The Ravening

The day began like any other day. I awoke early and having completed my ablutions and had some breakfast I left the house to walk the dogs, as is my habit and theirs. That was when I first felt a prickling sensation between my shoulder blades and a vague sensation of being watched. Thinking nothing of it, thinking that it was just my imagination and that I was still trying to wake up properly, I carried on with my walk and returned home to pack my bag for todays planned excursion into the hinterland of Taranaki – camera, drink, a spot of lunch.
Before leaving town I stopped for a coffee and as I waited for the barista to finish his foaming, frothing, hissing, gurgling and steaming I again felt that sensation that I was being watched, assessed - weighed and measured almost. A small voice in my head whispered to me slyly, telling me to turn around, but again I shrugged it off and though nothing of it.
After an uneventful drive of perhaps half an hour I arrived at the chosen destination for this day’s photography and began to explore the wild hill country of the region, successfully gathering photographs of run down vehicles, dramatic countryside and wild animals both deceased and alive. Whilst photographing one of these old vehicles I again felt that sensation and this time the voice in my head was much more insistent in it’s demands for me to turn around. Coupled this time with a very real feeling of fear, a few stray beads of sweat upon my brow, I darted a quick look over my shoulder in time to see some leaves settling on the ground and the bushes on the road side opposite quivering as if with recent movement.
With my heart beating slightly faster and sweat cooling on my forehead, sure that I was now indeed being followed and watched, I got back into the car and with a reasonable imitation of calm and assurance, belied only by the slight tremor in my hands, drove on and through a tunnel to what looked like more settled countryside. Reasonably assured and beginning to calm down again, I stopped and decided to take some more photographs – after all, why should I let a little fright out in the wild stop me from the purpose of the days outing? I was just being paranoid, and probably needlessly so.
A short walk from the car I unslung my backpack and removed my camera, and raising it to my eye suddenly felt a jolt, almost a feeling of my eye being drawn to a particular spot on the landscape and of direct eye contact being made. Reflexively my finger depressed the shutter button, but not before the sweat broke out on my body and a feeling of cold fear took hold of my every fibre, filling me with dread certainty that I had indeed been followed, stalked, targeted.
Looking back it was probably only instinct and reflex that saved me that day as the beast crested the hill and launched itself into the air, fangs bared from its foaming mouth and lethally sharpened hooves flashing in the failing sunlight as thunder rumbled in the background and the first few drops of rain began to fall. I dropped to the ground, and not a moment too soon as a felt one of its hooves score a gash across my shoulders and heard it hit the ground behind me.
Rolling over I could see the ravening beast stepping toward me, head lowered and weaving from side to side as the scent of my blood filled the air, it’s baleful gaze fixed upon me. Filled with dread and fear, instinct and adrenaline now firmly in command of my body and mind, my hand darted into my backpack and grasped blindly for something to use as a weapon. My gaze was still firmly held by the beasts’ bloodshot and hungry eyes.
After what seemed like an eternity my hand closed over something hard and almost cylindrical and withdrew it from my bag just as the beast leaped at me again. In the blink of an eye I realized that what I had grasped was a condiment packed to go with my lunch, but it didn’t matter, it was all I had. Lying prone and vulnerable on the roadside I squeezed the bottle, ejecting a stream of mint sauce into the creatures face as it landing on top of me, fangs bearing down on my throat, temporarily blinding it.
As the wool-covered beast shook the mint sauce from its eyes I did the only thing I could. I wrapped my legs around is torso and tried to push it’s head away from me with my free hand. We grappled on the ground for what felt like an eternity and all the while I tired – the wound on my shoulder still bled freely and weakened me and the smell of my blood, now being smeared on the road under me, only served to enrage the beast further.
With a final surge of strength I managed to reach into my backpack again and remove the “do-it-yourself” kebab kit that I had packed for lunch. With a kick I managed to force the animal from me and it stumbled back, panting and clearly nearing exhaustion itself. I knew this would only be a short respite but it did give me the time necessary to connect the rotisserie, sharpen my knife, light a small fire and prepare a burrito wrap with aioli, shredded lettuce, olives, onion, gherkin, Italian dressing (I had no mint sauce left by now) and a few jalapeno peppers.
When the beast came at me again I was, although exhausted, wounded and bleeding, ready for it. I stood my ground and as it leaped into the air I dropped to the ground again. As it sailed over me, it’s shadow darkening my view, I stabbed upward with my tripod and pierced the soft skin and flesh of its belly. It’s hot blood gushed down and mingled with my own and it collapsed on top of me snarling, snapping, twitching and finally lying still on top of me.
Rolling the warm carcass off of me, now panting myself, I set to work with my knife and soon had the animal mounted on the rotisserie and slowly cooking over the fire. It wouldn’t be long now and I could eat, slowly beginning to restore my strength after a harrowing ordeal so that I could, hopefully, make it back to civilization and the help that my body sorely needed for not only the minor wounds sustained in the struggle, but also for the large one on my shoulder and the blood loss sustained.
I write this from my hospital bed where I am slowly recovering from my wounds and the mental trauma of the event, in the hope that it will serve as a warning to those who would go into the wilderness unprepared. I for one will never go alone again, and I have learned that I must trust my instincts and that nothing out there is truly as it seems. If I ever see a sheep cresting a hill in the wilds again I would like to think that I would be fully prepared and able to deal with the situation quickly and efficiently.
It has become my mission to rid the world of these ravening beasts, of their evil ways and their blood lust.
I am the Wool Gatherer.

Best viewed against the black - this is the last shot from our trip into the "back blocks".

15th September 2014 15th Sep 14