Dale Karch, Linda and Bill Baker and the author pose with the authors second bull. Hunting guide Bill Baker has worked out a deal to donate the buffalo meat to the locals in exchange for the rights to archery hunt their land.

Another Chance?
We stopped on the way for a morning hunt. Shortly after we started, Bill spotted a big bull standing in the shade under a cluster of Pandana palms. We circled to get the wind and stopped at 40 yards to lose the packs and shoes. The final approach was pretty much wide open. It looked impossible. Dale stayed at the packs to videotape and I tucked myself in Bill's hip pocket as he moved toward the buffalo. I knew we would never complete the stalk, but I was game to try. The area around the bull was scenic, almost like a garden with the fluorescent green Cycads spotted artfully around. When we made it to 20 yards, I realized maybe it wasn't the impossible stalk. Bill held up at 15 yards and signaled for me to go ahead. I crept forward. The bull was slightly quartering away, but I only had a six-inch slot between two Pandana trunks to his vitals. I glanced back at Bill and eased closer. "He must think I want to jump on this bull and ride it," I thought as I inched along to get a wider shooting lane. The bull turned his head in our direction suddenly and for a few seconds I thought I'd really blown it big time. A wave of relief washed through my soul when the bull flicked his ears and turned his head back. I moved forward to eight yards, where I had a foot to shoot between. After a cleansing breath, I drew the bow and released. The arrow crunched on impact and drove in deep. Instantly I nocked another shaft. The bull turned his head to stare at the fletching while slowly turning a circle. When he offered his other side I heard Bill whisper, "Give him another one mate." I shot again with similar results. When the second arrow hit the bull looked at it and started turning the opposite direction. I shot once more, trying to speed things up. The buff took four steps and fell over. He never had a clue we were there. I gave Bill a bear hug. He grinned and said, "Well done mate! Don't think the other arrows were needed, but with your luck on big bulls they didn't hurt."

Linda wasn't far away waiting in the truck. Bill drove the rig closer to make the packing job easier and in a short time we were on our way again.

Tinganoo Bay looked like the set for Gilligan's Island. Emerald salt water lapped at the beach surrounded by a Mangrove forest. Linda got her day on the beach, Dale got in some bow and rod fishing, and I got a very nice bull. Just another day in paradise.

With a couple of day's left of our stay, we packed up and moved back to the main fishing camp in Snake Bay. Bill wanted to take one of Les's charter boats around the island and float up the outlet of Goose Creek to explore some new country. We shoved off early the next morning and witnessed a spectacular sunrise as we glided over the swells.

Motoring up Goose Creek felt like going back in time. Unspoiled by man, crocodiles slid off the water lily-lined banks while the skies teemed with waterfowl. The skipper dropped us off with a radio so we could get picked up later on. The area was unusually wet according to the locals. We walked up on a lot of water buff, but the terrain was much swampier than where we had been hunting. I weigh more than Dale and Bill. About the fourth time I sunk to my hips, I looked at Bill and whispered, "Please God, Don't let Dale kill a buffalo in here." Bill was so tickled by my statement he grabbed a tree to keep from falling down laughing.

The rest of the trip went quickly. Dale shot his second buffalo on dry land and the locals performed a corroboree (a dance that tells a story) for us. We really enjoyed the show.

You know you've had a great hunt when you want to return. I'd only known Bill for 10 days, yet I consider him one of my close friends. Within a month of returning home, Dale and I made plans to return to OZ and hunt with Bill the next year.