A big thank you to competition shooters

" Hi this is 'shooter' here, I'd like to book a lane in the 200m range this Saturday" I called the shooting range.

" We are sorry sir, we have the annual shooting competition and as a result all the lanes and ranges are for "competition only"."

I had wanted to go and shoot a bit esp. with the new Harris bipod that my guru  gifted me. Disappointed at not being able to go to the range, i decided to go hunting.

It was a great success and I shot a decent roe buck. (free range, unfenced)

Some pics of the roe and the lodge below. 


Two roe and a feral goat


My friend Justin with his gold medal Red Stag 


Trophies and Gold medal by the CIC


Another monster red


The professional hunter Tom At the Lodge


Pics of hunts and a monster fallow


Shooter with the roe. The rifle is savage 110 in .243 Ammo is factory loads 100 grain Winchester soft nose CXP2.



I was asked to report at 0300 AM at the lodge. This meant leaving home just after midnight; no problem since i cant sleep before a hunt anyways. 

When I get to the lodge, I find the owner up and ready. He asked me into the living room and offers me a coffee and starts to talk. Asks me about myself, background, how I got into hunting, discuss politics, weather, family, in fact everything other than the hunt  

Its now an hour since I get there and we are still just chatting. He probably notices my restlessness but keeps talking after another 15 minutes or so he says, he usually calls clients early to take them to the range to see if they can shoot ( a common practice in the UK) and also 'assess' them/ check them out.

He decides I am a decent shot and know a bit about guns and shooting. Plus he feels my hunting experience is sufficient hence I don't need to pass the test. Plus he says all 3 of his dogs like me and they don't like psychos so I'm OK.

So off we go to the high seat. I'm given a Roe deer call, much like a squeak toy (deer hunter friends will know what I'm talking about). They ask me If i can use it. I squeeze it and produce the high pitch sound. But there is more to it, I'm told. How to squeeze, how many times, what sequence and when. 

Well I didn't know that thanks; will try to remember all that.

First up in the High seat (machan) waiting without speaking a word for 45 minutes. Lot of slots/tracks but no deer. 
I realise why, Deer tracks are downwind to me. The Stalker comes and says we need to approach the deer from the other side. He asks if I'm OK shooting without a rest. "sure am", I say.

So we drive to the other side of the woods to begin the stalk from the other end.

During this drive, we pass through wheat fields. The wheat is knee-thigh high so we know there is no point looking in the fields.

Suddenly, we see a small speck 400-450 yards inside the field. The silhouette is unmistakably dainty-roe. Field glasses confirm a buck. Yes sir, that's our quarry.

But how does one approach a deer through flat fields without spooking it, esp these ones which are used to being shot at and are midway through the season?

We notice a clump of shrubs and a tree 200 yards inside. Keeping the tree between the deer and us, we approach. I suggest, I can stay behind the trunk and use it as a hide. The stalker thinks that's a reasonable strategy.
So slowly we approach; luckily no branch/stick to snap under my weight. 

On reaching the tree I notice there is a basin used as a wallow by the red deer and there is a lot of red activity activity in there: Tracks/slots etc.

We are now 200 yards nearer; the deer still 200 yards from us. The deer hasn't seen us yet. Not only that but he now has his back to us and walking away.

I use the tree trunk to steady my hand. Look through the scope calculating in my mind. The rifle is zeroed to shoot 2.5 inches-3 inches high at 100 yards. So at 200 will still get the engine room if i hold a couple of inches. But alas all I am being offered is a Texas heart shot and worse, the only backstop is the forest which means there is no backstop. Cant take the unsafe shot.

Then my guide shows me why hes the guide and i have so much to learn. He pulls out the deer caller and starts to call. 2 high fast calls SQUEAK SQUEAK. then 2 slow ones squeeeeakkk...........squeeeeakkk. 
The deer turns, comes looking for the "doe" more slow squeaks.

Its like the master calling his dog. Everything is fine, the deer is coming near and is now 120-150 yards and shooter gets buck fever (very mild). Oh come on. It will take half a minute for the surge of adrenaline to pass. Hope the deer holds still till then.

But no it does not hold still...........better still, it is walking right at us looking for the elusive doe. 
squeeeeakkk...........squeeeeakkk

Keeps coming it is now less than 80 yards away.And now 70. 

I am still, frozen,statue. Just the scope and I can't hear the squeaks or the stalker telling me its coming. (I didn't hear him , presumed he must be saying something along those lines). Cant hear the wind, the wood pigeon, nothing.

Just someone telling me this is 70 yards; your rifle shoots 3 inches high at 100, this is a roe buck, a small deer. Hold accordingly lest you miss completely or worse, wound with a non fatal wound.

I place the cross hair just at the lower sternum and squeeze.
The rifle cracks but i cant hear it. The guide says he heard the "thump" of a hit but i cant hear it. In the jerk and recoil and the nanosecond before losing focus, I see the buck 'spring' as they do when hit.
I know the bullet went home.

I reload immediately in a reflex and look through the scope again....nothing. No running deer, no dead deer.

The guide looks at me and says "you got him".

There are no yippees or high fives. I say thank you to him. We wait a couple of minutes and walk across the basin to the opposite lip.

The deer is dead in its tracks; where it stood. The bright read foam at the nostrils you can see in the picture telling us that we got it in the engine room and that it was a clean humane kill.

I touch the eyeball to check for corneal reflex: none. It is dead.

I told the guide I want to help carry it to the car. At the lodge, I butcher the whole carcass; the guide is sceptical , says its included in his service, but I insist I want to do it. I'm no trigger happy killer.
And yes please ill have the heart and the liver and the kidneys; this is not to be thrown away.

I then cut the meat into steaks and other various cuts. Followed by a breakfast of venison sausages.

Then the most boring part: the long drive back home. But once there, the last and the best part: cooking it and eating it.

Kill it
Clean it
Cook it
Eat it
Feed it (to others)

All my friends and fellow hunters are welcome to join me, if not in reality then at least in spirit. I dedicate it to my fellow hunters and this is made possible due to competition shooters at the range so a big thank you to you. 

Of rentals, rodeo, alligators and other ramblings

Many of my friends have asked me to share my experience of hunting so here goes:

Please forgive me for the lack of pictures since my camera was lost/stolen. the pics/videos below were courtesy of my friend Vince who took them and was kind enough to courier them to me.

After many months of anticipation, i finally landed in Florida. What brings you here sir? they asked me at the customs.

"should I say hunting?" I thought to myself.
"cant take any chances" I thought. Having been bitten by many people who have anti-hunting sentiments had made me twice shy.

"Miami beach of course", I told the lady. BINGO Right answer. "Welcome to the United States; Have a pleasant stay".

Good. Now to get to the lodge. The public transport in the USA isn't like the UK, plus the 'gas' is really quite cheap so everyone drives. Good. So get a car then but one problem, cant find the car rental counter in the airport.

WHAT In heathrow we have the car rental counter (in fact two of them) right next to arrivals. Cant believe it such a big airport and no car rentals.

We ask people but they point us to mixed directions. No boards indicating a car rental counter. I am cursing these people. How does one travel then?

I go to the ground floor and there are some numbers next to a phone for car companies. A security guy comes and says "Sir may ask what you are doing? Why are you calling car rental companies from here?"

That's all I need. Don't tell me i need to have a "random search".

But it seems i read too much newspapers.

He continued, "why are you calling the rental companies from here? Why don't you take the free shuttle to the rental terminal? The boarding point is 30 yards away from here. "

"Free shuttle to the what?"

"The rental car terminal" they have all the car companies there.

WOW this is America . A separate terminal for car rental. And i was comparing it to the measly 2 counters we have at heathrow.

So we get to the terminal for rental cars. Dozens of companies with total of thousands of cars available instantly (more if you want to wait).

So i choose an economical car. Nothing flashy. I'm not too fond of cars anyways.
After getting into the wrong side twice (left hand vs rt. hand drive in the USA/UK), I finally start for the hunting camp.
I spend the night in a Town called Okeechobee.Throughout the town, a common theme is Alligators. Restaurants serve gator steak, there are gator spotting tours. Gator teeth pendants, hat bands, gator hide cowboy boots in stores. Gator taxidermy heads for sale on roadside as souvenirs.

Lots of businesses starting with Gator.

The second theme was rodeo. Stores selling posters of rodeo heroes (whom i didn't recognise). Many had macho tag lines relating to rodeo. for eg: who cares about a collapsed lung? All I need is 8 seconds of air. And underneath is a macho cowboy.
Or with another cowboy who could be the first cowboy's dad and who looks -if that were possible- more macho than the young one saying "Who needs gym when you can pull your own body weight?"

The hotel staff enquire what brings a person like me (Indian , settled in UK) to this backwater sleepy town whose idea of tourists is people who attend the farmers tractor fair.

"hunting gators" I tell them before i can stop myself (must be the jet lag). I'm jet lagged but I am ready to defend hunting expecting to hear the usual reactions I get.

"how wonderful" The receptionist says."You have come to the right place. We have many gators around. Hope you have a nice hunt".
Did I hear her correctly? Anyways, I'm tired and need a good nights seep.

Next morning after a hearty breakfast, I'm having coffee. The chef comes to me and starts chatting and asks what I'm doing there. Emboldened by the previous nights response,i tell her I'm there to hunt gator. She starts saying how her husband is a hunter and how they need more hunters as there are more gators than humans in the sunshine state and how boars are a menace and need to be hunted more than what they are being now.

I then go to Walmart to buy the hunting license. There are 3 full aisles of hunting goods.There are guns on display in glass cupboards but the the shotgun ammo and airguns are kept on open shelves. I buy some hunting/shooting accessories too.

Finally I go to the camp and we are driven to the backwaters of the lake Okeechobee.

How would you like to hunt the gator? I'm asked by the guide.
How are there many ways? I ask.

Rifle or bangstick.

Now what people do is snare it, pull it till it is right next to the boat (2 feet away) and then hit it with a bangstick in public waters or with a rifle in private land. (Rifle not allowed in public hunts).

Bangstick is a stick with a mechanism at the end that holds a .44/.45 calibre handgun bullet or a 12 bore LG shell which goes off when it comes in contact with anything (a gators head, for example).

I DID NOT want to shoot it after it is snared. I wanted to hunt it with a rifle.

"sure" said the guide. Then proceeded as to why many clients do not use rifles:

As you are aware, even the biggest croc/gator has a walnut sized brain.
If it is swimming, one has to ensure instant death else it will dive and be lost for ever since no one will go to retrieve a carcass in bloodied gator infested swamp.
So it has to hit the brain precisely ie 2.5-3 inch behind the eye in the flat. Anywhere else and you lose the gator.

I wanted to wait unseen till a big'un is visible, then try to stalk close as possible and then shoot it.

Now the reason for stalking to 40-50 yards is so that the guide and team can run towards it as quickly as possible, then lasso it as quickly as possible because soon the other gators come in for the free dinner.

Also, gators don't get big by being dumb so the big 'uns don't take chances and scatter off on seeing us humans.

Having heard this, I was even more insistent on hunting with a rifle and stalking it.

So we go the edge of the backwater. There are gator tracks visible. They show me gator tracks and discuss sizes looking at the tracks.

"We cant let them see us" says the guide. So we lie in some tall grass/clump of trees and wait. I tell my friend not to come with me since i don't want too many people. More chances of someone moving or making a mistake. (Later I regret as my shot isn't captured on his camera and I realise this after I lose mine.)

Anyways I have my "petrol" (pepsi) with me so am ok with waiting. Various gators are swimming by. Now the most important thing a guide can do besides retrieving it for you is to tell you the approx size just by looking at the eyes of a swimming gator (the rest is not visible).

"This one is 5 feet" .
"no" I say.
Few minutes...........................

"see there that's 7 feet"

"lets wait for a bigger one".

Casey the guy with a guide and I are talking in whispers. I learn he is the local rodeo champ and so I know he is strong as a bronco.
"What are you eating Casey?", I ask.
"Ah chewing tobacco" he says.

"Oh" I say. I don't smoke, let alone tobacco.

"Its apple flavoured" he ventures. Somehow my non interest is read as curiosity by Casey. He admits the reason he isn't offering it to me is that it is really strong and that some clients in the past have thrown up having tried it. And the boss doesn't like clients having a bad experience.
"Its a man's tobacco. Strong" he jokes.

That gets me. "gimme some Casey"

"are you sure"?
"sure. I am a heavy smoker" I lie. "tried cigars and all" Just gave up a few weeks ago.

"All right then", he says. "you can have some but not much. If you feel pukish, spit everything out. Do not fight it".

"Yeah right", I think. "Casey is just pulling my leg". I put the tobacco in my mouth and my lord

It was like being in a centrifuge machine
"how is it?" asks Casey.

"not too strong" I say while thinking "man whats this? is it some drug? how can tobacco do this to anyone?"

Luckily I don't throw up. He tells me to spit out the saliva and not swallow it.

"THERE HE IS" the guide pokes me.

"Who" I ask. Then I remember we are lying in wait for a gator.

"I mean where" I say trying not to sound embarrassed.

"right there" he whispers. God, of all the times. I do hope my head stops spinning and my eyes watering. I spit out all the tobacco and try to look....... Nothing.

"I cant see him" I say. He cant point towards the gator since its too much movement. "Look 1 foot left of the tree. Do you see the branch? look 2 feet above it. See the black spot? That's him."

Then I see him. Swimming ever so slowly.Just his eye visible.
How big is he? I ask.

"Well he gotta be at least 10 feet".
Are you sure? I ask. To me the eyes don't look too big.
"Yessir, thats your gator." Take your time and remember to hit him in the flat behind the eye."

when told this one was a big'un, and knowing i couldn't miss even by a few centimetres, i got "gatorfever".
God this isn't my rifle. Haven't even fired it.

"don't worry he says" its very accurate. Its zeroed to 50 yards so will be flat to 60 (approx dist of the gator). Don't worry about the hold". Here use my fishing pole, hold it with your left hand. Use your leftwrist to rest your gun and fire."

Crikey. Ive never fired a gun in this position.What if I miss?
Someone in my mind tells me. "shooter get rid of these silly thoughts; you can see the flat, put the crosshair there and shoot".

Some how I know Ill hit it. So I ask them "I hope This .243 70 grainer wont spoil the trophy"

"Dont worry about the trophy.The taxidermist will fix it. Just make sure you get the brain"

Luckily this discussion helps the Adrenaline flow through and I am calm(er) now.

I put the crosshair 2 inches behind the eye and in the recoil itself, could see the gator belly up .the shot went home and you can see the gator turned over belly up in the video. Instant death within one second.

Hence the background voices of "good shot" in the video.

The pic of the Gator:



The rifle used was a remington 700 with 70 grain factory ammo.

The video:

It shows the time immediately after the shot when they are dragging the dead gator out of the water and as 'warned' by other hunters, i was asked if i would like to help.

We are dragging the gator out of the water.

As you can see, despite being dead and the buoyancy, it takes 2 to just drag him out. (One of whom is Casey the rodeo champ)

it took 5 to haul it in the truck.

in the beginning you can see me emerge from the right with a remi700 slung on my shoulder. i was behind the bushes.

furthur in the video, you can hear me saying 'i got buck fever in the beginning'.

The Demigod's nemesis

It was late. Too late for a seven year old to be up anyways.

The cold winter night was crisp and the stars in the sky bright.
The fire by which I was sitting glowed bright and the smell of wild boar cooking in yogurt, whole red chillies and spices wafted through the air.The beer in the men’s mugs was chilled and the shami-kebabs in their plates so succulent that biting into them was like biting into ripe grapes.

However I wasn’t in the least bit interested in the food. "The gang" had just gotten back from the hunt. The bag for the day was a wild boar, a sambar and a couple of hare. The "gang" was actually a group of friends brought together by their love of the outdoors and the shikar. In addition to the hunters, there were gun bearers, drivers, 'shikaris' or trackers/hunters. I always looked forward to these post hunt bonfire dinners and listen with rapt attention to their tales.

But today I wasn’t even paying attention to the hunt stories about the yardage of the shots taken
and the stalk or the spread of antlers or poundage of the boar.
I knew that an old shikari who had retired many years ago from Grandfathers service had accompanied them today 'for old times’ sake' and it was him who was keeping my mind diverted away from the stories and the food. Currently he was busy caping and butchering the sambar in the backyard and wouldn’t be available for another hour.

He was Deva, the demigod.
Demigod by name.
Demigod in looks
Demigod in strength
Demigod in courage
Demigod by reputation.
We kids had heard so many stories of his superhuman strength and courage that we only uttered his name with utter reverence. I had known him through many stories about him and wanted to see firsthand if he actually was a Deva, a demigod.


Being as patient as a seven year old can be, I whiled away time remembering all the stories I had heard about his strength.
At the age of eight he walked from his village to the castle 20 miles away and fascinated by the 'balls' kept near the cannon carried one of them back with him so he could play with them. When he found that it was actually a cannon balls (weighing 30-40 pounds), scared, if discovered, he would be punished, he ran back 20 miles to return them.


When Grandfather shot a tiger in a valley, he singlehandedly carried it on his shoulders, carried it a few mile climbed two hills all the way to the road there the jeep was parked.


Once, asked to scout for wild boar, he left at dawn on a bicycle and returned by dusk to report an area that held monsters...130 km away! On an old rickety bike on potholed back roads in 1960's India!


He was the first to offer to track a wounded big cat through high grass.


I had watched hard times/street fighter as I had heard the "gang" remark that Charles Bronson had a physique like Deva. (In the sixties Arnie and sly were yet to make their mark). And how when one watched him chop wood, which he could do by the wagonload, one could see the muscles rippling and one could use him to study human anatomy.


Well today I was finally going to see him in person.
"Deva is here, hokum-Sire", announced a servant, "he has finished his
work and wants to know if he may be excused."
Stepped forward a man initially only a shadow in the darkness. As he approached the fire, the shadow started to take a form. 6'2" with a straight back he was bare-chested and his body glistened in the
firelight with the beads of perspiration brought on by butchering the sambar. He still retained a six pack and the still muscular shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist. The aquiline nose, the handsome face; the eyes radiant in the reflected firelight, seemed to be on fire themselves. Only his white hair and weather-beaten skin and the creased face belied his years. But the creases, crow’s feet gave him a regal look and a character that looking at countless portraits of kings and emperors and nobility across the world, I have scarcely encountered. 65 springs he had seen and yet he stood tall and taut. His fair skin bronzed by 65 summer suns was made of gold in the reflected firelight.
Yes Deva was a demigod all right.
As the demigod bowed with folded hands to greet us, even at that young age I was aware of the irony fate had put him on the other side of the campfire.  

“You have grown sire”, he said to me his voice a deep baritone. Soon you will be old enough to shoot tigers yourself. You will be a great shikari.
“Will you accompany me Deva?” I asked.
“I’m an old man sire and not as strong as I once was but if that’s what you wish.”
“Deva I hear you aren’t scared of anything, that you can follow wounded man-eaters, you can wrestle wild boars and you aren’t even scared of stepping into the haunted enchanted forests at night”.      “Yes sire nothing scares me. Whatever is to be seen in the forests and life, I have seen and faced. Charging tigers, wounded leopards, poisonous cobras, accursed haunted ruins, the banyan tree which houses the 'churail', the Indian banshee.”
“What about the dark Deva, are you scared of the dark? And spiders and lizards?” the 8 year old
in me enquired.
“No sire”, he humoured me with a smile. “Not even the darkness or the spiders.”

“Well he isn’t scared of anything......except one thing...isn’t that right Deva?” Chuckled the gang.
“Oh that, please don’t remind me of that sire”, Said Deva.

Right then, there was a sudden metamorphosis in Deva. His eyes opened wide, mouth went dry, and hands were trembling. Was it the dancing firelight or did he suddenly develop a stoop? Was it just the shadows or did the eyes really lose their fire? The face got more wrinkled and weary. He was a demigod no more; just a scared old man.
The years of reverence shattered in a single moment. Deva, scared!!!
But then a sudden curiosity got hold of me. What can scare a demigod?
A wounded elephant, a charging gaur, the Indian bison? What is it Deva what could possibly scare you?

***

The year is 1960. North India. India is yet to be industrialised.
The forests haven’t been razed yet, the rivers not yet poisoned. The
tiger is still the king of the forest and the streams still clear, their water potable and teeming with fish and inhabited with thousands of waterfowl.
Man has yet to walk on the moon and let alone the internet, even the
television is unheard of in most of India. People still enjoy simpler things in life like hunting fishing and the outdoors.
Its a lazy day in an undisclosed location in north western India.
There is a gurgling stream meandering through deciduous woodlands and meadows. On its banks is a tree with one branch overhanging the river. Two friends, members of the gang are sitting on the branch, fishing lines in hand the tree giving them shade and the height protecting them from the swarms of ants, bugs and the hot ground beneath. Nearby is the shikarcamp with the food cooking and various members performing their chores.

Enters a young shikari, jet black hair slicked back. Beautifully tanned fair complexion, muscles rippling with the strength of the youth, broad shoulders, thick chest, and posture like he’s just swallowed a
tree trunk. The handsome face with the aquiline nose is smiling. He had left at dawn to look for tracks of a leopard and on his way back decided to bring the gift of fresh honey for his employer. He has been running for a mile but the movement of his chest, mouth and nostrils do not testify to the fact since they are hardly moving. The noble face, the broad forehead, the big eyes, the physique, the lion-gait somehow still look attractive despite the simple dirty clothes and the bare feet.
Yes this is Deva the demigod in his prime.


Sire, he says with folded hands, I’ve brought you fresh wild honey, the ambrosia fit for gods.
Thanks Deva, said grandfather, we'll eat it for dessert. Speaking of food, can you check if the cheetal- the axis deer is cooked and is tender.


Deva walks back to the burning fire and the cooker but is puzzled by the cooking vessel. It’s like a round box with the lid sealed shut. There is a long projection to one side which supposedly looks like a gripping handle and a small protuberance on top whose purpose he cant fathom. Too proud to admit he has been foxed, the demigod decides to observe the strange contraption. After all this looks nothing like the saucepans that millions of households in India cooked in.
If the demigod had received an education, he could have deciphered the markings on the contraption: Prestige pressure cookers.


Deva looks intently at the contraption wondering how to open it. Suddenly there is a hissing noise and hot liquid hits his face. Deva has heard of spitting cobras but surely one can’t be hidden inside the
contraption. No this liquid is just steam- and smells of the wonderful spices. Surely this is steam from the venison cooking inside. But the question still remains; how does one open the darn thing?        The demigod is again jolted by another hissing whistle. He is a forest man not yet touched by technology. His mind is simple, not used to applying principles of physics to understand gadgets. He can’t think with this hissing-whistling happening every minute.


Deva walks back to the overhanging bough. "I’m sorry sire, I’m unable to open the vessel".
"It's quite simple", says grandfather, not realising that Deva hasn’t even released all the steam "one needs to unhook the lid handle with the pan handle and then twist it"


"Aah, I get it now" says Deva and walks back to the fire. He unhooks the clip and tries to twist the handle.
Nothing.
It doesn’t budge.


Back he walks. “Sire, it’s still not opening.”
"Tch, tch Deva", S.B, affectionately called cancer by friends in the
gang, says "you can kick the ground and create a lake but you can’t open a mere pressure cooker lid! Put your back into it."


This, Deva understands. All his life he has worked believing the axiom that one can achieve the most difficult goals by the strength of one’s back and the sweat of one’s brow. So again he approaches the beast which is hissing a warning to stay away. This entices Deva. He has always courted danger.
The mighty hands strong as vices grip the two handles and pull.

Nothing.
The demigod is puzzled. This thing is stronger than it looks. Something is not right. He will go and show his masters. So Deva carries the 5 litre prestige pressure cooker to the tree but this time
he notices other staff of the shikar camp has followed him. They are all amused that the mighty Deva is unable to open a mighty pressure cooker. No one dare mock him but those stares and smiles do the job.


The demigod is touched to the quick. He is too proud to admit that he can’t accomplish a task that a mere cook can and that this small contraption is stronger than him. He will open this damn hissing beast right in front of the whole camp’s eyes, masters included.


By then a few servants and cooks have realised that he hasn’t released the pressure but decide to watch on as a joke knowing fully well that the pressure generated inside the cooker is so high that no man can overcome. The lid will stay shut.


But this is Deva the demi-god. He takes a deep breath, clenches his teeth and pulls. The handle is now bending but the lid still doesn’t budge.
People have begun to snigger.
The demigod holds a cloth to protect his hands from heat and now pulls and pushes with all his might invoking the name of Mighty Lord Hanuman, patron god of strength. The eyes close, the face reddens, the mighty muscles bulge the veins in them and neck standing out like cords. The back muscles spread out like the hood of a cobra, the neck muscles swell to almost touch the ear. Deva now utters a guttural sound. The primeval sound of strength, of superhuman effort that  transcends not only language and race but species and life itself.


There is a loud bang. The demigod can’t see. It’s all red. The people around him are screaming. Then the pain hits him. Has he burst a vein? Had a haemorrhage? Is this how he is going to die, checking if the venison is tender enough?


That fantastic show of strength by the demigod has overcome hundreds of pounds of pressure. The pressure cooker opens. Not just opens but the sudden pressure difference practically causes an explosion. He is scalded by superheated steam. Boiling oil in his eyes. Everyone in the
diameter of 10 feet is scalded. Spicy liquid in eyes, hot oil and steam burning soft skin and the robust Indian spices driven under high pressure into the wounds.
Only the gang is spared. Saved less by the height of the tree and more
by the boots and clothing they wear but still get their hands burnt.
The pieces of venison are strewn about everywhere on the ground in
dirt not fit for eating. Some pieces of meat have been driven on the branches of the tree
wedged into the bark have to be salvaged. Honey is used to dress the burns.
The camp sleeps hungry; 14 pieces of meat shared amongst the gang.


Nevertheless, he is glad to be alive.

***

Everyone by the campfire was laughing by the time the story finished but Deva was actually shaking recounting the story.


Is it true, I wondered that a demigod is scared of 'this'? As if to answer my question, the pressure cooker cooking the wild boar nearby whistles and Deva jumps in the air, startled.
He bowed quickly and beat a hasty retreat, his eyes never leaving the dreaded cooker.


I was told He never stepped near a pressure cooker till the day he died.

The demi god had met his nemesis.

The ram of the heart attack hill

I wish to share with my friends the story of my ram hunt.
I always wanted to shoot a corsican ram.  So I booked a hunt in USA and soon found myself nestled among the beautiful smoky mountains in tennessee.


"Be there at six thirty" , the guide told me. 
I calculated in my mind that it would be 2-2.5 hour drive to the ranch so woke up at 0400, got dressed (new camo and buck-yippee)  .


I started driving and it was as if the rain-gods had it in for me. Torrential rains like the monsoons in south india. Yessir, as they say in the south, thunder, lightening and the works.


Well since the americans drive on the right side and (hence the wrong side), i used to drive slowly there. So I figured, if i drive at the normal speed, i can make up for the 'slowing' caused by the rain and make it on time.


Well i made it on time all right but the rain there in the next county, was even worse. The owner of the ranch, his wife, son and the guide were all there to greet me. They had never seen an Indian-English hunter.  We spoke about different hunting practices and they were amazed at how we dress for shoots anf the amount we shoot here.


But seeing that it was raining, we had no option but to wait around in the lodge.


It was a typical hunting lodge with mounted game heads and all.


Would you like a drink? the guide J asked me. Sure, what do you have?
We have milk, tea, soda and iced tea.


Well, I wouldnt mind something cold.
Soda or iced tea?
Coke please, I said. "We also have iced Tea" J said.
I realised what he really wanted me to have. "Iced tea of course", I said.


Out came a jar. Thats right, a jar, like the ones we keep jam, coffee, and other kitchen stuff in.
When you go to 'hillbilly' themed restaurants in the south, they serve drinks in a jar. Little did I realise that people actually keep jars for drinking.


The tea was served in the jar and offered to me along with ....hail.
Yessir hail. I was tole they never got hail ; at least the young guide never remembered having seen hail in his life so collected it from earlier that morning and was 'sharing' it with me a fellow hunter.


So there I was, sipping iced tea with hail in a marmlade jar. "good stuff this" I said.


"Do you know," asked J, "there are places in this world where people dont drink iced tea" , looking at me as if he is parting with a well kept secret, his voice a mix ow wonder and amazement.


"The World   " I almost choked, but not wanting to shatter his world said , "There are places in the USA where people dont drink iced tea".


"I know he said" looking hurt.


Cant have a sad hunting guide i thought and tried to cheer him up "Do you know the famous tea company Lipton makes and sells iced tea and its even available in the UK"  
"Yessir" he said "but it aint like what mamma makes". Well fair enough, makes sense. "very true" I said.


By now it had been 3 hours of waiting and finally the rain stopped.


Realising i didnt have any blaze, i was given a blaze vest to put over my camo clothing (non camo blaze).


The place where the ram had been scouted in the pre- hunt scout was a hill called 'heart attack hill' (so named due to being steep and as a result a client many years ago had suffered a heart attack), and scout on foot.


Due to the hailstorm the animals had scattered into the valley below.Didnt see the ram for 3 hours of walking up and down the hills. When I did see him, he was beautiful; so majestic. But also a shrewed fellow. He had taken to following a small herd of deer and the deer having keener senses, ran away from hunters quicker. Thats why he got old. 
When i tried to stalk close, the deer saw/smelled me first and ran away and the ram followed. They ran up the hill. So we had to circumnavigate the hill and try to stalk them from above. Then they saw us from and ran down into the valley and onto the next hill.
Same thing repeated and they ran up the first hill. I once got close but there was a bush between us and the guide suggested against firing expanding ammo through brush. Finally after a couple of hours stalk, i took off the blaze and hugged the ground and crawled up to them, this time not stalking the ram but stalking the deer instead. 
Got a fleeting glimpse this time just as they were running off. Facing away quartering away. Bang went the savage 110 in .243 (incidantly i have this rifle at home). The ram disappeared over the crest of the hill.
The guide said he wasnt sure if the ram was hit. I said i am sure i hit it. any i bolt in another round and start walking. Just below the crest, the ram is sitting in a serene position. It saw us and got up but was struggling at its feet. I then saw the guts hanging out. 
Gut shot?????? Thats didnt make me too happy so ended the poor rams misery by shooting him straight in the engine room. On closer examination it showed that the bullet had done what i had intended. In from left flank to the right lung. The quartering away shot. The guts were herniating through the flank shot. I thought i had missed and shot through the lungs.


However, it was a satisfing hunt and i shall forever remember this cunning ' heartattack hill ram'.
Again i do apologise for the lack of pics (stolen camera) and thank the taxidermist for sending me the pic.
Heres a pic of the taxidermist holding his head prior to mounting.


Hope you like it.