The Hunter's Hunt

Hunter’s Log, Finals of 2014

5/14. Day 1. WB, India.

5.20 AM: We start from Jotirampur at first light. Tracker’s a local called Mulick, tho’ he pronounces it as Moo-lick. His first time on the Hunter’s Hunt, I think. A bit jumpy. “Tiger take man off boat two days ago,” he says as we check our equipment. “Jumps, catches, goes. No one do anything.” He insists we touch the feet of a wizened ol’ crone “for blessings” and stops at a little shrine to the local deity Bonbibi. “Tiger her enemy,” he says. “She keep us safe.” We cross the river on a boat that returns as soon as our feet are off it. “Scared,” Moolick explains.

7.30 AM: We stop for breakfast – puri and fish pickle – at a small, deserted shrine within the jungle. “Only monkeys come here,” Moolick says. He is right. One almost snatches my food off my hands. They don’t seem very scared of humans. “Not good to hurt them,” Moolick says while throwing some bananas into their midst. “They have Hanumanji’s protection.”

9.00 AM: The sun’s almost overhead and the heat’s incredible. Humidity in high nineties and both of us are sweating like pigs. Jungle is darker now, and so more mosquitoes and bugs. I slap on my repellent. Moolick prefers a squirt of elephant urine from time to time. Tigers don’t usually attack elephants, so I figure he’s not completely dumb.

10.25 AM: I call for a halt. Five hours of trudging though the Sunderbans and we haven’t come across a single sign that there’s a tiger around for miles. I ask Moolick if we are on the right trail; he assures me we are. The guy doesn’t have GPS on him but says confidently, “Two kilometres that way – where tiger took man on boat.” 

11.15 AM: Even my jocks are sweating now. Our stock of drinking water is starting to run low and Moolick decides to detour towards a fresh water spring. “Sea-water under us,” he says. I know that. You don’t set out on a Hunter’s Hunt round without due diligence. I figure we are far enough off the coast to avoid the slushiness that accompanies high tide, but the ground is soft and treacherous anyway. At one place, I even sank to my knees in the goo.

12.00 PM: Takes us a while to locate that spring. “Shifted,” Moolick says. I can’t imagine how that can happen, but I let it pass. Not in the mood for science, or what passes for science in these places. I keep my rifle ready – no hunter ever does otherwise during a break – and keep shooting imaginary bullets around us. It’s a Nosler M48, not the Ruger I’m used to, without the scope. HH rules prohibit scopes. It’s not a hunt if you can shoot from a mile away, is it? I tell Moolick I need to shoot a couple of times to get a feel of its pitch and accuracy. He tells me there are a couple of Forest Department outposts nearby, and I will have my chance in the evening, when we’d be too far away for them to bother with. Lunch’s boiled rice – cold and sticky – with a few slices of fish. I’m starting to miss chicken.

3.30 PM: The post-meal walk’s easier, especially with the sun behind us. Moolick finally gives me the green signal to try out the Nosler. I get him to mark an X on the trunk of an ancient tree and fire at it from ten yards out. It’s off by a fraction. It takes me a while to get it calibrated perfectly, but I have the feeling it’ll be worth it. A misfiring gun is as good as none.

4.02 PM: Fox spotted. A mite bigger than the one I shot at HH’s UK leg. I leave it alone. A man after a tiger does not waste his time on lesser creatures.

4.34 PM: We come across a small still-water pond and chance upon a few birds that we manage to recognize between the two of us. I take a few snaps to show off when I return. A distant roar sends the birds scattering into the air. “Bagh,” he says. It’s Bengali for tiger. Finally.

5.15 PM: Yes! Pugmarks! Finally!!!

5.58 PM: I have the feeling we have been going around in circles, plural, because some of the trees are starting to look too familiar. With the sun almost all the way down, we’ll have to stop soon. Madness to go after a tiger in the dark. My crown will have to wait one more night.

7.42 PM: It’s a rare clearing in the forest where we set up our halt for the night. Moolick’s clearly jittery as he walks around checking the perimeter defences. Nothing fancy – eight posts, with a couple of lines of twine running across, little bells on the lines to warn us if they are disturbed. We haven’t heard a roar since evening, but there was scat, a day old, about half an hour’s trot downwind, so we could be close. The sky’s a dark, deep black; the world around us a riot of night’s creatures calling out to each other. 

8.00 PM: Dinner’s a bunch of berries Moolick’s collected on our way here. This close to a tiger, we don’t want to risk cooking something the wind can carry away. 

8.20 PM: Daylight suddenly seems very far away, but it’s been a hard trek and I don’t protest when Moolick says he’ll take first watch. We’ll spell each other every four hours once, and then an hour each later. He doesn’t want the Nosler ‘cos he’s got a gun of his own, a pissy little country thing that will probably fire once or twice before jamming, but I reckon he doesn’t want to know, so I keep mum. I’m not sleepy and we make a game of guessing the animals by their sounds.

8.42 PM: A distant growl. Or maybe not so distant. For five minutes after, neither of us speak. I clutch my Nosler and wait for the bells to chime out, but nothing happens. He’s nearby, the tiger, I think. 

9.00 PM: I am starting to feel sleepy, so we wind down. I’m glad we have the special tent that HH provides – unlike Africa or Brazil, the forest here seems a lot closer, the creatures just that extra bit fearless. I lie down with my feet towards the zipper and my rifle just a hair’s reach away from my right hand. Moolick takes his station by the zipper, our knapsacks at his back just in case. In the closed space, the smell of his ‘tiger-repellent’ is undeniably strong; yet, it is also strangely comforting. An owl keeps hooting from a tree nearby. “Good,” Moolick says. “Owl silent if tiger near.”

5/15. Day 2.

6.00 AM: Late start, and by the time I am ready, Moolick’s prepping us up some breakfast. Guess he’s no longer as scared about a tiger coming to us than the other way ‘round. Wonder why he’s in the business, if he’s this scared all the time. 

6.30 AM: Breakfast’s something unrecognizable I don’t want to know the name of. Moolick tries to impress me with how he caught it, gives up when I make faces at the meat. I feel a little bad, but I’m not always a morning person, and I’m starting to get worried that I might fail. Second day on the trail, and with a light drizzle through the night that could have washed the tiger’s tracks, my chances are not any better. I promise Moolick a bigger bonus if I win before sundown. His eyes gleam greedily.

7.18 AM: “Rain in evening,” he says, pointing to skies that tell me nothing. “Birds flying to shore. Bad rain, heavy rain.”

7.26 AM: Pugmarks dissolved into slush. No more tracks. I convince Moolick to walk towards where we heard the roar last night. “Dangerous to go blind,” he says. He doesn’t know what winning the Hunter’s Hunt means.

8.04 AM: We stop for a break. Moolick tries to find out more about the contest – who organizes everything, how it happens, what do I win, everything. I tell him nothing. The less he knows, safer for both of us. Like everyone else, I take my HH vows seriously. Betrayal will invite swift replies from the members scattered all over the world, members used to power, privilege and the thrill of the hunt. Even a HH crown won’t be enough to protect me – I’ll never forget that.

8.15 AM: Moolick steps off trail to relieve himself. For a moment, I think I hear movement near us. Nothing, as it turns out. Wind is picking up now.

9.01 AM: Moolick starts talking about his family. I try to shush him a few times, but I realize it’s prob’ly his way of calming down. I don’t gather much besides that he’s poor and needs money to pay off a shylock. He talks s’more, but it washes over me. 

9.29 AM: We come to a stream bending south, towards the sea. Good spot to hunt – for tiger and man. We make out movement on banks further downstream, but this seems as good a place as any to wait for a while.

9.34 AM: Moolick almost gets gobbled up by a gharial! He’s scouting for the shallowest section to cross over when it charges at him from under some brushes. I fire a shot once Moolick’s clear. It slides into the stream and disappears from sight. Needless to say, we decide following the stream’s a bad idea. 

10.42 AM: Moolick shows me tracks he thinks are the tiger’s, but I’m not so sure. We’re about a mile in from the bank of the stream, but I don’t know if there’s another one closer. Between the drizzle and the tide, it’s a slog through the bog.

11.10 AM: An early lunch. Moolick tries to glean more info about HH, but I don’t tell him anything more than it’s a contest – like I guessed, it’s not a surprise to him. He wonders if HH’s into smuggling, so I tell him it’s purely a place for people like me who like the hunt, and the more dangerous, the better. I warn him it’s better to forget about HH because he’s an expendable cog, and he nods like he understands. I hope he has. If they can get me a Barrett for the rounds in   Europe and a Nosler here, there is very little they can’t/won’t do. I wonder if even I’ve told him too much. I really hope he keeps his mouth shut. Lunch’s a tin of pickled fish and some bread he had forgotten he had. 

1.22 PM: The sky’s 5PM-dark now, and the wind’s really rustling through. “Cyclone,” Moolick ventures. I ask him if he knew one was on the cards when we set out. He shrugs. Money, I think.

1.45 PM: Rain seems imminent now. We think we hear roars, but hard to tell ‘cos of the wind. We decide to stop on the highest ground we find and wall ourselves up with whatever we can carry. The tent goes over us like a roof, anchored between the walls with pitons. The ground seems more solid, so we hope it will hold. “Small storm,” Moolick assures me. “Over quickly.”

2.02 PM: It’s on us with a vengeance, like it’s the storm that drowns the earth. Our ‘roof’ billows out and in like it’ll fly off any second, and one piton even comes off the ground and cuts Moolick, but we manage to get it back on the ground before more damage’s done. Except for a faint green glow, no other light’s inside; I’m using a penlight to write this. I’ll have to switch it off after I’m done – no point running down the battery when we don’t know how long we’ll have to hold out.

4.00 PM: After soaking a tea-bag in cold water for almost an hour, there’s just enough flavour. We sip it in darkness and try to talk, but it’s too much effort to shout over the rain and there’s nothing we really want to talk about. Silence inside, banshees outside, seems like.

4.30 PM: We realize that the floor of our shelter is starting to get wetter. Moolick takes a flat-bottom pan and tries to pack the soil tighter so that it isn’t as porous. Works for the moment. Moolick makes paper carpets for us to sit drily as possible.

4.50 PM: Almost as abruptly as it started, the storm seems to be letting up. A bit brighter outside now, but it’s still drizzling and we don’t dare open the tent until it’s completely dry.

5.15 PM: Steady drizzle. Moolick thinks it should stop by six.

6.10 PM: Rain’s stopped completely. Quite dark outside. We decide to wait for a few more minutes before venturing out. Legs completely cramped up. Am thinking of time lost. 

6.18 PM: We’re just about to stand up when Moolick grips my arm tightly. In the silence, I hear it too. A low rumble. 

6.50 PM: So this is what happened. He was outside, right outside the shelter, and if Moolick hadn’t stopped me, we’d’ve walked right into him. He circled the shelter a few times, even started to climb the wall once – we thought he’d fall through – but couldn’t find his way in. Seemed to know we were inside. Nothing for the past 10 minutes, has he left?

7.30 PM: Both of us need to pee, but there’s no way of knowing if the tiger’s still outside. We could do it indoors, but it’s gonna make it unbearable pretty soon. 

7.32 PM: Necessity’s mother of invention, huh? Moolick stands next to me and lets out a moan like he’s injured. We figure if the tiger’s still around, he’ll try to enter once again. I have my gun ready. Not the best way to win the HH, but it’s better than losing.

7.40 PM: We don’t think the tiger’s outside anymore. If he was, he’d’ve rushed in by now – we even imitated the bleat of a goat. One more try. 

7.42 PM: Nothing. The jungle’s so still we’d hear him if he was nearby. We decide to go out, Moolick with his pistol and me covering him with the Nosler. Moolick pulls out a pair of masks and we wear that on back of our heads. Why leave things to chance?

7.52 PM: Something’s killed the tiger! Something big!

8.00 PM: We’re back inside the shelter, the tent drawn tightly across the opening on top, sealed off from the jungle and whatever it’s that killed a 500-lb tiger like it’s the easiest thing in the world. We’re shivering. Not often you see a beast like that discarded like a broken rag, it’s innards ripped out, limbs and head intact, coat raked by claws too obvious to pass for a knife or a spear. I ask Moolick what could have done this. He shakes a white face. Refuses to answer but sits, knees drawn against his chest, mumbling a prayer to whatever God he believes in.

8.20 PM: I ask him if it’s ‘Bonbibi’ and he shakes his head. “Bonbibi only protect, not kill,” he says sharply. “Even tiger. Animal and man, all under Her protection in forest.” Lapses into silence again. We wait for the rumble, the snapping of twigs, anything, to tell us the beast is back. But in my heart of hearts, I’m not sure we will. We didn’t hear it the first time either, did we?

9.00 PM: We daren’t even eat for fear that any smell of food will draw the tiger-killer. We take sips of fresh water, knowing that we’ll run out before dawn, and that we’ll have to pee if we drink too much.

9.30 PM: We make plans for the next morning. “Closest village five kilometres from here,” Moolick says. “But checkpoint there. We take no gun.” I agree, but I think he senses my reservations. I need to return the Nosler to the contact who provided it, those are HH rules. Besides, I’m hopeful of finding another tiger closer – ‘tho that’s useless without a certificate from the tracker. Tricky sit. Like last night, he takes first watch; I’ll relieve him at 3.

5/16. Day 3.

3.45 AM: Moolick’s fast asleep, but I doubt not much better than I did. The tiger died many times in my dreams, each time killed by a creature more horrific than the previous version. I keep checking my rifle every few minutes. I’ll be lucky if I can get off a shot; I’ll have to be even luckier about making it count. I jump when an owl lands on the tent-roof, but it soon flies off with a hoot. I fight the urge to make a peephole – a tiny, really tiny one. Not knowing is horrible. You imagine the worst...

6.00 AM: Dawn arrives, and not too soon. I’m almost convinced there’s no predator, that the tiger was probably dead of natural causes elsewhere and its carcass washed towards us by the rain. I should wake Moolick up, but I’ll let him sleep a little longer. 7’s better than 6 to venture out.

7.15 AM: The first thing we look out for is the carcass, and it’s gone. Slid over the mud. Silently. My hand refuses to stop shaking. I am gripping it with my left as I write this. 

7.25 AM: “We leave now,” Moolick says. Explains: “Animal feed on tiger, so not hungry to come after us. We make maximum distance now.”

7.35 AM: We almost leave the tent behind, but I tell him we might need it in case we get caught in a cyclone again. We go off in the direction opposite to where the tiger was dragged. I can’t shake the feeling we don’t escape unnoticed.

12.13 PM: We’ve walked non-stop, and without food, and finally my strength runs out. Moolick refuses the halt, says the village is just an hour away. I tell him I need to eat something. We argue, but he gives in to my promise of the bonus. I wonder if I can convince him to smuggle the Nosler into the village, maybe bribe the wardens or something. I don’t want to lose the rifle unless I have to. He goes off to gather some wild fruits just off the trail. 

1.40 PM: I stop running to vomit, but it’s a dry heave because there’s nothing to bring up. I don’t know if I’ve put enough distance between me and whatever it was that killed Moolick, but every time I blink, I see his body at the foot of the tree, bloody, eviscerated, death too quick to close his eyes, and it drives me even further away from that place. The thing had watched me, I know that. A drop of blood had dropped on Moolick from above; that’s when I started running. 

1.42 PM: I should start again, but fear’s gripping me again. I’m lost, and I don’t know if I’m turned around the way I’d run, and if the next burst of speed will take me closer to the beast instead of away from it. There’s a diffused glow where the sun should be, and I’m guessing it’s West and I need to head North. The gun seems to weigh a ton, but there’s no way I’m letting go of it.

1.45 PM: I decide to head north-west. I consider finding a stream and following the bank, imagining a bit of clear space all the way that’ll help me spot a charge from the beast, but I know that’s a foolish hope. In addition to the jungle prob’ly growing close to the water, I’ll need to keep an eye out for gharials and other animals that’d wander down for a sip. Within the jungle, it’s more likely that I’ll mainly need to watch out for the beast.

2.30 PM: I’m lost.

3.15 PM: I reckon I’ve got a couple, max three, hours of light left before I’ll have to buck down for the night. But the wind is rising ominously once again, and I doubt if I even have two. God, this is fucked up!

3.56 PM: I reach a slight hillock that rises above the jungle around me, lets me survey the horizon for miles in every direction. It’s good ‘cos I can get a fix on my destination – a distant plume of smoke, civilization, a village, anywhere but this godforsaken jungle. It’s also bad, because I don’t remember seeing this geography on our way in. I have no clue where I am.

4.00 PM: Thunder rumbles in the distance. I burrow in my backpack and fish out the binocs and train them on the smoke trail. Seems to be about 3-3.5 miles away – I have an hour at the most to make it, and that’s assuming there’s no nasty surprise en route. 

4.02 PM: I’ve seen it! The creature of my nightmares, and none of them came even close! And it’s in a clearing about a mile from where I stand, right in the straight line between the smoke and the hillock, feasting on something. I catch a glimpse of green. Moolick had been wearing green.

4.05 PM: With its head bowed, there’s no way of telling how tall or big it truly is. It’s greenish-yellow skin shines, like it’s an exoskeleton, and the side of its face glistens with teeth that look sharp even at this distance. The muscles seem to move with almost fluid grace, and I know even if I haven’t seen them that the limbs must be capable of such violent, unstoppable force as I’ve never seen before. I can understand now how the tiger’d been killed. I assume that’s why it’d even turned a man-eater, because it was no longer the apex predator of this jungle. This beast was.

4.21 PM: I have lost time, but I’d like to think it’s worth it. I know more about the creature now, and somehow that’s made it less scary, more... huntable. It’s about the size of an adult Asian elephant, a quadruped walking with vulpine overtones, with powerful limbs that can propel it into a jump twelve feet high and fifteen feet across, at least. A mile away... without a scope, it’s an impossible shot.

4.24 PM: It vanished from the clearing, only to appear on another closer to me. It keeps sniffing the ground, and I’m relieved because it couldn’t be my scent it was tracking – I don’t recognize the clearing. I move my binocs back and forth in a line connecting me to the beast. There are a few more clearings dotting the surface between us. I wonder... the Nosler’s a good rifle. Am I just as good?

4.35 PM: The beast has now moved into a clearing that’s within range of the Nosler, at least theoretically, but I want it to be closer before risking a shot. At this distance, even aiming down the sights a hair’s breadth off target can make me miss, and I don’t want to miss. Can’t afford to.

4.45 PM: Missed! I had him in my sights, but he moved at the last instant, and the shot exploded in a puff of bark from the tree next to him. Other preds would have run away; he regarded the jungle around him. I moved away from the edge. Not sure if he saw me. Not sure if he didn’t.

4.50 PM: He must have seen me, for he’s now making his way to the hillock I’m on. I catch glimpses of him through the tops of trees, but he’s moving too quickly for me to take a shot. I don’t want to run out of ammo. I don’t want to jam the rifle. I know he’s coming for me.

4.52 PM: This might well be my last entry if I don’t kill him. I’m about to climb a tree across the top of the hillock where I expect him to appear. By my math, he should be here within a few minutes of me getting to the branch I’ve picked out, a stout limb ten feet off the ground. I’m glad I have the pitons with me – it’ll help me climb that much faster. I have my Nosler slung across my shoulder and the ammo in its pouch on my belt. The light’s fading. The wind’s picking up, but at the distance, I doubt that’ll skew the bullet much. I chant the one mantra that I know’ll keep me going. That thing might be a killer, but I’m a Hunter. And this is my hunt.