had already eliminated the need for an elaborate stalk; he had been closing the distance between us since first making eye contact. Unfortunately he was facing us head-on, and a frontal shot with a bow at any big game animal—let alone one that large—is a recipe for disaster. There was nothing for us to do but wait, and nothing to do while we waited except gauge the distance to the nearest gum trees and decide how we’d try to climb one should the situation go to hell in a hurry.
