The roar has many facets and means many things to me. I’m going to list some of them in a pictorial
To me the roar means having time to shoulder a pack, pick up a rifle and head for country that’s not easily reached in a normal weekend trip. And means I don’t have to rush out on a Sunday afternoon for work on Monday
This huts within easy striking distance for a weekend trip, but where I stand behind the camera sure
as hell isn’t

To me the roar means to save weight on food the first deer gets it for camp meat

For me, time spent in the hills during the roar means popping over the hill to visit the neighbors.
They were out hunting but from their camp layout and gear I reckon they were a couple of old timers who’ve probably hunted together in the roar for decades. The meat safe was empty so I left them a couple of back steaks to enjoy

For me the roar means outwitting an old acquaintance who’s given me the slip before

To me the roar means basic fly camps so I can pack up and move, up onto the tops or further down the valley, or maybe over into the next, to take advantage of weather or animals. Mobility means
much to me.

To me the roar means strong black billy tea, venison steaks in the pan, and woodsmoke

To me the roar is a reminder that the seasons are changing, and the complacency of lightweight summer packs is to be abandoned

To me the roar means hot porridge on cold mornings, with sultanas, lashings of full cream milk
powder and brown sugar

To me the roar means getting 3 stags roaring on 3 ridges

And going after them, one

After the other

The roar means for me, stags brains. Soaked in a billy of salted water for a day. Drained, topped up with fresh water and gently boiled. Best eaten with fresh white bread

To me the roar is a time of interesting little interludes as one sits quietly and blends in with nature. Fearless in her innocence

To me the roar means anticipation, frustration, excitement, disappointment, elation and a host of other emotions, and can all be encountered within minutes of one another

And for me the roar is a time when I remember my Grandfathers. They weren’t hunters, but fought their way through the 1st world war. One in the searing heat of Egypt with the Mounted Rifles and
the other in the mud and living hell that was “the battle of Passchendaele”. Then 25 years later mankind was at it again and a further 40 million people died. They died so that you and I my friends, could live in a free world, as free men. Free to lift that heavy pack onto our backs, pick up our rifle
and roam at our pleasure in search of the thrill of roaring stags.
So every roar, with a lump in my throat, I remember my grandfathers, knowing that our debt to
them, and all the others like them, can not be measured, let alone repaid.
Thank you Granddad.

Great story. Don't know about the brains though. The back steaks are more like it.

Good story, well told.

You can keep the brains though, and if it is going to snow, put some long pants on.  Brrrrr

When you look in the dictionary under Hunter
the description should read Nimrod  

Ya right there Rod, go the ANZAC  spirit  

Good on ya nimrod, bloody good post mate

yep,yep,yep and yep
you can have the brains though.
tomorrow we give thanks for our freedom

What gave ya the twack between the eyes?
looks like you had a great time too my friend.
The camp meat has  stunning head gear  
Nice bone on the old fella.
You played cat and mouse with him before?

I too give thanks.  I was named after one of our family war heros,  He  was  the rear gunner with Guy Gibson in the Dam Busters Raid in 1943,  later killed in action, flew with the 617 squadron.

Have to agree great post and photo's, and I too had a mate that ate deer Brains . Not for me though!