Twin Elements · Hunting Stories
When It Rains It Pours: A Solo Mission Chital Stag From the Basalt Wall
The rain in North Queensland doesn't just fall; it consumes the landscape. Leading up to this trip, the skies had unleashed hundreds of millimetres of water, transforming the dusty earth into a sodden, vibrant green expanse. I had actually flirted with the idea of pulling the pin entirely, worried about getting stuck out west before my scheduled rut hunt with James later in the month. But with a sudden gap in my schedule due to client cancellations, I found myself loading the truck for a solo scouting mission to the Basalt Wall region. My objective was simple: scout for my business, Spotted Safaris, perhaps take a hind for meat, and just maybe, if the stars aligned, release an arrow at a mature Chital stag.
This one played out fast enough that I filmed a near-live account on my iPhone as it happened — you can follow the whole thing, in real time, on Ayden's Instagram Highlight.
From the Field
A sneak peek at Ayden's Instagram Story — relive the best bits here.
In This Report
- The Orange Shape and the Mega Mob
- The Bachelor Mob and the Giant
- The Crawl and the Shot
- The Prize and the Predators
The Orange Shape and the Mega Mob
For three days straight, the rain did not stop. It was a relentless, grey curtain that turned the low-lying black soil country into an impassable bog. I knew the topography well enough to know that hunting the swamps and low gullies would be futile; the water was ankle-deep in places, pushing every living creature up toward the higher elevation of the red soil and the basalt ridges. The strategy was dictated by nature itself: stick to the high ground where the deer would be seeking dry bedding.
The first morning broke with that grey, diffused light typical of the wet season. I had driven out from the homestead to a basalt ridge, keeping the wind squarely in my face. The evidence of the rut was everywhere. Despite the deluge, the stags were active. Every rubbable tree on the ridge showed fresh signs of antler thrashing. It was one of the best ruts the property owners had seen in years, intensified by the sheer concentration of animals pushed together by the floods.
I was moving slowly, my eyes scanning the vibrant green grass that was already a foot tall. About 800 metres out, a splash of orange caught my eye. It was perched on a log, looking entirely out of place against the emerald backdrop. It was not a termite mound. I popped my binoculars up and realised I was looking at a mature dingo, curled up on the log, trying to stay out of the wet.
Curiosity got the better of me. It was the first hunt of the year, and I just wanted to observe. As I stalked in, closing the distance to about 100 metres, I watched a young velvet stag walk within 30 or 40 metres of the predator. The stag caught the dingo's scent, stamping its foot in suspicion, but the wild dog remained unfazed, not even lifting its head to bark. It was a raw, quiet moment in the Australian bush that you simply do not see every day.
The Herd Encounter
But my focus shifted rapidly. As I moved past the dingo, ten hinds rolled over the ridge to my right. Then a stag joined them. Then another ten hinds. And another stag. Before I knew it, the landscape was alive with Chital. I realised with a jolt that I was not stalking a small family group; I was closing in on a mega mob of nearly 200 deer, all concentrated on this single ridge to escape the water.
The stakes had just changed drastically. Trying to slip in on ten sets of eyes is one thing; trying to ghost your way into a mob of 200 is a nightmare of probability. I was wearing my Numa 3L rain jacket, which was proving its worth by keeping me dry and warm without causing me to sweat in the 30-degree humidity. The heavy rain was actually a blessing in disguise; it dampened the sound of my footsteps on the basalt and seemed to suppress the deer's typically sharp senses. I managed to close the gap to roughly 40 metres, moving with agonising slowness.
Chital Deer Stags
The wet season means the rut in North Queensland — heavy rain brings on the green grass and cycling, oestrous hinds that drive the whole rut into gear.
For two hours, I sat in the rain at 30 to 40 metres, surrounded by deer. I would watch a hind stand up, broadside, presenting a perfect shot. My hand would twitch toward my bow, but then I would see another deer bedded directly behind her, or two more further back in the line of fire. My gear setup — a Day Six arrow with a 275 spine and a 150-grain Kayuga Zot broadhead — is built for penetration. I knew that if I sent an arrow through that hind, it would likely pass through and could deflect off a rock or hit another animal in the mob. Ethically, I just could not take the shot. I had to wait.
Eventually, the stalemate was broken by the dingo from earlier. Having rested enough, he decided to investigate the herd. It was fascinating to watch the dynamic shift; the deer began barking, a cacophony of 200 animals sounding the alarm. The dingo would chase them, lose interest, and walk away, only for a hundred deer to turn around and chase him back over the ridge to keep eyes on him. It was incredible behaviour to witness, but it ruined any chance of a clean meat hunt. I backed out, leaving the chaos behind to search for a more manageable situation.
The Bachelor Mob and the Giant
I executed a large loop, traversing the sodden country to target another high basalt ridge about a kilometre away. Through the drizzle, I spotted a bachelor mob. There were about 30 to 35 stags, a mix of everything: spikers, hard antler, velvet, broken racks, and cast stags. But even from a kilometre out, one animal commanded my attention.
He was massive. In a mob containing respectable 28 and 29-inch deer, this stag stood apart. It was not just the length; it was the sheer mass of his timber. He carried himself with the weight of a mature animal, and my eyes lit up. I have guided for years and derive huge satisfaction from my clients' success, but seeing a stag of this calibre sparked that primal hunter's drive in me instantly.
I watched them feed for half an hour, waiting for them to settle. They eventually pulled up on a level elevation of basalt and began to bed down. This was my window. I closed the distance from a kilometre to 100 metres, glassing the stag to confirm my initial impression. He was definitely a shooter, over the 30-inch mark, with symmetrical antlers, great inner tines, and distinct basal snags near his brow tines. He was a creature of a different calibre.
The wind was perfect, blowing steadily into my face. I identified a tree line and began my final approach, slipping into that hyper-focused state where the rest of the world falls away. I was not just looking at the deer; I was watching for the rhythmic chew of the cud. If a stag is chewing, his ears are relaxed and his guard is down. I prefer having a visual on their heads rather than relying on heavy cover because if I can see them, I can read them. If a head stops chewing and ears swivel my way, I freeze. If they are chewing, I move.
The Crawl and the Shot
I reached a tree at 30 metres. The big stag was there, surrounded by his bachelor group. I ranged him, ranged the cover, and ranged every potential shooting lane. Usually, I set up on the right side of a tree as a right-handed shooter, but two small velvet stags were bedded only 20 metres away on my right. If I drew my bow on that side, I would almost certainly spook them. I made the call to set up on the left, exposing myself slightly more to the distant herd to avoid busting the close ones. Then, the waiting game began. For an hour, I stood there, arrow on the string, release aid clipped on, waiting for him to stand. Finally, he rose. He turned broadside to scratch, and I drew. I settled my pin, ready to release. But in that split second, he stepped, quartered away, and then turned completely away from me. No shot. He walked ten metres further out and re-bedded.
My heart sank, but I did not move. I had to wait another 45 minutes for eight other stags between us to stand, scratch, and re-bed. Miraculously, they all settled slightly further away, leaving the big stag as the closest animal to me once again, now at 40 metres. However, he had not bedded near a tree. There was no vertical cover between us, just wet grass and basalt.
I glassed him carefully. He was lying on his right side, his head to my left, effectively broadside in his bed. I realised I could put an arrow right into his heart from an uphill position while he lay there. If I could not make that shot, I would not have continued, but the angle was viable. I decided to get closer.
“I dropped to the ground. The wet grass was silent. I took off my boots and socks, going barefoot to eliminate any squelching noise from my footwear. For the next 30 minutes, I slid forward on my hips and bum, keeping my profile as low as possible.”
I closed the gap to 20 metres. I could see his eyes through the grass. He was chewing his cud, eyes half shut, relaxed. The stags around us were dozing. I knew I had to draw without triggering the 35 pairs of eyes surrounding me in a semi-circle. I rose slightly from my hip to my knees. I pointed the bow at the ground and drew the string back, minimising the visual movement. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, I raised the bow. I found a tiny white dot on his chest that I had identified earlier as my aiming point. I settled the pin. The shot broke.
The Stag
Reward for effort — enduring persistent rains, all for the opportunity on a stunning Chital deer stag. Heavy, symmetrical, and mature: this is what we strive for.
The Prize and the Predators
Chaos erupted. White tails flashed everywhere as the mob scattered. The stag launched himself up and ran in a wide arc to my left. I watched him closely. He made it maybe 30 metres before crashing into the rocks. The shot was perfect, straight through the top of the heart.
The rest of the mob, confused by the sudden commotion, stopped at 70 metres and barked, looking back and forth between their bedding site and the fallen stag. I sat there for 15 minutes, letting the adrenaline subside and the mob drift off, before walking over to him.
He was magnificent. I found my arrow shaft snapped off inside him; it had done its job with devastating efficiency, breaking bone and destroying the vitals. He was an old warrior, with very few teeth left in his jaw. His antlers taped out over 31 inches, with incredible mass, 11-inch brow tines, and nearly identical symmetry on both sides. He was the kind of stag you dream about, a true representation of the potential of the Basalt Wall.
Field Recovery
I spent the next hour breaking him down, salvaging the backstraps, tenderloins, heart, neck meat, and the hind legs. The front shoulders were too damaged from the impact to save, but in this country, nothing goes to waste. I loaded the meat and the heavy skull onto my pack, the weight settling onto my shoulders as a reminder of the success.
As I buckled my belt, movement caught my eye. The mob of 200 deer was running again, about 800 metres away. Running through them were two silhouettes, the dingo from the morning, now joined by a mate. They were working the herd, displaying a brutal intelligence. One would round the deer up while the other sprinted through the middle, trying to panic the fawns into hitting the fences. It was nature in its rawest form, the stags clearing the fences with athletic ease while the predators tried to force an error from the weaker animals.
I dropped my heavy pack and closed the distance to watch. They did not make a kill this time, but they trotted down toward a creek line near a tea tree clump. Following them, I heard the crunch of bone. They had returned to the carcass of a fawn they had killed the day previous.
I stood there, torn. I admire the dingo as an apex predator; they are effective and intelligent. But I was only 300 metres from the homestead. The owners had poddy calves, dogs, and young kids running around. While I generally enjoy seeing them, having them this close to the house was a risk I could not ignore. I snuck in to 10 metres while one was distracted chewing on bones and put an arrow in it. It was not the same feeling as taking the stag, but it was a necessary act of management for the property owners.
Walking back in the rain, heavy pack on my back, I reflected on the last few days. From the frustration of the mega mob to the patience of the stalk on the bachelor group, and finally, the successful harvest of a 31-inch stag with a bow. It was a wet, soggy, unforgettable adventure in the north.
Wildlife & Scenery
A vibrant green oasis this time of year — wildlife such as dingoes, pale-headed rosellas, and wallabies all enjoy sharing the landscape.
About Spotted Safaris
This hunt was a scouting trip for Ayden's own guiding business, Spotted Safaris.
Based in the heart of the Basalt Wall region of North Queensland, we offer fully guided chital deer hunts across 70,000 acres of outback cattle station. Located just three hours' drive from Townsville.
Whether you're chasing your first deer or a representative chital stag, Spotted Safaris caters for both archery and rifle hunters, local and international. All experience and fitness levels welcomed!
Follow along or get in touch:
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The Adventure Continues
Join the Twin Elements team as they head back into the Australian bush for more solo missions and field scouting.
Want the full story behind this episode? Listen to the podcast or watch on YouTube.
Want to see how it unfolded in near-real time? Watch Ayden's Instagram Highlight for the semi-live account, filmed on his iPhone during the hunt.
