hunting with Steve

A Goat hunt with Gerrit

2011-01-20T16:27:00.008+13:00

Gerrit is on holiday and celebrated his 56 birthday not so long ago. One of his presents from his wife Evelyn was to be a days hunting with me. We decided on a goat hunt and duly set off from home at o7.00hrs. on the 17Th January.
We planned a full leisurely day with day packs filled with lunch and snacks. Gerrit has little experience of hunting but wanted to taste the Kiwi way of doing things.
We arrived at out destination and headed into the hills. The rest of the morning was spent climbing high into the bush. There was scant sign around and the scrub was wet after a night of rain. We topped out at 11.30 and goat droppings became common on the animal trails we were following.
A series of bleating off to our right caught our attention and we slowed to a halt. Unfortunately the wind was blowing behind us and the scrub looked impenetrable anyway. So we decided to climb a little higher and skirt around in a semi circle to look for more accessible country on which to drop down on our quarry A series of bleating off to our right caught our attention and we slowed to a halt. Unfortunately the wind was blowing behind us and the scrub looked impenetrable anyway. So we decided to climb a little higher and skirt around in a semi circle to look for more accessible country on which to drop down on our quarry.......We spooked a black and white nanny shortly afterwards and the last we saw of her was here white backside markings bobbing in and out of the trees making her steep descent into another catchment.
Thirty minutes later we found what is best described as an eyrie. It was an open area about 10ft by 4ft. It was situated right on the edge of the bluffs with a fearsome drop straight down on the rocks below. It gave us a tremendous view of the surrounding countryside so we decided to stop awhile and do some serious glassing. A few minutes later I spotted a large Billy goat some 5ooyds away feeding on a grassy slip. We watched him for a few minutes until he ambled off the slip and sought the sanctuary of the cooler bush. It was by this time around noon and although we could hear bleating quite close by we were more inclined to rest up and chew on some energy bars.
The sun beat down relentlessly so I suggested to Gerrit if we found some running water it would not be a bad time to have a bite to eat and cup of tea.
We made our way off the bluffs and down into the bush until we found a nice shady spot by a stream. We wiled away the afternoon talking about this and that and enjoying the peace and tranquillity of our surroundings.
At four thirty it was time to climb the spur away from the creek and go find an evening goat or two.
Five thirty saw us atop a large flat rock with a commanding view of the open areas around us. It wasn’t long before a nanny and two kids appeared on the bluff terrace directly in front of us.
I asked Gerrit if he wanted to take a shot and he nodded in the affirmative. The range was 201meters. We laid our day packs on top of each other to provide the rest he would need.
With fingers firmly in my ears I said fire when ready. At the sound of the shot the nanny and two in toe bolted across the face....a miss I called to Gerrit. They slowed and the nanny came to a halt...try again I urged. At the sound of the report I could see the goat was hit. It stumbled but then surged forward and then was lost to view in the bush.
We waited ten minutes and then I gave the good news to Gerrit that we were going to climb up into those bluffs to find the animal.
Around forty minutes later we edged across the narrow ledge the animals had taken in their escape and were nearing the bush where we had last seen her disappear into we then heard her anguished cries. We hurried on and despatched her where she was lying up.
The initial shot we found was a couple of inches back from being a good shot.
The rifles zero will need to be checked.

Hunting with Erich

2011-01-04T16:13:00.004+13:00

I received a phone call from Greg and it was from London asking if we did guided hunts here at Tripletui. I replied in the affirmative. He went on to say that his girlfriends father Erich was a keen hunter in his homeland in Germany and that as he and his wife Inga would be joining Greg and Stef in New Zealand for Christmas it seemed as if it might be a good idea to include a day hunt as a xmas pressie. We discussed rates and the time Erich would be allotted and the fact that Erich was really keen to experience the Kiwi way of doing things and was not necessarily expecting to shoot an animal.
I explained that at this time of year a night camp would be necessary and that obviously I couldn’t guarantee an animal. I could provide all of the gear that he would need for the trip however. So it was agreed that they would bring him down at midday on new years day and pick him up at midday on the second.
Erich would be from what I have read and been told by Gregg would be the typical European hunter who is steeped in the traditions of hunting and is very respectful of the animals that he hunts. On meeting him I was impressed by the firm handshake and steady eye contact both went a long way to convince me that I would enjoy this man’s company over the next 24 hours.
We rummaged through his clothing and I advised him what to bring and what to leave and we left the property at around one p.m.. The journey passed quickly with Erich filling me in on his general hunting history and way of life in Frankfort. He spoke excellent English.
Three or four hours later we were looking over a tussock clad valley and pondering our next move. I was keen to traverse a few more ridges before making camp and although Erich was nodding his agreement I nevertheless sensed a reluctance in him. I said hey Erich we don’t need to go that far if you think it is too much for you. I would much rather you tell me now that you think it too far than for you to collapse on me further down the track. We can always set up camp here and go hunt the other side of the spur across from us. He seemed to warm to that suggestion so we scouted around for a camping spot and set up our fly and laid out our sleeping bags and generally made camp.
That done and daypacks filled we dropped down to the creek with our water carriers and filled them and left them there for our return. We then carried on up the other side of the creek through waist high tussock and flax to a bush spur leading diagonally out of the valley and up to the exposed tops.
After about forty five minutes of travel we sat down on a small bench with a great view of the opposite side the valley. Erich took off his boots and socks and we spent the time taking in the vistas and glassing the surrounding country. Above was a series of tussock, flax and scrub gullies merging with the main creek and ascending to the unseen tops. Below was the undulating bush line. There were large areas of scree and tussock above this. The sun was behind us and lowering at the end of a long day highlighting the ground to our front . High above the cloud was scudding across the sky propelled by the 60km winds and mist was beginning to eddy down from the tops.
Flowering flax were everywhere and with it were the busy Tuis. They kept us entertained with their flying antics and melodious chirping. Their colourful plumage enhanced and highlighted by the strong light was spectacular and engrossing.
As time went on and the shadows lengthend the insidious mist was more prevalent blotting out the landscape above us at times only to rise and clear moments later.
I was glassing the shadows of the bush line below our position when Erich tapped me around the knees and pointed in the direction of two animals making their way out of the creek above us onto a scrub filled spur.
They were chamois. We exchanged the Lecia 8x20 binos a few times as the animals climbed steadily and away from us. The rangefinder initially called the range at 260 meters. I asked Erich if he wanted to shoot or if he wanted to stalk them.
He said he would like to stalk and if we didn’t get them then so be it. The second animal took an age to disappear from sight and we waited patiently finally he disappeared into the shallow gut.
Erich meanwhile was struggling to get into his boots and socks. Eventually suited and booted we then dropped down into the creek and the plan was use it for cover and to mask any noise we might make. The curtain of mist fell again dropping visability to sixty yards or so as we laboured upwards.
Some ten minutes or so later after climbing numerous small waterfalls I was slightly in front of Erich and I came to a halt. I could vaguely make out a shape up ahead that looked very much like one of our boys. Sure enough as the mist parted the animal could be seen on a small rock browsing with his head facing up hill and away from us. I quickly took off my day pack and laid it just out of the water in the creek bed and beckoned Erich up to where I was standing. No matter how he positioned himself he couldn’t make out where the animal was and couldn’t find a comfortable position to shoot anyway. The minutes ticked by as I desperately tried to get him comfortable and for him to take in the chamois form.
I lay down alongside him and repositioned the pack he then rested his left elbow on my back [he his a lefty] and sighted in on the animal I plugged my ears with my fingers. Upon the shot I raised my head in time to see the chammy peal of the rock face and drop into the creek. Meanwhile Erich had ejected my prized Lapua case into the ether and was ready for the follow up. The recoil had disturbed his sight picture and he hadn’t seen what I had.
I reassured him that the animal was down but even so it was two tense hunters who climbed up to retrieve the prize and it wasn’t until we were almost on top of him that he materialised into the inert form of our hopes.
A broad grin crossed Erich’s face and I congratulated him on his fine shot and humane kill. We took the backsteaks and 8 1/4” hooks a fine representative head for someone who had not even seen one before this day. I will organise the bleached skull look and ship it to Germany when it is completed.
A quick photo shoot in the gloom and it was a hurried departure as the night was closing in quickly. We arrived back at camp tired but satisfied in complete darkness.

Markhor Eterlou 45 Litre day pack....Review

2010-09-02T11:15:00.010+12:00

40 Years ago a day pack to me would simply mean a Pikau. The very simplest of which would see a hessian sack being utilised. Two small stones placed in each of two corners. A length of string tied into a knot around the stones, and the remaining string looped around the top of the sack.
There is nothing wrong with that set up today either, for the bush hunter. The alpine hunter on the other hand requires a bit more out of his daypack. He carries far more in the way of gear and is therefore more than often away from his base camp for longer periods. Two essential items I first look for in a day pack for alpine environs are a means to hold water and a rifle scabbard.
Being at times a long way from water the first consideration is a water bladder which means in our pack we will need a pouch to hold it.
If you are a chamois and Tahr hunter and consequently find yourself in very steep country at times then a scabbard is a might handy piece of equipment to have on your pack also. There are often occasions when two hands are necessary for climbing and although a rifle can be slung it is never comfortable and constantly moves around and therefore snags more easily. Also if you do a lot of hunting in winter as I do there will be times when you will be using an ice axe whilst negotiating steep icy terrain. This is where the scabbard really comes into its own. In the event of a fall [heaven forbid] the scabbard again is preferable to a slung rifle.
The pack ideally must be as light as possible for we will be carrying it and all of its contents for considerable periods of time. Of course it must also be comfortable with all the necessary adjustments and padding needed to provide that comfort. The outer finish is important too, we don’t need materials that scratch and scrape to alert our quarry. Lastly some thought on compartments and pockets that are user friendly and designed for the Intended use.
Although weighing in at a hefty 4lbs my choice of pack has to be the Markhor Eterlou 45litre. Ideally I would have preferred a pound or two lighter in my day pack but as an all over package I don’t see anything currently on the market to equal it.
Its nearest rival would be the Eberlestock X1A1 but that is heavier still, it does not have a top lid [unless you pay extra] it already is a lot more expensive. It did not have the same amount of user friendly pockets and compartments and it was 10 litres inferior in volume. Pretty damned important when you are transporting that trophy Tahr head and cape down a precipitous slope
The Markhor is a sturdy, quality made pack the finish is a 100% Polyester “silent” material, finished in a cammo real tree hardwood colour. It is pre equipped for a hydration bladder and also boasts a rifle scabbard. The lack of an ice axe loop was a minor hindrance, however for the price I would have liked this to be integral. A short trip to my local saddler solved this problem.
What I like is the fact I can mount my two Buck folding knives on either side of the hip belt which means I can draw either without having to take my pack off. I like also the two elasticated pouches low down on the pack on either side at kidney level. This is an Ideal place to store your camera and compact binoculars or ammo pouch. Again these can be accessed without the need to take off your pack. There are two zippered pouches on the hip belt also. I have yet to find a use for them. Low down centre back, and you will find the zippered compartment that houses the pouch that cradles your rifle. Further up the pack at centre and three quarters up are the padded straps that support the stock of your rifle. Still lower on the pack is yet another zippered compartment and this houses the waterproof cover that fits over the pack in a deluge.
On either side of the pack at shoulder blade level there are two oval flat Zipped pockets of small volume that would be ideal for maps and compass, gloves, spare ammo etc.
The lid is of generous proportions and again zipped. There is an orange bag also that can be fixed on the lid via Velcro and tie downs and acts as a safety option. The main compartment can be annexed off with the integral draw cords if needed and there is access to the lower compartment from the outside via a zippered compartment. Using the full main compartment recently I found it handy to transport my bull Tahr head and cape out in comfort. The chest strap has an integral whistle in the buckle what for I don’t know, but its there.
The one thing I was not too happy with was the scabbard pouch. I found it to be too flimsy in its construction. Whilst returning back through very steep country on a recent Tahr hunting trip the pouch was constantly getting rubbed against rocks and scree and looked quite thread bear after only three days. This again was addressed at the saddler the same time as the axe loop and the inside of the scabbard pouch was sewn with a heavy duty canvas the price was $40.00. Still cheaper than the nearest competitor! All in all I am very pleased with my purchase. I should like to add that is a totally independent review without any material gain.
As a foot note to this article the New Zealand importers John Vaughan & Co. have Advised that the manufactures have agreed to strengthen the pouch after this article.

International gear manufacturers often under- estimate the toughness of NZ conditions. -

At a Glance Specs.

Top of the Line, High quality pack- Fully Adjustable harness- Camo Realtree Hardwood colour- 100 % polyester "silent" material- Mesh back for ventilation- Rifle Holster with 'Butt Bag'- Pre equipped for a hydration bladder- Fluoro Orange Top cover (removable)- 2 Large Side pockets + detachable Scope bag- Large multi compartment pocket on rear of bag- Pocket on waist strap- Waterproof zips- 45L Capacity- Chest strap with built in whistle- Waterproof.

Footnote;

I have since used this pack in the bush a couple of times and I.M.O. I find it not suitable at all. The waterproofing strips alongside the zips have worn away already and the ties attatched to the zip pockets constantly get snagged on scrub whilst pushing through which result in the pockets opening and a very high possibility of losing the contents.

It still is my number 1 alpine pack, but is retired from all bush work.

Two Winter Skins

2010-07-21T10:03:00.005+12:00

My eyes were open at 3.15 a.m. I spent the next hour alone in the darkness waiting for time to tick by. At 4.30 I got up and dressed and went down and crammed some breakfast down my neck. I later filled the sheep manger with a bail and let the sheep into a fresh paddock. I opened the gate for the cow so she could access the two bails of hay I had put into the covered yards. It was about 5.20 when the Nissan slipped off the property with lights on full into the blackness of the night.
There was not much traffic on the roads at that hour and it took me an hour and ten minutes to complete my journey to the road end. It was still dark as I released the straps on the trailer that were securing my quad and with motor running eased her in reverse onto the hard ground. I secured my pack on the back and slung my rifle on my back and eased the Honda out of the car park. I negotiated the farm tracks and had to dismount occasionally to unhook the electric fences to proceed. Eventually after a while I entered the bush and that is when I heard a slight grating in the left rear wheel and that was only a short time before the wheel fell off.
The daylight was still in its embryo stage but the light was enough for me to assess the situation and to my utter disbelief I discovered that all four nuts holding the wheel had disappeared into the night. My mind raced back two weeks to the time I had had a puncture and taken the wheel to town to be fixed and obviously when putting the wheel back on I had failed to retighten the nuts after taking the jack away. Bollocks.
I shouldered my pack and started the long walk back to the car park with the intent of bringing down the car and trailer and somehow hoping I could get the quad back on board the trailer. On reaching the car park I was about to leave with trailer in tow when I spotted the station owner. I hailed him and told him of the situation. He replied that he might be able to find some spare nuts in the work shed and told me to hop in and we would both have a look. I was amazed at his response and very grateful that he was offering me his time. He ended up taking four nuts off a vehicle that was parked up and we left for the sick quad.
In no time the wheel was back on and instead of me returning home with my tail between my legs I was pursuing my journey over the rutted bush track on the first leg of my journey. I left the station owner with the promise of me posting down to him four new nuts on my return home. “Just have a good trip” he said. Some ninety minutes later I parked the bike up and hoisted on my pack and started the second leg of a journey that was to take me the better part of six hours to complete. It was mid winter but the track was clear of the white cold stuff it was instead clinging to the high tops of which I would occasionally glimpse through elevated open spots on the track. I would be up there this time tomorrow I thought idly with any sort of luck and I would fulfil the mission of either a good set of Chamois horns or a good skin either would suit me down to the ground.
Completely knackered I reached the hut at 4pm I took off my pack with great relief and grabbed the hut bucket and went to the river to fill up. The pocket rocket was soon doing its job and a mug full of tea was soon prepared. I donned my mountain hardware down jacket and all was well with the world. My daypack was readied for the early start I had planned and it wasn’t long after that I had my dinner and retreated to my pit.
I closed the hut door and entered the darkness of the new day with the help of my head torch. The plan was to head downstream for 30 to 40 minutes before cutting up into the bush and climbing for the tops. It was a long arduous climb before I finally broke out of the bush into a flax covered gut that merged with the tops some two hundred yards higher up. It was in the gut that the presence of the serious snow made its presence felt. It was ice encrusted and would initially take your weight and then give way and leave you floundering knee deep. This coupled with increasing alpine scrub made for very slow going. The daylight was already two hours old and a light snow shower had started as I finally broke free of the alpine scrub. The snow underfoot was beginning to thin also and there was increasing areas of grasses and shrubs up ahead that were free of their snowy mantle. Good news I thought as the ridge I was making for was sheltered from the S.W. wind and was easterly facing which meant it could be the ideal place to find a chamois or two. Making progress on the edge of a scree I steadily climbed ever upward Stopping often to scan the terrain above and to the sides of me. I topped a slight rise and immediately froze in mid stride. Four chamois were sighted with heads down feeding hungrily around a hundred yards away. I ducked down behind the rise to try to get a more detailed picture and picked out another beast on the skyline a further 100yds to the side of the feeding animals and she was looking directly at me. We eyed each other for some moments before I finally slowly sank down to my knees and crawled slowly away and out of sight. Once out of sight I planned a route that would take me around and hopefully on top of all the animals seen so far. I wasn’t sure how the wind would be once I topped out but would have to hope for the best. Ten or fifteen minutes later and I was crawling to the edge of the lip and scouring the country ahead for the animals. Again I locked onto the steady gaze of the alert one and again she was boring into me. I lay prone in the snow and watched her intently for some minutes. Eventually her alertness waned and she started moving towards me. She had covered perhaps twenty yards when two kids appeared from nowhere and followed her. She was I hoped coming to join up with the animals I had first sighted but at the moment were under the lip that I was lying atop. The wind was not all it could be as it was gusting from my back and drifting on an angle towards but hopefully higher than where the animals were feeding. There was nothing I could do about that.
I waited until she had covered enough ground and was out of sight before I crawled slowly towards the lip. Before I could wriggle to the edge, a young nanny appeared high and to my forward right directly down wind of me her head came up abruptly and without further ado was sprinting away. There was a ripple of unease amongst two more of the animals that were in my line of sight as they stared firstly in my direction and then in the direction the nanny had taken, After a few moments though they resumed their feeding. Meanwhile the escapee was whistling and carrying on, always on the move she stayed some two to three hundred yards away and slowly started to cover a 180 degree arc. She would often stop and stare at me. I lay prone watching her, the holes in my leggings letting the snow in and chilling my body. Eventually after about ten minutes she returned to the fold and settled in as if nothing had happened.
I now made up my mind that upon reaching the lip and eyeing the group, if no buck was there worth taking then I would take a couple of skins. Crawling forward my movement caught the eye of a nanny not more than thirty yards away her head came up sharply and stayed riveted on me. I wasn’t going to bluff my way out of this one so shouldered my rifle and let loose a 130 grn Barnes. She dropped pole axed and then all hell broke loose. At least ten animals were in motion all up until then hidden by the overhanging lip I was on. They were escaping down wind into my slipstream. Up until that moment I had been dragging my daypack behind me in the snow to be ready if needed for a hasty rest to shoot from. Now it was needed I draped myself behind it and rested Sako on top. I quickly scanned the mob as they reached the 100yd mark and there was no sign of a buck within their ranks. The nanny about five back started to slow her forward momentum and the duplex settled on her back. She paused and the light trigger was pulled toward me. The report and thud were one and she collapsed to the ground and slid down a gently sloping rise leaving a trail of blood in the snow. The rest of the mob did not look back.
I skinned the two animals. I also took a couple of back steaks to supplement my dehydrated rations. I then laid the skins hair side up in the snow to hasten their cooling whilst I enjoyed my lunch of sardine sandwiches and chocolate dessert. All too soon it was time to load up and find a route down off the tops.

Bull Tahr Hunt

2010-06-08T07:57:00.006+12:00

The phone rang and I picked it up. Steve Garnett? Yes I replied. “Deer on my Doorstep” the book by Colin Davey came the voice, yes? I said warily my mind working overtime. The names Glenn, Glenn Soroka and I sent you a copy many years ago. The fog was slowly lifting, but still not quickly enough. “Remember the Kawekas early eighties at Te Pukeohikarua hut” he went on. “Me and my mate Pete...... a huge snowstorm”....”Yes of course” I interrupted.
I was in my second season culling and these two guys descended on my office at Te Puke and we sat out a two to three day snowstorm together. The hut at that time was an open fire affair and the southerly wind would sweep down the chimney with malicious intent. We three would be huddled staring into the embers and in unison would rock to and fro with the coming and going of the downdraft of smoke. They were good company. I remembered When it was time for them to leave they asked for help to navigate the tops in the deep snow and slashing wind, and I remember taking them down as far as the Harkness hut. I remember Glenn promising to post on a book I had been looking for, for some time, and I was amazed and grateful on returning home after that trip to find the above book.
We went on reminiscing for sometime and eventually Glenn mentioned that he had a young workmate that was helping him at his work http://www.sorokarifle.com/ , and that he was Canadian and was going home shortly. He was wondering if I would like to accompany them for a Chammie or Tahr hunt.
Now this was pretty good timing and apart from a Uk trip I had planned for the end of May to my daughters wedding, I was available.
I was indeed planning a Tahr trip of my own. Anyway We exchanged a few emails and planned on an early June trip if the weather was kind to us.
Glenn and Brooksie arrived late Saturday afternoon on the 5th June. The forecast for the week ahead was perfect. We were heading for the West Coast and perfect was no mean feat for that neck of the woods, in fact the previous week saw fine weather on the coast albeit very windy, whilst the rest of the country suffered much rain. All in all the gods were indeed benevolent.
We yarned a while over a coffee and biscuits and then set off for the five hour journey south. We arranged enroute to stop a night in a back packers, it was the White Heron actually in Whataroa. We made good time. On arrival we sorted out our gear one more time in manageable loads, and were abed at around midnight.
James Scott was booked to fly us in at o830hrs on Sunday, and we arrived at the car park at o820. It was to be my first sojourn into the Southern Alps. I measured them from this distance with a high level of respect, the dark green bush level looked to be a quarter of the overall height of the mountains. The higher levels were steep and precarious looking. They looked far more menacing than most of the country I was used to in the Nelson Lakes and they were cloaked in snow and ice.
While we waited for the chopper There was a distinct chill in the air, but I at least was snug in my gaudy red down jacket, I must admit I was impervious to Jack’s nip.
The chopper arrived on time and we quickly loaded. Brooksie got the prime seat at the back with all the food and equipment and for good measure he got Glenn’s dog “Shiva” on his lap such are the joys of youth. I was wedged in the middle front and Glenn was up against the door.
Under ten minutes travel, and we were at the head waters of a creek looking for a camping site. All I could see was rock, rock and more rock. We eventually landed on a small level area and proceeded to empty the chopper we then confirmed our departure date and farewelled the pilot.
The two tents were up in no time. I got a two man to myself and Glenn and Brooksie shared the other. The mountain radio was set up the food stored in the rock bivvy, and we had a home. Glen had nominated himself as “the camp bitch” apart from being out of sorts, he was a veteran of at least four other Tahr escapades, and had bagged amongst others a 13” and a 13.5” head He had his resident pot licker too to help out in the kitchen
The three of us then had our glasses trained on the peaks high above us. Glenn found a bull way up in the distance on a ridge and I found one a lot closer again on a ridge with a few nannies as company. Although mine was closer, it was in what seemed to be more of a precarious position and the creek that would offer the quickest route to him looked impassable at this early stage. So we opted for the first one and it was an opportunity to stretch the legs and physically cover some country and get a feel for the land. Brooksie and me set off at around 11.30 to see how close we could get to the faraway bull.
It took us an hour to top the scree that was adjacent to our camp, a journey I thought would be 20minutes max. We had picked a route with the binoculars that seemed very feasible with only a few areas that raised question marks. However the binocular route and the physical route were two different things, and many a time we had to back track and find alternative means to progress. It was 1630 hrs when we topped the ridge that the bull was last seen on, unfortunately we were a lot lower down on that ridge, due to chosing an easier line, and even this line had us hanging on by our fingertips and being very religious .Looking into the next gully had me experiencing a pang of vertigo. We were hoping for a scree to descend, so that we would not have to backtrack the way we had come, but all we got was a vertical plunge of sheer rock wall to the creek bottom. Above us on the ridgeline were huge broken slabs of rock, which if even we had the time to climb the physical effort needed was beyond us. We off loaded our daypacks and scoffed our late lunch and wondered what the hell lay in store for us on this trip. Whilst we relaxed, we took in the immensity of the faces and sheer wildness of it all.
We down climbed with much care and mutual encouragement and arrived at camp slightly chastened by our experience. Glenn who in his role of camp bitch and chief observer was shouting “Hey Brooksie I have found a bull for you, take a look” So we three took up the glass and viewed the bull on the somewhat easier face down side of our camp. It wasn’t long before we spied one or two more as the shadows lengthened.
I was impressed with my first viewing of the shaggy patriarch of the mountains he looked more to be a grizzly bear at distance, with his long and rangy mane sweeping the ground. I was slightly disappointed with the country he was in however, seemingly more suited to chamois,and not the heights and crags I was more used to reading about. I made up my mind there and then that the bull I was to shoot would be in more testing country and I was more than happy to see Brooksie realise his quest .
The next morning after breakfast we resumed the glassing and again saw the bull of the night before, or at least one similar. I then started to scan high into the crags further upstream and was rewarded with a magnificent looking bull making his way horizontally towards the bottom of a steep rock shute encrusted with ice and snow. Meanwhile Glenn was shouting to Brooksie to get his arse into gear and stalk the bull on the scrubby face opposite us. “Are you coming with me?” Brooksie asked, before I could answer Glenn said “go by yourself, you’ll get it, you will learn nothing going with Steve”, I wasn’t sure how to take that to be honest, but decided that it meant it would mean more to the lad to stalk and shoot it himself rather than be led by the hand so to speak. So with that we separated and Brooksie aimed for the scrub above our camp and I pointed my nose toward the snow shute.
After a hard climb of about an hour and a half I started to enter the shute. It was about then I heard the first of three or four shots going off. The third and fourth were spaced out over the next hour, The lad’s into his bull I mused.
The going looked reasonable enough. I looked high above me and the top of the shute was just out of eyesight, doing a dog leg 7/8ths of the way up. I firstly checked all the nooks and crannies above me for any sighting of the bull, but was not rewarded, so I began to climb it was upward ever upward. About half way up the shute I started encountering black ice and more snow, I was thankful I was using my new “Markor 45” litre day pack which enabled me to stow my rifle in it’s scabbard at the back, and use both my hands, for I was now climbing more. On one precarious pitch when I was hanging on by toenails and fingernails, and thinking seriously about using my gums!
One slip would mean a fearful plunge down an icy slope and clattering into a huge rock at the bottom. I then noticed my fingertips on both hands had gone white as snow, and then the pain started. I had been so preoccupied with my predicament that I had had my hands immersed in the snow for far too long at a time and contracted a mild frostbite. I found a thin ledge to balance on and I quickly thrust the offending appendages deep into my fleece shorts, ah the agony and the ecstasy. They took an age to regain their circulation. It was at this point that I knew I was not going to retrace my footsteps, for better of for worse I was going up. I hoped and prayed that when I got there I would find an easy route down.
I was finding it increasingly difficult the higher I got, the holds were getting smaller and smaller, and I was full of anguish and uncertainty as to the outcome of the day. Eventually With the end in sight I came up against an unsurmountable obstacle. It was a black ice encrusted rock that overhung my position. I tried umpteen times to get around, but could not get in a safe enough position to commit myself for fear of the yawning drop below me. There was a shallow cave to my right and I retreated there to nut this problem out.
Looking up to the roof of the cave I saw daylight, two small openings were apparent. I took of my pack and rifle and wedged myself up a chimney of rock until I was within arm reach of the openings. I figured if I could remove enough rock I might be able to squeeze through one of the openings and so leapfrog my earlier position. I braced my legs against one wall with my back to the other and pulled out four huge rocks and let them slip between me and the rock face, they cascaded down the shute breaking into smaller pieces and taking even more rocks with them. I managed to clear quite a wide shelf which I could then clamber up on to. I was overjoyed to see that it was indeed possible for me to squeeze through the openings. I then shimmied down to my pack and brought that up and pushed it ahead of me through the opening and then followed through myself.
Ok, I am still moving, I tried to convince myself. I still had a couple more hairy moments before finally topping out onto a ridge that was so thin, that it took my breath away. Despite its lack of width, there were fresh Tahr tracks running over it! The other side plunged straight down. I took off my pack to rummage through and found my lunch, two snickers bars! I had forgotten to load my bread and sardines. Worse my camelback had lost its mouth piece somehow in the climb and the whole contents of water had soaked through everything. I have a valve as a back up after a similar incident last year, but I had had the valve on open....bugger.
It was midday and no water and if that was lunch I had had it! I now needed to concentrate on a way down, and there was no way I was going to tread the tracks of the Tahr! So, treading a path under where he went I followed in his general direction and that I found quickly became non negotiable, so I retraced my steps back to where I had lunch. I took a breather to admire my surroundings snowy peaks in every direction a blue sky windless and best of all you could hear a pin drop...my heart was beating though, and loudly too. I slipped carefully in the other direction and spied the same prints descending diagonally into what looked like a deep snow gulley, that in turn descended aggressively toward steep scree and eventually the creek floor...if only I thought. The Tahr had not gone down the gulley, as I could see his prints ranging ever higher. I carefully followed his tracks, squeezing past overhanging rocks until I made firm contact with the gully. The snow was deep and I sighed with relief. I faced inward and kicked steps using the steps I’d cut in turn for my hands I gradually descended. I am going to make it I thought!
I eventually reached the scree and then sat down and glassed the opposite mountain. A nanny was seen standing on the main ridge looking down hill and away from my position. After an hour of further glassing I spied a decent looking bull with a range of nannies. Decision made I was going to stalk them, firstly I glassed a suitable route amongst the sheer rock face. Most of it I could see was unclimbable but there was one chance.
It took an age to make my way down the remaining scree, always conscious of where I wanted to start my climb up the other side. I was starting to ascend the other side when I notice a young bull high above me poke his head over a huge rock and look down in my direction I froze for some minutes until he lost interest and pulled his head back in. The climb was far from easy but eventually I was nearing the crest of the final spur, the wind was blowing up my arse and I was frustrated after all this effort to be denied at the last hurdle. Then I heard some snorting and whistling and knew my number was up, I reached the top and saw some tail ends scurrying across the rock faces, mostly nannies. I had already taken my rifle out of its scabbard before topping out, but had somehow joined the top strap of my pack through the sling of my rifle, so when the bull fleetingly showed itself I became entangled and by the time I got myself organised he had vanished. Mark that down as a new gear mistake!
I decided I had climbed quite enough for the day it was now 3pm and high time I started hunting instead of climbing. The plan was to hunt my way back to camp, mostly down hill which suited me fine. I was glassing a creek way down on the opposite side of the mountain I had climbed when I spied three or four nannies. That will do me I thought the route to the creek was easy and fully out of sight I quickly made up the ground. After some minutes I edged slowly over the lip on my stomach and there were five nannies and a bull in full view gorging themselves in the short scrub and grasses. Now this was only a young bull and not really what I had come all this way for I had come a long way however and one in the hand is worth .
......I placed the .308 on my pack and dropped the animal, all hell broke lose unseen nannies erupted from everywhere but best of all a huge mature bull stood up on my side of the creek. In an instant I saw his long shaggy dark brown pelage and decent bone, I cross haired him and sent Barnes on its way. He collapsed in a heap and didn’t even twitch. The shot had hardly stopped reverberating, around the mountains when a huge thunderous roar assaulted my ears that more than matched my rifles feeble croak. Looking across the valley in alarm I noticed a huge fissure appear in the snow behind the glacial front I thought for one second that I had started an avalanche, but no other movements were detected.
I quickly moved over to the fallen one and hurriedly took the usual snap, too hurriedly I found out later. Time was getting on already well after 4pm. I started to cape the animal, but due to the impending darkness, I had to leave him half done. The gloom was upon me I had no torch and it was a long way back to camp. I picked my way off the steep face and by the time I was in the scrub it was totally black. There was much hilarity making my way through the monkey scrub etc......not!
The lads had left on a flashing head torch for me to reference in the creek bed and it made a huge difference. I called out when I was a couple of hundred yards from camp and out of the darkness came a light carried by Brooksie who escorted me in. I was totally knackered. I learnt Brooksie had been unsuccessful with his day having missed his target. Bed was a great place that night.
Mission the next day was to finish the job of last night. Brooksie was heading in the direction of his misfortune of yesterday. We teamed together until we came to the bottom of the first scree then he angled across the face and I began the long climb to the tops. I topped out after an hour and a half climb then dropped down the other side for the short walk to the bull. I made blade cuts on the stiff one. and managed to cape him and severe his head. I stowed the head and cape in the Markor and beat an early retreat for the camp. Just as I was starting the climb around twenty nannies and young bulls appeared way down where Brooksie was hunting. They ran across me around 150 yards below me. I stopped and retrieved my camera and snapped off some shots. They weren’t stopping that’s for sure. Just as I was thinking Brooksie must have nailed the bull, he appeared herding another few nannies in front of him, stopping below me to pose for pictures. I eventually tired of him and carried out the slog upwards.
With camp in sight, I heard a curse and looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see Brooksie on my heels. ”What ya know”, I greeted. Frigging Remingtons he spat out [He was not overly fond of the breed]. “What happened? “”I took a shot and then could not eject the case, it is jammed in the chamber” he moaned.
We later found out that the rounds reloaded for the trip were only neck sized and too big for the chamber. Brooksie ran the rest of the rounds through the rifle and found 50% were to be discarded due to being too tight. We ejected the problem case with a tent peg propelled by a rock at the barrel end.
The rest of the day was spent fleshing and capeing my bull, before salting and folding away. We measured the bone and it went 12 and 1/8th.
The last day started with Glenn pushing the lad out of the tent in the dark and making him a feed that would keep an army on the march for days. He badly wanted him to get a bull. Daylight broke and the glasses were trained on the hill. A suitable bull was found and Brooksie was away with instructions ringing in his ears. I had decided to have the day off and watch the lad’s performance. I had killed one too many bulls anyway.
We watched Brooksie make the scree and were frustrated that he could not see the bull which was 200yds away and slightly above him. We saw him lie down and point his rifle, but not at the bull we could see. It finally dawned on us after we gave him loads of abuse, that he must have spied one himself. Two shots, rang out the second of which sounded solid, and we watched Brooksie traverse the face to the further ridge. When he reached there he gave the thumbs up and we could relax. The Canuck had his bull. He was home shortly after midday and a couple of hours was spent knocking his head and cape into shape the head went 11 ½. It was 1500hrs and with a quick consensus it was decided we would call up and see if we could hitch a ride out a little earlier than expected. We were told to be ready in 30 minutes........ Man we flew around camp.
We enjoyed a beer that night and the boys were on the ferry next day back to the lesser island.

Roar time Take 2

2010-04-26T16:42:00.008+12:00

Part 2
A week has gone by this time the forecast looks more stable. The roar this year will have to take a back seat to an area I have badly wanted to explore for a few years now, and who knows this area might produce as well.
It’s now day2 and I am back in residence with Hennessey up and water collected. The weather is fine and settled. This time glassing from camp does not produce an animal and the afternoon goes by with no action. Day 3 A cold night has produced ice covered tussock and my hands soon become numb after numerous pull ups on the steep slope.
It takes an hour of climbing before I top the ridge behind camp, an hour filled with anticipation, for the view over this ridge has only been seen before only on a map and never confirmed with my baby blues.
At last I top the ridge and I am rewarded with a fine view of tussock stretching far and wide. Gullies, creeks, spurs, tarns and rock faces, all need to be minutely inspected with my binoculars. I search around for a likely looking spot in the shade, where I can sit down and scan the country ahead.
It was perhaps 40 minutes later that the colour red stood out from it’s tawny surroundings,at the same time I was aware at last of feeling the warming rays of sunshine on my back, as the sun begun to climb the morning sky. The red colour turned out to be a hind and alongside her materialised another two animals, looking very much like hinds as well at this range. The range was extreme, maybe a mile or more. I dismissed the animals and began my search closer to my position, but frequently rechecking on their position from time to time. After a substantial amount of time spent re-examining the country in front of me, it became evident that these three animals were the only ones I could find.
Even at this extreme distance I could see that the animals progress would soon be halted, by what looked like from here as a huge non negotiable chasm., so I scanned some more with the binos to try and ascertain an alternative route that the animals might chose, after some minutes it became obvious that they were making progress parrelell with the chasm, and at the same time dropping in height and heading toward the bush edge.
I quickly mapped out a route that would bisect theirs and took off on a very long stalk. There was not much need for stealth at this range, more of need to close the considerable distance involved as quickly as possible.
I suppose the range was in the vicinity of 800yds when I slumped to the ground and produced my binoculars to recheck on my redskins. Now I could see one at least carried some antlers, or more to the point spikes for he was only a spiker as further inspection confirmed. It looked for all the world as if a spiker was holding two hinds during the roar. Tut tut where were all the macho ones? I watched the trio for around ten minutes as they picked here and there fussily , occasionally reprimanding one another and then frolicking together in child like play. All the time they seemed consistently to be making for a sharp scrub covered spur that gave way to bush and eventually leading to an open tussock terrace and eventually a sparkling fresh creek.
This is precisely what I gambled on. The fact that they had spent all morning on the tops, they were now more than likely very thirsty. They were ready for some water. Taking no chances I found a deep water course and dropped altitude using this vehicle. Combined with the very high tussock, I was able to keep well out of sight as I continued on my course.
I eventually found a rock that was over looking the tussock terrace at the foot of the spur opposite. I took off my pack and levelled my rifle. The range was around 150yds and I lay in wait. Occasionally I would glimpse a body through the heavy bush as the animals made progress.
At long last a hind materialised out of the bush, the spiker was about to follow, when suddenly he looked over his shoulder and waited. The second hind appeared behind him and he waited for her to catch up and then pass him. Hind 2 was now in the open, I waited for the spiker.
Finally he showed himself, like some wily old royal stag, cagey to the last. The cross hairs settled on his shoulders for an instant. The shot struck and his front legs left the ground and arced high above his head, he then crashed sideways to the ground.
The remaining hinds barked and carried on a bit before finally departing, into the safety of the bush.
Day4 had me packing up camp and sidling my way out, up the big rock scree into the saddle. I was in deep shadow and making good progress. Some movement across the scree drew my attention to 5 chamois moving uncertainly in the sunshine. They were looking my way but unable to ascertain what I was due to the sun in their eyes.
I glassed them carefully and picked out a buck with a nice set of hooks. Not incredibly big but a good downside curve going I estimated around the 8” mark.
I levelled the stubby .308 over a handy rock and took the buck in the shoulder.
No sign of a roar this high up, but satisfied that another piece of country and been seen and covered.

Roar 2010 Part 1

2010-04-25T15:48:00.006+12:00

It was an arduous journey into my chosen campsite. I bypassed the solitary hut and ascended the steep ridge to the tops with a heavy pack. Three hours later had me reaching my first waypoint.
I had with me my Hennessey hammock instead of my usual tent for this trip, mainly due to the fact that my eventual destination was in very steep country and would be unlikely to afford me a place to pitch it, also it was about time I used this bit of gear. I have owned it some years now and it has only previously seen one outing
Unfortunately I was still very much on the tops when I decided to camp for the night so left ole Hennessey asleep in the bottom of the pack , and just decided to bivvy the night instead I awoke the next morning to a coating of frost atop my bag.
I rolled over and lit the primus and waited for it to boil whilst still snugly wrapped up in my feathered tomb. I lay there watching the early morning unfold , I was above the densely misted valley bottom looking across the divide at my equally clear mirror opposite mountain range. Everything was still in deep shadow, with only the slightest hint of gathering light emerging over the distant ridgeline to the east , heralding the dawn of a new day. It is a great time of day lazing away the early moments with the anticipation of the scalding tea to come and even breakfast too before stirring the stumps and reluctantly leaving the cozy nest
My gear was packed and I was ready to move out at 0830hrs. The plan was to sidle just above the bush line for an hour. Next there was a steep inlcine climbing away from the bush edge that I had to climb to reach a saddle which would permit me entry into the next watershed. The sun was gaining strength on my back all the while and the sweat was beginning to flow, finally I was in the saddle and able to scan the whole headwaters of my chosen piece of country I sat down and bisected the area with my binos for a likely place in which to set up my camp. I could see immediately that water would be a problem, for the nearest creek was about a fifteen minute walk from where I proposed to string out my hammock in the trees.
Never mind I mused, it doesn’t seem as if I have any choice anyway I shall just have to fill up my water bladder and make the repetitive journey for water. I slung my heavy pack atop my shoulders and made the long arduous journey through the tall wavering tussock and scrub meandering across the huge amphitheatre of open tops.
Two hours later I was at my proposed campsite and set about making it my temporary home. A brew, and a bite to eat. I then filled up the bladder in the stream and then stretch out in the tussock and glass the basin for any sign of game for the rest of the afternoon. It was so relaxing to rest my weary muscles and stretch out in the sun kissed alpine grasses, alternately sleeping and glassing the vast open country.
Some time later I was brought to my senses by some rock fall to my rear, I swivelled round to witness two chamois cavorting down from the heights, seemingly playing a game of tag. They ended up with tongues rolling and gasping for breath around 160yds from my position blissfully unaware of my position. Camp meat was high on the priority at this time and it was with these thoughts that had me rolling onto my stomach and laying my pack infront of me before resting my .308 atop it. Picking out the nearest animal I then laid the duplex reticle on her shoulder and squeezed off the shot. She raised her front legs into the air and fell sideways as the 130 grn Barnes found it’s mark. The other animal was in full stride and making good headway up the nearest scree, with hardly a backward glance he was soon out of sight.
In due course I wandered over and retrieved my meat, it was a good start to the trip.
Later that night the heavens opened and rain fell with monotonous regularity on my flimsy shelter. Around three in the morning I had shipped a couple of inches of water in my hammock, due to the fly not being properly centralised. It was a cold and wet hunter that greeted the mist clad moist dawn
It had been a long cold wet night and a decision had to be made, my sleeping bag was saturated, and by the way the day was shaping up, it was unlikely I was going to be able to dry it out. I hung around until 10.00 hrs. I then finally made the decision to call it day and head on out.
I decided instead of traversing through the waist high soaking tussock, to head for the tops via various screes. I headed high into the weather and the visibility deteriorated accordingly. I lived in that peas soup for the rest of the day, before finally making the hut at 1740hrs that evening. Everything was drenched in my pack. I reluctantly slid into my soaked sleeping bag that night and slept fitfully.
The next day was much the same, so I reluctantly packed up and headed out to civilisation.

Three spikers

2010-04-02T09:55:00.005+13:00

Early February and a hot spell forecast for a few days with the freezer getting lean on venison it was purposfull strides towards the tops that had me sweating in the noon heat that day.Nearing five o clock saw me approach my camp site. I was dismayed to see the creek there completely dried up. After a fruitless half hour search for a campsite with water, I finally chose my camping ground. There was barely enough room to pitch my one man tent and then at least a couple of minutes from the nearest creek.What were my chances of seeing deer high up on the tops now, i mused while scoffing my dinner sometime later.

A couple of hours before dark, I took my rifle and binos onto a lip overlooking what in the past has been a very successfull gully the water I could see in the creek was flowing strongly. I was on the bush line looking over a large expanse of tussock area. Within a few minutes however heavy ominous looking clouds began to drift over head. Not long after the first light pitter patter of rain splashed down, there was an increase in momentum and finishing in quite a strong downpour. I manfully endured the 30 minute onslaught, which left me shivering in a cool s.w. breeze that followed.

It was an uneventfull evening with no sign of an animal.The following morning was warm as i made haste in the half light in the opposite direction of the night before. The sky was clear and the promise of a fine day was carved in stone. An hours travel had me overlooking the huge watershed that I had chosen for my source of meat.I finally settled down to glass the huge area and it wasn't untill twenty minutes later that I finally spied three animal over a 1000 yds away. They appeared to be adults although no sign of any antlers. I was hoping one at least would be a yearling of some description.I kept a frequent check on the animals as I glassed more of the country thoroughly to make sure I didn't bump any as yet unseen animals on my stalk.

They seemed to be all that there was out in the open so I planned my stalk and set off.

No more than 50 yds into it a lone chamois appeared over a spur to my right, aware of me he was angling down and across my position and making for the bush edge. His bone looked to be around the 8 1/2 " height so was of no interest to me at all and so i watched his progess, noting the fact that a shot would have not been at all easy, for he was constantly moving, and when he paused it was for a second only. I watched him untill he moved out of sight over a spur and into the bush.

It was well over an hour before I was nearing the position I had picked out to which I hoped to identify the deer and make a shot. I peered over the ridge and eventually found the deer lower down and further out than I had imagined. There was no way to descend the ridge to stalk nearer. Range was 300yds or thereabouts and steeply downhill. The binos identified three spikers. I wriggled down into the tussock clad ridge until I had a clear and uninterupted view. With the rifle atop my day pack, I singled out a target. The four power reticle was aimed low on the chest of one of the broadsided deer. The light trigger was tripped and the thwock of a hit was distinct mingled with the report of the .308.The deer dropped like a stone.The remaining two stood together uncertain.I took another with a similar shot and the third deer just went to ground.

Sometime later ,I literally had to kick it up and shoo it away, before finally being able to butcher the two amimals. It was a long arduous and waterless tramp back to camp, with frequent stops to rest and seek shade from that relentless sun.

Back at my campsite the afternoon was slow in passing the day burned on and on and the flies were prolific.I broke camp early the next day and with heavy pack lumbered upwards toward the main ridge. I topped the ridge and sidled for a time before reaching a large tarn. Tawny coloured Tussock stretched for miles in three directions the sky was blue and clear. I dumped my pack and rumaged inside to find my enamel mug, I walked a few paces to the waters edge and drank my fill. After the second mugfull I glanced up to the ridgline above and there sillouhetted against the sky was a young chamois.We eyed each other for what seemed an age. Now I would like to say that I watched the animal untill it moved off, but I did not. Instead keeping firm eye contact I retreated to where my rifle lay, picked it up and slowly sat down, found the animal in the sight and knocked her over with a shot to the chest at well under 100yds.More meat to butcher but at least now It was down hill all the way.

Southerley wind /M.I.A.

2009-07-16T16:13:00.006+12:00

Evening shadows began to lengthen as I emerged out of the bush and onto the river flats. Parts of which still had a tenacious covering of hoar frost. My Polyprop top was seemingly competing with the surrounding whiteness bearing witness to its exceptional wicking properties. The evening chill was starting to bite, but to stop now would be foolish as the hut was a mere hundred yards away.
Once in I set about the lighting of the fire. There was precious little in the way of firewood handy so it was back outside resulting in a mini forage in the surrounding bush. Sometime later and the Fire was lit and a brew started. Then I threw some warm clothing on and I was a different man.
The next day would be a full tramp into my destination. It passed uneventfully.
I awoke in the darkness and immediately switched on my Petzl headlamp. The beam revealed the walls in the hut streaming with condensation. The foot of my sleeping bag was also wet and clammy. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slipped my down jacket on, my breath expelling in great clouds of vapour. The gas was ignited on my stove and I completed my dressing whilst waiting for the water to boil.
Closing the hut door in the bleak light of the morning I stepped into the sombre bush. The wind had picked up over night and now there was a strong southerly buffeting the upper canopy. Great I thought if it is blowing this hard here it will be really uncomfortable up there. Up there as I looked I could see the clouds fair scudding across the sky and plumes of snow being whipped up and carried northwards at pace. The bush floor was carpeted in icy snow and it neither diminished nor did it increase with the higher altitude gained. Eventually I broke out onto tops. The day was long and fruitless. I did not feel the sun on my back until around two p.m. Not an animal was seen. My camelback froze and then when it eventually thawed it would not close. The residue of the bladder leaked onto the front of my coat and immediately turned to ice. There was one high though looking across the valley I spied an area that was lavishing in sunshine from early morning right through the day. It also was more sheltered from the prevailing winds and best of all there was a lot more feed showing through the snow.
It was to that spot that I was trudging towards at first light. Conditions were ditto yesterday i.e, fine but with strong Southerly winds. I was thankful to emerge out of the bush after an hour and a half climb. I could see the sun was just lighting up the peaks high above. The 360 degree views were breathtaking I was surrounded by lofty pinnacles of rock all attired in their white winter best. The gusts of wind would drive up plumes of snow and carry the spindrifts swirling into the clear sky. All this landscape was backdropped by a sky the colour of which was the most intense shade of royal blue.
Where I stood on the edge of the bushline the trees were subjected to the will of the wind. They creaked and groaned under the onslaught .The wind whistled through them like a banshee. It was at times enough to make a man feel a long way from home.
My watch told me 1400 meters of altitude had been ground out. I had put a fair amount of tussock clad gradients behind me when I arrived on the edge of a near vertical series of ridges and spurs. To look at them they would not be dissimilar to an inverted ladies fan. They were clad in the usual mixture of Tussock and Hebes,Speargrass and Flax and probably a whole lot more flora that my uneducated eyes could detect. Add to that, dollops of snow ice and rock. The invisible sign said “Chamois town” in big bold letters. Suddenly movement above me and it looked like the animal was onto me. My pack was off and I extended my body over it rifle pointing expectantly. There! Just a half animal to shoot at “boompha”- missed.” Easy with the empty Lapua case”! Jack in another round “boompha”- thud this time my ears called a hit as the chamois disappeared from view. There was more movement on the second ridge over another animal was blatting over it and finally slowed on the third spur along only to look back for some time until yet another animal joined up. They then mooched over to the furthest skyline ridge, before feeling safe enough to stand their ground. They stood their ground for an hour according to my ever right Pathfinder. Lighting out for pastures new was not on the agenda.
I was the first to tire of the silly game being played beside which I had been lying in a patch of snow all the while. I eased up into a crouching posture and felt every muscle and bone creak with the effort. This aging process is alright for cheese I thought. I started to move and let my arms mimmick a walking motion eventually moving out of sight of those twin sets of piercing eyeballs. I guessed they would have been all of 400yds away.
I climbed under and past the location of what I hoped was my downed beast eventually topping the ridge again much higher up. I inched up the last few yards on my belly and peered through the wind blasted tussock towards where the two sentries were seen last.
Sure enough nothing had changed. Though with altitude the distance between us had shrunk somewhat. 300yds was the considered separation of space now. I duly placed the Macmillan stocked rifle atop my pack and playfully took the shot. I then took the scenario a step further and thumbed in two Sierra match rounds. In recent outings these projectiles were letting me down too often and especially on chamois. However with the mixture of rounds I had on me these were the only ones I could rely on at this distance.
With surprise I was listening to the report and seeing the chamois fall. He looked to be hit too far back. I could see his upper torso struggle to regain its former balance. His mate lit off.
This is about the time when you rely on your former experience to carry the day. Instead I tried to finish the job from where I lay. I am left with rounds not properly sighted in, a 4x scope, only a 1/3 of an animal to shoot at- ask yourself?. Two shots later with snow that sprayed up in front of the chamois he decided enough is enough. He lurched to his feet and disappeared over the spur.
So now I have no choice but to don crampons and climb up and around the yawning gully and sidle across the steep ice clad slope and then climb down to where I had last seen the stricken one. I am now at the 1600 metre mark and climbing when I sight his mate zig zagging high above me. He looked reluctant to tread the road he was on and was constantly stopping and looking down at me. Eventually though he found a route through the high peaks and disappeared over into the next watershed.
Meanwhile I have reached the height I need and now it was all about putting all my faith into my crampons and ice axe to sidle my way across and down. I am now experiencing no wind whatsoever the sun is reflecting off the ice and there is a total silence about me just the crampons biting into ice. It is hot. I am sweating freely some of which is exertion and some I fancy is fear.
I eventually reached the spot. Straightaway blood was found stained onto the snow. The gradient leads down into a snow chute and I inch my way over. I was half expecting to see the form of the animal in that gulley somewhere. There was nothing no animal no blood and no tracks. I then casually looked upwards and there higher up the slope was a blood trail. The slope was on end and all ice I was front pointing and using my axe. This doesn’t look good I mused. I crested the incline and then all was revealed. I took out my binos for confirmation. The blood trail led in exactly the same way as his mate had gone.
“Ring ring” It dawned on me the animal I had seen leaving this watershed was the wounded one all along.
It left a sour taste in my mouth. I hadn’t lost an animal in over thirty years in fact I recollect I was in the employment of the Forest Service and shooting every day when it occurred last. On reflection I didn’t need the animal it was more a case of a bit of target shooting to see if I could. Hunting is not about target shooting !
It certainly took the edge off the day and indeed the trip.
I found my initial kill on the way down and took its smallish head and some meat. I passed two hinds under separate circumstances on the way out I took their photos and felt better for it.

1000 ft. Slide

2009-06-25T15:39:00.005+12:00

4.30 A.M. I am awake, well at least my eyeballs are uncovered. Another three quarters of an hour and the happy alarm will sound. Well at least I’m saved that soul jarring experience, I reflected , as I wrenched myself free of the warm duvet. The cold air was like a knife against my bare skin whilst I groped for my clothes. My pack was ready to go and propped against the back door. Included this time was my trusty ice axe, for there was much snow in the region I was heading for. Bodily functions and cereal breakfast later, and in that order, I brace myself against the severe overnight frost. The engine coughs and splutters into life and the headlights illuminate the whiteness down the drive.
I have a long day ahead of me, and it will be daylight by the time I reach the road end. From there I am looking at eight hours of burning “Makalu” Boot rubber before I will reach the hut of my choice.
I hoist my pack onto my shoulders with a grunt and melt into the encompassing green void. Immediately obvious is that DOC had been nowhere near the route since the snows of last August. Windfalls were a constant source of irritation, to be skirted round or clambered over with monotonous regularity. The creeks needed all of my attention too, for the rocks were coated in ice lying in wait for the unwary.
It is the middle of May a magic time for the chamois hunter. For the next couple of months high up in the alpine meadows these animals will come together in various small units and complete the age old cycle of procreation. The hills with their white mantle of snow about their shoulders take on an extra allure at this time seducing the hunter into their embrace. For me there is no better place to be than in the backcountry when the wintry winds blow. Gone are the tourists and summer visitors the crowded huts and busy tracks. I guess I am just an unsociable old git and getting set in my ways, but again I was always the solitary type when shooting for the forest service some thirty years ago. Mind you it positively helped you to have those credentials in that work environment.
It‘s after two in the afternoon and I am beginning to wonder where this hut is and how much longer I’ll have to plod this never ending track. Plod being the operative word. Must have been the early rise, I console myself. It doesn’t happen often in my experience, but at precisely 3.30 p.m. the hut was in my face. I say doesn’t happen often when I say I thought at least another 30 minutes to go , and like this time it is sooner rather than later! Anyway my grin nearly cut my face in half.
I had taken a “wet” in the last creek. I had slipped on an icy rock and ended up knee deep in the cold waters. I was annoyed, for up till then I had kept a dry slate for the whole of the trip and I hate wet boots freezing overnight that have all the give of a steel bar in the morning.
The first thing on the agenda is a fire. The wood box is full, so in no time there is a sterling blaze afoot. The steam rising from my mini kettle tells me the next treat is ready. A couple of rounds of bread topped with vintage cheese and you can call me Steve, king of joy.
It is Tuesday, and according to our man on the weather last night Wednesday is bearable, Thursday deteriorating with rain in the evening and Friday positively crap. I’ll have to make the best of tomorrow by the sounds of that. The boots are lined up with the inners pointing towards the bonfire in the hearth, and socks draped dutifully alongside. With the logs crackling and sparking and the flames rearing up the chimney, I dive headlong into the scratcher. The other thing I failed to mention about winter is the long nights, and I am looking forward to that part.
Just on daylight, the blinds under my eyebrows part. I have no real plan for the day, only to head upstream and at a likely spot strike upwards for the tops. The snow is ankle deep and a lot softer this morning. Jim Hickey mentioned a frost. Strike one against the weatherman! I notice the sky too is clouding over. The ubiquitous windfalls didn’t disappoint however. I plod around three hundred yards up stream and the going is not getting any easier, when I come upon a creek. The decision is made. I am to head to the tops using this artery. It is a hard slog upwards. The slushy snow under foot, also the branches full of the stuff falling down on me at every opportunity. It takes the better part of two hours before the tops materialise. What a brilliant feeling breaking through the last of the scrub to see a series of gullies, with feed showing through, despite the heavy snow in places.
I labour up the ridge I am on, to a point I reckon will give me a good vantage point to glass the surrounding country. I have covered maybe half of this distance when a chamois buck materialises on a spur across from me but slightly higher in elevation. My eyes are drawn to his head, and I instantly register disappointment. I am looking for nine inch or better. The chamois up till now was looking directly at me, but then he turns his head back in the direction he has just travelled. It was at this time I reassess his head, and decide he is close to the nine inch minimum I am looking for. I lie down into the snow and support the rifle on a handy rock and squeeze off a 150grn. Sierra match bullet in the direction of the buck. I register the hit, within the four power “Leupold”. The chamois flinches diving headlong towards me, He’s temporarily out of my line of sight in the intervening gut only to reappear on a spur no more than sixty yards distant. My next round is a sierra 110 grn hollow point varmint round, which I had sighted in and was printing around two inches to the left of the 150’s. I had wanted to replace the 150’s on chamois after a series of poor results. This was now my opportunity to test the new round. Applying pressure to the light trigger the 110 was airborne and looking for trouble. Taking the buck in the chest he drops without ceremony on the spot and didn’t even twitch.
I make my way over to the animal, negotiating drifts up to my waist at times. Upon arrival I reach for my tape and measured a neat nine inch on his hooks. I remove his head and back steaks and push them deep into my day pack.
I then decide to head for the ridge the buck was on when I first engaged him, and look into the gut and beyond. The going is hard and slow there is no need for the axe in these conditions. The gut is wide at the top and narrows at the bottom before disappearing into the bush edge some four hundred meters below. Judging by the bush damage there obviously were huge avalanches ripping through here in the winter months. I climb until I am level with the top of the gut and pause to scan across the four hundred yards of country. There are rocky out crops, some scree , tussock and scrub.... and two chamois! Now how the hell hadn’t I seen these characters before now? They are Approximately two hundred yards away, blending in with the rock and snow patches. The forms bounced into focus in my 8x20 Leica compacts. Now one of these guys is sporting a decent set of hooks, I thought. Was that another buck? I couldn’t be sure. I have my pack off and Sako was across it pointing at the bigger of the two. There was another 110 in the breach. Let’s see how you perform now Sierra. I then gently close the bolt. Fifty grains of 2208 powder is ignited the instant I caress the trigger. The 110 grn. round is sent arcing to its target. The animal visibly shook on impact. Nevertheless the two take off together at the sound of the shot. Then after ten or more yards the stricken one collapses in a heap and go’s headlong into the snow chute. The animal’s velocity increases as it speeds across the top of the snow. It leaves red smudges in its wake at intervals of around the 30 or 40 yard mark. It continues plummeting down in this fashion for some six or seven hundred feet before coming to rest still seemingly on steep ground. I watch for some time as the uncertain survivor picks its way slowly away from my position.
I re shoulder my pack and continue upward, deciding I would retrieve the chamois on my return to the bush. Some minutes later there is movement at the far end of the gut. I go to ground and confirm the movement as two chamois heading in my direction. They are in no rush, but even so are making quick progress. 200,,.. 150..., 100..., 50.., the yards were being eaten up at an impressive rate. Out of sight now they would gain my spur any minute. My camera was out and waiting. A young animal materialised in front of me, followed by an older male some seconds later. They look unsure at me from a range of twenty yards. Realisation quickly forms on their features that perhaps I am not their mother after all. The camera is recording it all.
‘We’re outta here” was their combined opinion translated in a flurry of movement. Snow was kicked up in their wake as the forms continued past me and out of sight over the next ridge.
I continue my climb to better the picture of the surrounding mountains. The mist and low cloud though is hampering my vision. Eventually in very low visibility I am forced to backtrack, and make my way to the point of my last shot. I scan the long snow chute with the 8x20’s but cannot locate the chamois. Further inspection reveals more red stains on the snow, disappearing out of sight. I descend diagonally into the gut, using a zigzag approach in the deep snow. I eventually come upon the initial resting place for the animal. I then begin to follow the sliding marks downwards. No footprints at least I register, he/she has at least not miraculously recovered from the shot and is not likely to be engaging in escape and evasion tactics. I am concerned though for the narrow chute was heading for an unseen drop.
A few yards more and the animal was espied, sprawled amongst some rocks on the edge of the huge drop off. The chamois had slid the better part of a 1000ft.
It turned out to be a she...I am gutted upon inspecting her. I take her meagre 8.5 inch hooks, her skin and back steaks.
With my daypack full, I then melt into the alpine scrub, and seek
a safe route down to the valley floor.

Decisions !

2009-05-19T14:07:00.008+12:00

“Let’s get out of here” I silently screamed as the forecast predicted a four day fine spell. Mmm, well, err, yeah ok, I muttered as I poured over the map. An hour later my destination was resolved. It was a brave decision. A phone call to the local DOC office and the good oil on my eta to my hut was in effect a full day’s travel . That left me with two days hunting and a full day travel out.
According to DOC, the track had not been maintained for awhile, and what, with last years snow damage and all, it just might turn into an eventful trip.
I was ruthless with my pack, but still had to include my bivvy bag and sleeping mat, in case I didn’t make the hut, in the time allotted.
I was motoring along the gravel road, no more than 300 yards from my main gates when, without any warning, I was confronted with a white apparition. It stood gawking at me as I rounded the bend. Too big for a goat, was my first impression. Ye gods, I exclaimed it’s a deer. It then performed a graceful 180 and bounded down the road in front of me. My stubby barrelled Sako was propped up in the passenger footwell and two spare rounds of .308 cal. were slotted in my chest pocket. I made no move to grab either. I narrowed the gap between us to twenty yards and sat on his tail. He jumped a few imaginary fences as he bored along. It gave me plenty of time to properly assess this gift from the gods. He was a fallow and judging by the small protrusions on his head, was a spiker. He was pure white, and as I followed him down the road, I wondered at his longevity. Not even into his teens, I mused, if he carries on like this. He was lean and fit, and seemed to find no effort in pacing the Nissan down the gravel road. There was plenty of opportunity for him to jump sideways at anytime and be gone. Maybe he was training for some Olympic event, who knows. This course of events continued for around two to three clicks before he decided enough was enough and swerved to the right, taking a low strung fence in his stride. The last I saw of him was of his mouth agape, keeping abreast of the car and swerving amongst some pines and at last on a route away from the roadside.
The things you see, I thought to myself. Here am I planning to take myself off on a four day hunt, covering untold miles of wilderness in the search of a deer or chamois. I have just snubbed up the chance of taking the most, tender of meats, all on my doorstep.... Alfie!.....what’s it all about? ....But I made the decision.
I thought a lot about that deer in the days that followed [fallowed].
The stream was gentle, in regard of its contours, but long. The crossings were numerous, the orange triangles less so. I called a halt at one p.m. and took a lunch break. I picked a sunny, tree dappled spot on the true right of the stream. I saw my opportunity in the form of a windfall for a cosy seat. I then took out of my pack and ate the best part of a pork roast, some bread and two freshly picked apples. The sound of the stream toiling its way seawards was all the company I needed.
The inner man had stopped grumbling so the pack was hoisted and the trail was again engaged. A couple of hours travel and I was at the base of the long climb to the tops, glimpses of which I would at times, tantalisingly see. I bent my body into the hill and toiled ever upwards. I think it was Keith Severinson who described the quest for height the best....putting one foot in front of the other as often as you can. The words bounced off the walls of my mind throughout the climb.
Eventually the bush gave way to scrub and tussock and visibility was extended to kilometres instead of metres. There now stretched in front of me a long and steep tussock clad ridge, dotted occasionally with waratah posts. A half hour later saw me complete a loop and reverse back into a stream filled gulley with a large tarn and the hut situated on its western shores.
I took off my soaked through boots and socks with some relief and viewed the wrinkled albino feet and curled toes with some sympathy. The now steaming mini kettle atop my stove completed the highlights of the day.
The insides of the hut were chilled. It was with little regret that I stepped out onto the frost carpeted ground the next morning. The air was still and the last of the stars twinkled valiantly. There was a yellow band of light that was ever expanding atop the distant eastern mountains. The shroud of night had already fallen. The new day was gaining muscle.
I made lengthy strides in order to warm the body and also gain altitude quickly. There was no particular plan for this day other than to have a good look around this new piece of country.
I suppose 20 minutes had passed when I spied the animal silhouetted against the now blue backdrop of sky. He was on a sharp ridge that was running in a westerly direction. I froze in mid step and we eyeballed each other for an eternity, which was in fact a couple of minutes. He seemed to turn his head a fraction. That was my cue to sink slowly to the ground and be out of sight. I took my pack off and rummaged inside. With Binos now in hand I slowly raised myself and focussed on the chamois. The range I estimated at close on 3oo yds. The Leica’s image confirmed a young animal. His hooks were around even in height with his ears.
Camp meat was the decision. The one serve dehys could do with a supplement.
I contoured further and used a long depression for concealment to close the distance between us. Just ahead was a rise. I carefully raised my head over the top. There were now two shammy on the thin bladed ridge. The range now was around 130 yds. They were both looking my way, and one of them appeared to stamp his foot. I slipped back and again took off my backpack, this time for a support for my rifle. I eased back to the top of the rise, pushing my pack in front of me.
The short barrel was pointing behind the left shoulder of the near side on shammy. The duplex reticule was cast in stone. Kaboomph...there was a definite flinch and the left leg lifted momentarily off the ground. They both dropped off the ridge...but on my side !! They closed the gap between us, although slightly higher and running across my front. The first sham slowed, but looked comfortable. So I again engaged with the Sako. The 4x scope found its mark and another 150 grainer sailed away. He took off again. Meanwhile sham 2 stood stock still. I carefully arranged my Lapua spent cases in front of me, then chambered another round. Kaboomph...his knees buckled and he hit the ground hard sliding down out of my immediate vision.
Redirecting my sights to sham 1, I saw him try to negotiate a spur, when suddenly and without warning he slumped to the ground, and slid out of sight behind some rocks. I took all the meat I needed and stashed it for my return.
Upon reaching the ridge where I initially saw the two animals, I looked further upwards and spied a third. He was standing proud on a rock outcrop around the 200 yard mark. I watched the animal for sometime, also capturing his image on film. Eventually, though, he dropped over the other side and was lost to view.
Higher up the ridge we crossed paths again before finally, and not before time, he lit out for pastures new. The rest of the day was spent sightseeing on the high tops before returning back for the meat and eventually back to the hut. That night, with half a dozen pieces of back steak cut a half inch thick sizzling in my pan, life was good.
The next morning I was labouring up a sheer face, by way of a diagonal fault line that I had observed through Leica the day previous. According to my map it would eventually see me on the main ridge heading south. Somewhat short of that ridge, daylight proper caught up with me. I can best describe it as when you switch on an energy saving bulb, and you have light, though it takes some minutes later for that light to intensify. So it was that, without feeling the sun on me, my next stride took me into that brilliant light.
A bit further on I breached a saddle and was able to look into a different watershed. I was now on the ridge proper. I was looking toward the headwaters of a creek. It was a sight that sent a slight shiver through my body. It was much darker down there, the sun would be a good few hours longer climbing in the sky before it chased away the heavy frost that lingered in that valley.
Just then a stag moaned, his anguished utterance resonated off the bluffs far below and reached my ears, high up to where I lay in the alpine meadows. He moaned continuously for ten to fifteen minutes. A decision was needed, either to pick my way downwards in search of the wily stag, or to continue my way southwards to the inviting basin shown on the map. I elected to keep my altitude and wander southwards. Although nothing in the way of animals was sighted on my sojourn, the day was enjoyed nonetheless.
I think the hunter is at his best when he reacts instinctively and decisions are made, without really being decisions.

The Highest Wallow in the Land

2009-04-13T09:53:00.006+12:00

It was late March and I found myself with a little time off between guests, so I thought I would look over some new country in the hope that the roar would have started. The first day saw me struggle in for 6 or 7 hours with a pack that was way too heavy. You would think a man would have learned a thing or two by now eh? The bright side being that when the hut eventually became a reality, it was a thing of great beauty.
A quick squiz of the map that night had me deciding to head downstream to a creek about 15 minutes from the hut. The next morning saw me following the course of the said creek towards its origins high above. After about an hours travel I came slap bang into an enormous waterfall, at the base of which was an idyllic little pool with deep clear water, green in colour, reflecting the over hanging broadleaf branches and the air was full of fine droplets of water driven up by the force of the impacting deluge from high above. I crossed the creek at this point and ascended the other side ever hopeful of finding a route up alongside the waterfall. It was about this time that I had wished I had had the foresight to have brought along the aforementioned map. The bluffs this side of the creek were just as steep so I continued contouring in the hope of a break somewhere soon. Eventually I found a deer trail winding up and above the nasty fissures of rock.
After a further hour of travel I sat down and took a spell, I looked through the canopy of trees and far across the valley . High above me on that side I spied a huge basin made in heaven. It was richly carpeted in deep golden tussock and ran from the bush edge right up to the sheer rock formations way off in the distance. It was divided by various fingers of scree and rock and it appeared to have a gentle contour at first, only rising with any significance in the final quarter of its length.
A roar drifted across the valley I was intent on, followed by a second roar shortly afterwards. It was impossible to pin point. I looked for a likely looking area and saw a flat piece of bush sandwiched between steep contours of bush above and below. The ground was at least two football pitches in area and was around 200 meters from the tussock. It seemed, from where I sat, to be the most likely place from where the roar had emanated. I will look there tomorrow, I decided.
If the tussock was more or less at eye level opposite me, where the hell was it on my side? I didn’t know whether the slog in yesterday was taking its toll or maybe it was my general lack of fitness, but I called it a day shortly afterwards. I trudged wearily down for an early first day. Arriving at the hut, I could not wait to consult the map, and what it told me was that when I had negotiated the rock band I should have veered hard right and then gone diagonally upward. I would have found relatively flat ground and would have made the bush edge in no time at all. Instead I had plunged upward into a protracted bush finger.
Next day saw me cross the main river, without getting my feet wet, via a load of trees and debris strewn across a narrow run. The plan was to make diagonally for the footy field I had observed yesterday. The best laid plans of mice and men! It wasn’t too long into the journey when it dawned on me that on my current course , with the breeze on my back, I would be wasting my time. Timing as we know has a bearing on a great many things.
It was then I hit a dry watercourse and decided I would follow it onto the tops and circle around and come down a few ridges over. By that time I was sure to have all the air currents in my favour. It was easy going for the first half hour and then it steepened considerably. So much so, that it forced me out on the true left. It was the true right I had wanted to leave the creek on, and I was annoyed I had left it too late. The true right would have led me directly above the magnificent tussock basin, which in itself, was directly above the footy field. Annoyance soon gave way to a mild terror as toe nail holds over meters of air were having their effect over my adrenal glands. I eventually scrambled to safety, thanks to the odd root and later whole branches, which I clung to like long lost relatives. Mr Ultralight Mcmillan stock was not too impressed either with the diagonal scratches spoiling his youthful appearance. The worse part seemed over, and I climbed higher over easier ground. The knoll up ahead would afford me a view of how I might recross the widening gulley ahead. On reaching the knoll and to my utter despair, I realised that to gain access to the ridge opposite would not be easy. The intervening ground was “on end” plunging straight down on both sides. Ahead, the ridge I trod, wound higher into a large rock system. The opposite ridge seemed to loop around and disappear behind those same rocks. “Well me boy, it’s onward and upward”. Looking more like a chamois hunt now, I toiled up through the large rocks hoping like hell there would be a solution at the top. With sweat stinging my eyes I wearily topped the last hard obstacles and was heartened with what I saw. The ridges did meld together via a narrow rocky spur. I soon topped the ridge and crawled over the lip to gaze into my tussock basin.
It was 11.30 and the same time that I had heard the roars of yesterday. Right on cue a savage roar reverberated around the steep walls of the basin, the acoustics playing tricks on the mind. It was if a lion was on the prowl, and impossible to locate. AAARRRGGGHHH again, the growl resonated upwards. It was hopeless trying to glass the basin with my sweat stinging eyes. And yet again the guttural anguish issued forth, this time however it was answered by a stag even higher up the basin. Ok! I have got the initial stag, I mumbled, as my Leica’s focused on an animal trudging up the basin before finally bedding down by an enormous rock. How the hell I am going to stalk him is another matter I will deal with later I thought, as I crawled away from my vantage point and regained the ridge top. I climbed higher and over a small lip into a depression, which resembled a small saddle that seemed to link the basins. Noting the more gentle topography, this would be my entry point I exhalted.
I slid down a little way until I had an uninterrupted view of the upper basin. AAARRgghh! I scanned the upper fingers of tussock. Nothing! How could I not see him? Adjusting the focus on the Leicas, I slowly followed the tussock finger upwards. I spied a wallow, or rather a small creek that had been flattened for some fifty vertical meters into a huge muddy area, undoubtedly the highest altitude wallow I have seen anywhere. Another throaty roar! “Where the hell are you?” I mutter as I let the glasses do the walking. Finally at the very top of a long finger of tussock, about a 100yds higher than the wallow, and only a yard or so short of the scree and rock band, the challenger materialises. He is looking my way and my first thoughts are he is certainly no trophy! He wasn’t even as big as the other stag further down the basin. He then tilts his head back and groans. I scan the area around him, but not a hind do I see.
Time for a few roars myself, I decide whilst I work on my plan. The challenger replies though seemingly half heartedly, boss stag further down joins in with a moan or two. A short while late the challenger beds down but continues to moan spasmodically. I am aware of the good wind that’s drifting up to my position. I note I am roughly opposite the challenger in altitude and there is about 600 yards between us. The ground leading down into the basin is steep, but well carpeted, so realising the need to close the gap, at least to his wallow, I start my diagonal descent on my backside, with low profile, aiming for a point just below his wallow. I manage a good speed, by sliding over the tussock, but the price I pay as my shorts ride up, is severe grass burns. As I continue my descent, I notice the challenger get up, turn around and face the other way. Things are really starting to pick up in my day, I muse.
The further down I slide the more the basin was revealing itself. I stopped and glassed some more and picked out three hinds feeding slowly up towards the challenger, with boss stag keeping tabs on them. He would close the gap to around 50 or 60 yards of the hinds and then plonk himself down again, whilst they fed on. Meanwhile I am making steady, although painful, progress on my bum. Eventually I get to within 200 yards of the bottom of the wallow, and have found refuge in a huge jumble of largish rocks. I am now worried that if I descend too much further I run the risk of my wind eddying up to the challenger. I am stuck between the two stags, so I decide to wait it out for a while. I can hear a creek further down the basin cascading over its course and tormenting my severely dehydrated body.
I don’t have long to wait though. The challenger abruptly gets up and starts down to his wallow, this means he is heading my way, so back pack is off and placed on a handy rock. Mr. Forester is already snuggled into it and I am squinting through the Leupold 1-4 scope, following his progress. He strolls past his wallow and gingerly starts on to the scree that separates the two of us. The range would be 100 yards and he is closing all the time. I close the bolt of my Sako .308. I make the decision to shoot when he reaches the area of rocks I am in and is forced to show me at least a “quarter on” as he turns to continue down hill. I squeeze the trigger and a thump is recorded alongside the blast from the little 17.5 ins barrel. He disappears out of sight.
I immediately swivel and give my whole attention to the boss and his girls wondering at their reaction to the shot. The hinds are making quick progress upwards and away from me into an almost vertical scree chute, he is following and roaring his contempt at intervals. They have nowhere to go, even the nimble chamois would have his work cut out climbing out of there. After a few minutes I decide to go over to the challenger to retrieve at least his back steaks. He is a disappointing five pointer but should provide good meat nevertheless. Pack filled, I now note the animals have backtracked out of the steep gully and have parked themselves under a rock face in the shade. They have to be 500 to 600 yards away. I am in full view on a scree. I decide to brazen it out and work myself diagonally down to as close to their position as I can.
Amazingly I manage to close to around the 250 yard mark. The hinds finally become restless and make their way up and on to a grassy shelf. Meanwhile I am looking around for a decent rest. I locate a rock and then it is off with the pack and rifle across. The stag climbs up on the shelf and pauses. The duplex reticle is cast in stone. I centre the crosshairs just above his shoulder and apply pressure. Kaaaboomph! He drops as if pole-axed and is hidden by the tall tussock. The hinds meanwhile quickly disperse, slip off the shelf, regain the basin floor and waste no time in heading for the bush.
Upon reaching ole stagsy I see he is a better head, although still only an 8. Impulsively I decide to take it out, after all it is the roar. Another set of backsteaks would not go amiss either.
I figure it is obviously early in the roar, as both stags are in fine condition.
After a quick bite to eat...I say quick because on opening my pack I find all my sandwiches in tatters, all reduced to crumbs. I do slake my thirst, however.
Finally, fully laden, I point my footsteps away from this high place of golden tussock and proceed down to the river bottom. The footy field will have to wait for another trip.

12 deer and a chamois

2009-04-08T16:19:00.008+12:00

The long climb to the tops was an arduous one, the sun beat down relentlessly which resulted in copious amounts of precious fluid lost. The continual sucking on the platypus umbilical was a necessary attempt at redressing the situation.
It is early March and The mission is to locate a stag on the tops, before the roar sets in. The forecast is good for the next couple of days and looks Ideal for camping on the high tops.
The long climb over , the time has now come to descend down the opposite side of the range to where I reach my campsite in a knackered state. It doesn’t take long however before the tent is erected and a hot cup of tea is firmly entrenched in my hands. I sit in my tent doorway and revel in the surrounding mountain vistas. Sleep will not be long coming tonight.
I stretched my arm out of the tent doorway, turned on the gas, and placed my already filled kettle on the primus. The stars twinkled in the still night sky, although there was a hint of light emerging on the peaks across the valley from where I lay. The scalding tea tasted good in the quiet predawn, and I had plenty of time to contemplate the day ahead. I finished my cuppa and with the still warm contents of the kettle ,emptied them into my dehy cereal.
Breakfast was already a thing of the past, as I absorbed every available bit of moisture from the thigh high tussock, I was wading through. Every stride was new ground for me physically, although I had been here many times via the map over the preceding months.
My destination was a large amphitheatre of tussock, rock, scree ,and avalanche debris .Two creeks forming a y tumbled from the high tops and merged just above the bush edge. The distance measured some two Klicks from side to side.
Ninety minutes past very quickly , and a lot of ground was covered before what I reckoned was the final spur, lay just ahead, and from there I would be able to cast my eyes on the reality of my map planning.
As always though, after breaching the spur, I found another 100 or so yard s further would enable me to fully eyeball most of the nooks and crannies in the neighbourhood. So it was , that I found myself ,in a narrow finger of beech, and sweating like an over ripe bananna.
I took off my day pack and lay back with Leica trinivods in hand, to scan the ground ahead. I had to wait awhile though because due to my exertions the sweat pouring off my brow was misting up my binos.So I gave my bare peepers a work out on the nearer bit of country whilst I cooled down.
It was about a half hour later, that I picked up my first deer, in fact it was two, a hind and bambi a full 2 klicks away and much higher in the open ground, than I would have expected. Then came a hind a lot lower , but still a long way away from the bush edge. Then lastly even higher than the first two and almost on the ridge top were 4 more.
The time I noted was 9.15. I also noted that these deer were very strategically placed. They were well spaced out, protected throughout the length of the creek they were in By a precipitous looking ridge on their south side. Catabatic wind from beneath, and a natural eddy from the north favoured the animals. The only stalking route seemed to lean to an approach from above. I lay their watching those deer until 12.40, when some of them were starting to bed down. In all that time the uppermost group of four had only descended a mere 200 yds or so.
I had finished my lunch and was heading back to camp with the thoughts...maybe tomorrow as a challenge, I should try and work the huge distance around and come at the four from above....hmmmmm.
I arrived back at my tent around two p.m., peeled off my clothes and lay atop my sleeping bag and sweated and semi -dozed the afternoon away. Around six thirty I donned my boots ,didn’t bother with the socks and grabbed my rifle and wandered about 50 yds to an inclineing rock, on which I lay prone. I was looking down into the tussock headwaters of a creek. I hadn’t even raised the binos to my face, when three animals materialised directly under my position, feeding amongst the tall tussock and alpine scrub. It was the usual family order of mother ,yearling and bambi. It was the mother I singled out, as I placed the cross hairs a little lower down on her body than I normally would to compensate for the steep angle.She lunged foreward at the shot and continued runinng for some twenty yards, before pawing the air with her front legs and settling down. The remaining two animals stood unmoving and uncertain. I took a quick bearing on where the hind had fallen and then had to return to my tent for my knife. When I returned, there was no sign of the youngsters, so I began down climbing the rocky face, to retrieve my meat. I flushed the bambi not long afterwards, and she made strongly for the security of the bush. Now where is my deer? It never fails to amaze how a large animal can completely disappear in tussock, and how an area you have seen from above can take on such different proportions when down amongst it. I must admit to a frustrating half hour scouring up down and sideways, before eventually finding the heart shot beast.
The next morning the sun caught me high above my campsite, blocked by a wall of rock. I managed to find a route around eventually, but then had to descend under a series of sheer rock faces, before being able to ascend again to the prominent ridge, that would eventually lead me to the four deer, spied yesterday.
It was while I was negotiating a steep loose scree, with the inevitable rock fall that is associated with such actions, that a lone chamois appeared on the skyline in front of me and stared intently in my direction. “What’s all the noise then ‘? He seemed to ask, before ducking back over the ridge, and out of sight. Feeling slightly abashed ,but consoling myself with the thought chamois are for winter who cares....yeah right.
Breathlessly regaining the height I had lost , I was now on a sharks fin of a ridge which plunged away to nothingness on the western side. My thoughts were constantly changing throughout the long journey...I will, I wont, let’s just see what’s over the next hump etc. Three hours of constant travel and it was only at this point I believed I was actually going to carry this stalk out.
The day was warming up considerably, I had already discarded the "Tahr "anorak and now I paused to take off my gaiters. The sun burned out of an azure blue sky and the panoramas and vistas were all pure mountain tops as far as the eye could see. The only breeze was pure catabatic, drifting up from the warming valley floor. Indeed good news for one who’s plan was to hunt down toward his quarry.
Eventually the southern most creek was espied, this was the one that held the seven deer from the day before. My bearings were two distinct rocky outcrops , with which I was now level and about 300 yds away from, it would be only a short time before I needed to glass the way ahead. Just as I was slowing my stride, a red form materialised under a shady depression the other side of the creek and around a hundred yards lower in elevation. Exactly where they were spotted yesterday I mused, that is if there is four of them. I edged out of their line of sight and carefully closed the distance. The final part was to down climb a rock band and ease myself into a gut and from there contour around a flatish part of a spur. This I duly did, and half on all fours and half crawling, I positioned myself for a look into the creek. They were up about 20 yds from the creek bed and paired off under two identical shaded entrances of rock. The two on the right were yearling females, the two I was more interested in turned out to be a 4pointer and spiker. It was a teenage group, after all. Ah well I have come this far, the target I decided was to be the 4 pointer. Trouble was the spiker was alongside him, blocking any chance of a shot. I took off my day pack, rested the Ultralight mcmillan stocked sako .308 atop and waited.
They were pretty chummy, licking and sniffing each other, couple of gay boys I thought absently. At last the spiker moved enough for me to see the shoulder of the older male. Tenaciously clinging to the sight picture, I touched off the shot, sending the 150 grn sierra match hollow point on its 200 plus yds journey. An almighty crack as the projectile hit the rock behind the stag. The shot was a good one, had it gone straight through? No real sign of being hit the two dropped to the level of the creek and were mightily confused as were the two yearlings 50 yds higher. The Lapua case spiralled up and out to the right,, and another round rammed home, Kaboomph, pause, a slight look of discomfort on Mr.4, but still standing.Exit stage right messer Lapua, and no. Three handload rammed home. Kaboomph, this time ole 4 points was levelled. Hmmmm
These guys were some green horns they just stood about for an age, so I thought to sneak in a further 100 yds and take a few piccys. Rising over the next spur with camera at the ready, I was confronted with 3 deer in la la land. Eventually I stood up and talked to them, they were still reluctant to leave! By this time I was thinking my meat would go off in the heat, If I didn’t make for the fallen one.
I was taking the first back steak, when I looked over my shoulder, I could see the three of them huddled about some 100yds away and barking intermittingly. It was at this point I remembered my camera had a movie facility, which I had never used before. Up shot was, I took about a minutes worth of footage for a documentary entitled How not to behave in front of a loaded rifle if you are a deer.
Job done it was time to retrace my steps outta there, besides it was getting close to lunch time. I found a piece of flat ground , with a great view back down the creek, and the true right slopes all the way to the bush edge. I could still see the deer , by now no more than specks, they had met up with the hind and bambi further down the creek, and all were now picking up the pace and heading for the bush edge. Not before time I thought....deary me.
It was pleasant sitting up here in my eagles nest surveying the massive tract of country that lay before me, but eventually the sun persuaded me to shift my stumps, turning up the volume heat wise considerably in the next hour. So it was with some regret, I re shouldered my pack picked up sako and trudged back more or less the same way that I had come. I suppose I had covered about a third of the distance back to camp, when I noticed a saddle up against the ridge, that I had traversed on the way in, only I had missed the saddle and climbed a lot higher than I needed to. If I went through that saddle I mused it would mean I could actually head down hill right now, instead of this gruelling never ending climb . Problem was that maybe my route down would end in a series of bluffs that I could not negotiate. Oh hell who dares wins...or something on those lines, I started my descent. After a half hour of travel, my heart was in my mouth, as I could see ahead of me that the ground that I was on, came to an abrupt end, and dropped into nothingness. It was with some trepidation that I covered those last remaining yards to the edge, to peer over and into the creek below. All was ok, not exactly plain sailing, but with some carefull down climbing I was sure I could safely reach the bottom. A small jump had me waist high in a band of luxurious tussock, I made a few tentative steps through the high stuff, when a hind jumped right up in front of me staring uncertainly, another rustle of grass, and the bambi was beside it. Placing my rifle down and throwing off my daypack, I was in a frenzy to find my camera, all kind of precious stuff was discarded , like my Leica binos, spare rounds, head torch, to name but a few, I could hear meantime, the wild ones departing. At last my camera...would be at the bottom!! Got the picture though, just as they were crossing a large rock strewn scree. They again were reluctant to leave me, barking and carrying on for some time, until eventually they disappeared making toward the bush edge.
After stopping a while to take my boots off and let my feet get some precious air, I started the long hot climb into the saddle and through , and down the other side to my campsite. Exhausted I sweated out the rest of the afternoon and evening in the Macpac. Tomorrow I was scheduled out.
I awoke to a heavy mist, I breakfasted, and toileted and then packed away my soaking tent . It was still the sombre early hours , as I started my climb up through the stunted tussock clad ridge. An hour later, and I could see wisps of blue overhead, and then rock faces started to form to my right, and then all of a sudden the main range ahead sprung out to greet me, carpeted in golden tussock, with a cobalt blue sky as backdrop, and I was at last out of that all enveloping crud. Looking back I could see a huge white carpet of cloud, with the first rays of the rising sun, bringing light to it’s edges.
I finally surmounted the thin bladed main range, with the cloud below me on both sides. You would have to be made of wood, not to be in awe of such surrounding spendour. I feel a song coming on....‘Who will buy this wonderful morning’...the words from the song in the film Oliver, sprang instantly to mind. I wasn’t tired, but I sat down, and drank my fill of the beauty that was mine that morning.
With the sun climbing higher, I was treated to the spectre of the Brochan on the way home, I had an identical buddy stride for stride with me, across the high tops, until all too soon, I was to bid him goodbye and descend back down into the gloom by myself.

First deer for Lachlan

2009-02-05T20:18:00.007+13:00

The Stewart family arrived at Triple Tui via Nelson Lakes Shuttles. I was mowing the front deer paddock, when I spied the bus heading up the long drive. Disengaging the P.T.O. to the slasher, I jumped off to greet my new guests. It was around 10.30 A.M. and the day was already becoming hot, as I shook the hands of father and son Peter and Lachlan. They had booked an additional two night hunt in the quest for Lachlan’s first deer. Serena, Peters attractive wife was next with the formal greetings followed by the eldest daughter Rebekah, Kaylea and young Ivan.
The luggage was soon unloaded , which then left the family plenty of time to explore the rest of the property. Meanwhile Peter and Lachlan had a quick bite to eat, before joining me to load the Nissan.
We were soon on our way farewelling the rest of the Stewarts, who had come over the river to see us off.
Locking the car at the road end we then eased into our packs and began the tedious march into our designated area. The sun by now was high into the sky and beat down relentlessly. It wasn’t long though before we eased into the cooling sanctuary of the bush, to follow a track that was to lead us high up into the sub alpine tussocks. Some hours later, we again left the bush and were once again greeted by the harsh afternoon sun. This time we were confronted with a long steep ridge spiralling high above us, and it was then down to the basics of one foot in front of the other as often as you can, with mind locked in neutral. As we gained more altitude we became aware of a cold breeze that embraced our sweating bodies, plummeting our core temperature accordingly. The tolerance to the cold varied amongst our small group, but it wasn’t long before all three of us had donned a windproof garment of some sort.
We rested in a sheltered hollow for a spell ,before cresting the windy ridge and dropping over the other side. An hour later the wind had again abated , and soon the pores were open and leaking.
It was around 7 P.M. and we were almost at our proposed campsite, the bush edge was no more than 200yds away, and we were easing around some creek heads with some expectancy , deer droppings were liberally scattered around providing some confidence of deer activity recently. We eventually reached our campsite, with no sightings of our quarry. We parked up by a largish tarn and we soon had the one man tent erected in which Peter and the young 14yr.old Lachlan would share for the trip. I had my bivvy bag, and was looking forward to a couple of nights out under the stars.
The rifle we had with us was my Sako Vixen .222 , loaded with Barnes 53 grn hollow points. Peter had pointed out during our phone conversation some weeks earlier, that Locky had only up till now shot various .22 rimfire rifles , and he was concerned that we did not introduce him to flinching via a heavy calibre. As My only other deer rifle is a Sako Forester in .308. It left little more to discuss, So it was agreed , that the little vixen would do the job.
Just as the last star was fading from view, the little kettle started gushing steam ,there was also much stirring from within the Macpac. Morning greetings were shared in whispered tones, stiff joints were stretched and much yawning and farting expressed. Then with breakfast done and dusted and the light good enough to shoot in, we three singled filed into the contours of our mountain world in search of a deer for Locky.
An hours travel and Peter dropped off the group, deciding there would more chance of Locky realising his aim, if there was less movement and noise going on. Three is, I agreed a big number when hunting deer, even on the tops. Thirty minutes later, and I had allowed myself and Lachlan to drift too far apart, as we negotiated a particularly steep and rocky chute. Just then a rattle of stones reached my ears, and I jerked my head up and scanned the rocks high above me. I soon picked up the movement of a lone young chamois buck, he was onto us and was vacating the area at a brisk rate, it could not be described as running but he wasn’t loitering either . I looked behind me and Locky was 80 to a 100yds away, head down and concentrating on his footing. Frantically whispering in the loudest voice I dared, and moving my arms about, he finally spied the animal just as it crested a small saddle, some four or five hundred yards away. I was pleased he got to see it.
I waited for Locky, and then we crested a small spur, that afforded us a good view of a large creek head. We hunkered down in the tussock and began to glass the area in front of us.
It was some five or ten minutes later that I spied movement and colour, and one deer became three in a very short time. A Female hind, yearling and bambi were feeding some distance away from each other, but were converging together quite quickly and making for the bush edge. Distance is very deceiving on the tops, however I estimated the deer to be 800yds plus. We kept glassing some more to make sure they were the only three around. I asked Locky if he wanted to stalk them....”I don’t mind” he replied. I took that as a yes.
We kept a wary eye on the deer and stopped often as we made our way to the bush edge and out of sight of the animals. It would now be a twenty minute stalk with no reference to the animals at all.
Finally reaching our planned shooting position, I quietly poked my head around the last tree before the tussock took over and was rewarded with the sight of three deer together in a shallow depression, but very close to the bush edge. The yearling and bambi were quartering , but the hind was full broadside to us nibbling high into some sub alpine scrub. The shot would have to be taken off my shoulder with Locky sitting behind me. I passed the rifle to him on half cock and whispered my plan, which was that when he saw me sit down, to come and sit directly behind me and put the rifle on my shoulder. The range to the hind was around 160 yds, and I was a little worried, but thought it too risky to try to stalk any closer.
Locky slid in position closing the bolt, as the rifle settled on my shoulder. I was aware of the barrel arcing in big circles with the corner of my eye, I thought he is going to miss or wound for sure. It was the hind I told him to go for, we could not risk waiting for the yearling to move broadside. KABALM ! the deer collapsed as if pole axed, and only twitched spasmodically. I don’t know who was the most surprised me or the remaining yearling and young un. We eventually had to shoo them away from their fallen mother.
I pumped the young mans hand and congratulated him on his first deer. What a way to start your hunting career. One shot kill with a .222 ,high up in sub alpine country on a beautiful summer morning. I was silently gutted about the decision to take out the mother, but felt the risk too great, to delay further. That said, it was photo time and my hands could barely Stay still long enough to press the shutter button on the camera, I had the shakes.
We walked over to the fallen one, and took a few more photos, and to see where the projectile had entered the animal. The shot was slightly high, but behind the shoulder area, the amazing thing was the exit hole, was dead inline, and big enough to see without peeling back the skin. 53 grn Barnes? You betcha ! It was then time to bone out the hindquarters and remove the back steaks. We then lay back and took in the scenery, mountain vistas in every direction. We snacked on some biscuit and waited for the meat to cool off some before packing it away.
I suggested to Locky that he shoulder the meat as far as he could to camp, stating if you are man enough to take the shot , then you are surely man enough to carry the meat out.
It was a good hour and a half struggle , mainly up hill for the lad, he never complained, although clearly tired especially toward the end. The day pack he was carrying was ill fitting and hung well below his waistline . I could have and perhaps should have relieved him of his burden, but thought his memory of the day would be so much the better for the fact, that he was able to bring his kill back by himself to his waiting dad.
There was much discussion throughout the long hot afternoon, and much praise heaped deservedly on young Lachlan.
The evening stroll was aimed at a sighting of the chamois seen earlier in the day , but proved uneventful.
Early the next morning Peter and I left Locky still in his feathered tomb, to retrace the footsteps of the previous day, with the hope of securing an animal for the senior member of the Stewart duo. Again we sat down and glassed , and it wasn’t too long before I spotted first one and then another of the wild breed. It was a hind and yearling around two hundred yards apart, but clearly together , high up on a tussock shelf hundreds of yards away from the sanctuary of the bush. We were in deep shadow, glassing the sunny face, and it would probably be at least an other hour before the warming rays of the sun would reach our vantage point.
I asked Peter if he wanted to make the long stalk, and he declined saying it was too far and also that we had really enough meat to be getting on with . Fair point I mused, so we settled back to watch the show. I wondered where the bambi was. They slowly fed and made their way downwards, the yearling a couple of hundred yards lower in altitude, but steadily making it’s way down to what looked like an impenetrable wall of rock, I was wondering aloud to Peter just how they were going to negotiate that band of rock, which looked impossible to breach, no matter how often I scanned the surrounding area.
Meanwhile I was drawn to the hinds location and she was climbing again, and seemingly searching the ground ahead, I muttered to Peter that maybe she was looking for where she last put her bambi down. She covered what looked like a good hundred yards upwards, when suddenly her head bent low into the tussock to sniff, my glasses then picked out a neck and head of the little one. There then followed a few minutes of licking and nuzzling, before the hind turned back down the hill on a different tack to the still feeding yearling , leaving the bambi high up in the tussock.
Within minutes of reuniting the pair started to cavort around, playing some game of tag, where one would chase the other , until the roles were reversed, they would sometimes lash out with their hind legs, and periodically nibble some morsels in between the frolicking, All the time slowly but surely making their way to that band of rock. Then suddenly without warning they raced down a steep bush clad spur, I was able to follow their progress, intermittingly through the gaps in the canopy, a pause and then they emerged out in the tussock briefly across from us about 300yds distant, The dead hind from yesterday a scant 20 yds away from them. I guess they must have winded the body, for they then returned back into the bush, and we did not see them again.
I had dismissed the bush spur as a means of getting through the band of rock, but with hindsight, if trees can grow in an area ,then there surely must be a chance of a trail through them, A valuable lesson learned in any event, and also a possible stalking route for the future.
We picked our way out of the watershed and returned to camp, to find a very relaxed Lachlan. We ate an unhurried lunch and packed away our gear. It was just after midday that we started the long hot climb for home

Unpredictable wind

2008-11-24T11:52:00.001+13:00

The blustery wind
The strong wind nudging my back was not the ideal introduction to the new day, as I hunkered deep down into the tussock to survey the ground ahead. The way ahead was a large expanse of open tussock land, interspersed with scrub and the odd bush outcrop, the end of which had the contours huddled together for comfort giving birth to steeper country leading progressively to the rocky heights.
The tussock tops swayed and dipped, in protest to the demanding zephyr, and the clouds ominously rolled in as I traversed my handy 8x20’s binoculars steadily over the intervening ground.
It was not a long time later and Leica rewarded me yet again for my dollar outlay. Firstly one then two and eventually four deer became reality at least over a klick and a half away.
First things first I thought, breakfast wasn’t even a near miss this morning, instead a hurried cup of tea, the obligatory ablutions lunch packed for the day and gone. So it was with some relish that I unpacked my Backcountry muesli serving for one, which I had already added water to before leaving, and was now I imagined, just right. In between mouthing the cold crunchy food, I would peer through Leica, to keep track of the distant animals.
The prospect of the long stalk ahead soon had me leaving my nest and at a crouch, covering a long stretch of country angling for a higher contour, hoping my wind would carry past the deer. Even at this distance, I was not about to take them cheaply.
A Low profile, with tussock around my ears I engaged Leica again, the image returned was of a group of wild animals, enjoying an alfresco breakfast. Sentry duty effortlessly shared between at least three of them, well…. you couldn’t burden junior too much. Their destination would undoubtedly be the bush line and their line of travel and level of activity suggested that would be sometime off yet.
I had been stalking and observing the deer now for well over an hour, and had just crawled out of a dry stone creek bed some minutes earlier. I was now snuggled in alongside and amongst a series of scrubby bushes with my pack off and in front of me, and my Sako Forester laid atop. The range I estimated to be four hundred yards or so. Throughout the whole of the stalk so far, I had noticed the spiker to be numero Uno in the lookout stakes. He always was the one who would stare the longest, and lift his head the most frequently. The rest of the group comprised of what looked like two hinds and of course the bambi.
So here I was then, the strong wind still blowing unnervingly from behind my position, but seemingly diagonally across left to right. The deer straight in front of me and moving right to left. The main creek, I felt was the central crux of the hunting day, it meandered down to my left and angled steeply up and flowed down high above the breakfasting redskins.
My strategy was to ambush the deer. Their line of travel indicated to me that they would intersect the creek possibly at one of two places, which would then leave one of two very distinguishable game trails for them to proceed on. I gambled that they would choose the lower route enabling me to engage them at a distance of around the 200yd mark. The higher game trail wound higher, increasing the distance between our positions.
Formerly strung out , the foursome now were huddled together, half in shadow ready to cross the creek, intently staring down in my direction, a ripple of unease in their ranks, I fancied. Some scrub high and to my right was suddenly flattened in a vicious gust, I was momentarily reassured on checking their positions that all was still well….ill founded! As one they took off across my front in full flight. I locked the bolt. The spiker was playing tail end Charlie and it was he that paused and halted to stare down imperiously from his lofty position. The duplex reticle that had been tracking the animals one by one now rested unerringly on his spine and was unwavering. I applied pressure on the light trigger…..I then applied more pressure…the sight began to waver…nothing. The spiker had had enough and departed. I raised myself up into a crouch and in disgust inspected my rifle. The bolt was closed and the trigger spent, there was a live round in the chamber!! My sickly conclusion was that somehow whilst closing the bolt, a part of the pack had snagged on the trigger, rendering the rifle safe.
Hunting is rarely the predictable; it’s what keeps us coming back... I guess.

Extracts from an early winter sojourn

2008-11-22T14:03:00.005+13:00

<
div>The alarm on my watch delivered it's message twice, each time for an eight second duration, a minute divided the tones. It was wasted this particular morning. The candle stub was already flickering, causing dancing shadows that wallpapered the hut. The only window was frozen and thick vapour clouds escaped me in the dark, they were only glimpsed whilst backdropped to the candle, but testimony to the freezing temperature. I had awoken some five minutes before hand, sat up out of my sleeping bag and quickly clad my upper body in my pillow. My pillow being a mountain hardwear down jacket. This being it's very first trip and already I was wondering how an earth I had managed for thirty odd years without it.
The pocket rocket soon had it's chores done, and with a brew and a backcountry dehy breakfast stowed away, I was swinging my daypack onto my shoulders and stepping out of the door, into the all encompassing darkness.The Blackness was spoilt only by the Petzl led lights atop my head. The way ahead was a track covered in frozen snow that meandered through open bush and down to the river. A careful piece of boulder hopping, resulted in me not getting my feet wet, or breaking my neck on the icy outcrops.
I was now in untracked bush and the aim was to climb to the tops as quickly as possible, before the yellow enemy cast it's light.
The velvety sky, was awash with a myriad stars, that were occassionally glimpsed through the dense canopy high above me. The ground soon became almost verticle, thick with vegetation that strangled movement, and rock outcrops that demanded respect. Within time, the darkness gave way to shadows ,and the light increased, to the point that "Petzl" was removed and put away.....[thanks mate]
The more height gained , the more abundant the snow, the beech tree branches were now
hanging low under the weight of it, pushing through them resulted in micro avalanches cascading down my back. The snow was the fine powder stuff, that clings to uncovered skin with a mission to numbing bones.Gloves were donned and the hood of my Tahr coat was pulled tight over my head, I was certainly beginning to question what the hell sort of pastime is this.
After maybe ten or so more minutes of this bliss, an opening was spied, which looked like I had reached the tops. In fact it was the start of a long slip, that appeared to the right of my position. On placing my Meindl boots tentatively on it's ice covered edge, and looking upwards, I could see it's scree and lightly scrubbed covering, reaching upwards to join with the snow covered tussock tops.Slinging Sako across my back, and grasping hold of any branches and scrub that was available, I proceeded to kick footholds in the ice, and so slowly began to ascend.
Breathing hard and knee deep in fresh snow, the slip was now behind me, out in the open at last. I was now being buffeted by a fierce wind, who's origins lay in the craggy bluffs away in the distance, witness to this were the heavy grey clouds that hovered above the high tops.
No self respecting chamois would want to loiter here, were my grim thoughts. The cloud though , seemed only to be hovering over the heads of the creek to my left, and seemingly channelling all the wind down it, for there was blue sky for Africa either side of it , and everywhere else for that matter.
I strode off to my right, with the intention of putting as much mileage as I could between me and this phenomenon.
Climbing back to the general vicinity in which I spied a group of animals a couple of days ago, I reached an area where the tussock was now giving way to a more rocky terrain. I could feel the sun on my back ,and the wind was no more, it was if someone had turned a fan off in a room.In fact in was a different day altogether.
........I was now Crunching through snow ,above the dried creek bed I was contouring, and near a slight rise,over which was a large basin. Eureka! the group materialised from nowhere ,five in all, they had their heads down enjoying their brekkie, I quickly made use of this and ate up the remaining yards to the rise and lay prone, fishing for my binos.......I did not see the buck, he was maybe thirty yards away from the main group and was watching me, like a man watches a beer being poured after a long hard day.It was a nano second later he was off and into his harem shouting the odds, there was the inevitable confusion, I locked the bolt down on Mr.Forester,waiting for the instant he paused. The duplex reticle in Leupold's housing settled unwaveringly on his shoulder.. Kabalm! The shot reverberated amongst the towering cliffs, the buck seemingly unhurt dashed downhill and away from me and the remaining group, for some eighty yards or so, before piling up in a heap. He was no world record, but coupled with a good winter skin, he was worth taking.

Broken Horn

2008-11-22T13:14:00.005+13:00

The stars twinkled overhead in the frosty morning, as I pressed the latch home and locked my main gates. The heater in the Nissan was on full and the blower was blasting out air, but I was yet to feel the benefits. It would take a few klicks more before the heater was working to its full potential. The weather window was good, at least three of four days of a high system hovered over the South Island.

Exactly ten minutes later a quick glance in my rear view mirror confirmed that the Senator silver shark was still affixed to my toe ball, as I pulled off the gravel road and joined up with S.H.6. The further thirty minutes of travel was uneventful.

Not far out of St. Arnaud, I noticed with some concern the manuka at the side of the road was swaying with some violence, and it was with some apprehension that I drove down the remaining stretch into Kerr Bay. The wind was howling and waves were crashing onto the pier with regular monotony. The ducks too had unanimously and unashamedly decided that the wooden jetty was the place to huddle en-masse, and there must have been at least twenty there wing to wing. I was stunned to say the least, and just sat in the car hoping things wouldn’t look as bad when the light strengthened.

I swamped the boat on the first attempt at launching, then retired to sulk in the car for a couple of hours in the hope that the wind would abate. Nothing doing and the morning was getting on. Attempt no. 2! I backed down the concrete ramp, as soon as the boat began to float I ripped out of the driving seat and hared over to the boat and pushed until it cleared the trailer. By this time the boat had taken a good few waves stern on and there was a good six inches of ballast. I grabbed the long rope and ran down the jetty turning the boat to face the oncoming tsunamis. I made a few half hitches on the nearest post and rifled back to the car to park it up. Just coming to a halt, I looked to see the boat been hurled onto the concrete ramp. The rope had broken! Racing back to the boat with heavy pack and rifle, I dropped them both on the jetty. With each successive wave, and by pulling on the remaining rope, I was able to inch the boat back into deeper water. Securing it once again I proceeded to load it up. I gunned the motor, unhitched from the post, and was as good as launched. Christ I thought what a start. Just then the motor died and the boat immediately swung around. Straight away it began ingesting huge quantities of wave material i.e., water. My eyes glazed as I frantically sought to find out what had caused the motor to cut out so suddenly. The jetty was looming menacingly nearer. Then I noticed the fuel line had come adrift. JESUS!! I almost parted company with the craft, in my haste to reach the parted umbilical cord, as a wave crashed into the boat as I was midships.

.I finally gunned the motor and was once again heading into the maelstrom. Sudden gusts would render the steering useless and I slew across the lake. Eventually I reached the sanctuary of the Mt Robert shoreline, from there I hugged the coast on the remaining leg of my journey.

Pulling into the Coldwater hut on the glass like surface of the water, it did cross my mind to wonder if this was still all part of the same day. I faced the boat in the direction of travel for the return leg and moored it securely. I then slipped my arms into the straps of my pack and heaved it onto my shoulders. I Picked up Mr. Forester and filled his belly with .308 cal. Rounds, slipped the bolt over the topmost round and left the bolt in the half cock position. The way ahead would be easy, I mused as I entered into the bush. It was around midday.
My spirits began to soar at the prospect of a few days hunting, new country to explore and seemingly I was not going to share it with anyone…hows that for selfishness?
I was at my destination in the late afternoon and it was with some relief that I shrugged off my bondage that was my pack, and threw my rifle on the top bunk. I never tire of the delight of reaching a hut and brewing up with a biscuit and evaluating the hut book entries. Soon however, and with evening shadows lengthening it was time to look around for some firewood, there was a ton of branches and assorted twigs in the wood box, but it would take some axe work to maintain the fire once alight. Lying in my bag later that night, the fire embers glowing, and casting their eerie shadows around the hut, my mind “time travelled” back over the years at warp speed and conjured up a collage of like memories, of huts and campfires up and down the country. Different faces of dogs and humans alike, clamoured for recognition and status. It was amidst these visions that I snubbed out the candle, and then tugged the sleeping bag tightly around my neck and closed my eyes.

Climbing high in direct competition with the early morning sun (I hoped it was breathing at least half as hard) I casually glanced at my pathfinder watch and realised I had put an hour of travel behind me since leaving the hut. Looking over my shoulder down to the creek, from which was the start of my vertical stress, I noted it still in deep shadow, and also seemingly miles below. I took a rest and again scoured the creases and folds of the undulating hill above me. The little Leica 8x20’s gaining more and more definition as the day wore on. Satisfied, I again bent my shoulders into the hill and pumped ole shanks.

It was perhaps no more than twenty minutes later when the chamois buck lifted his head in front of me. Our eyes locked for the briefest of nano seconds, before he decided “you can overdo confirmation!” He was up and away from his lying up position and cresting the ridge behind him before I could close the bolt of my Sako Forester. Shit! Breathing raggedly and without an overdose of too much optimism, I eventually reached the ridge, a very poor second. I did a double take, because the animal was still there and only fifty yards further on, completely bluffed in some particularly nasty sheer rock faces.
It was at this point that he should have put his hands up and then taken into custody.
The rifle recoiled against my shoulder and at the shot the chamois buck sailed spectacularly out into the void and away from the dizzying heights out of view. It was quite a few seconds later that my ears picked up the fact that he had indeed landed. It was quite a scramble, to get down to where the beast lay half buried in scree. It was also hugely disappointing to discover that one of his hooks had splintered and broken off; his skin too was much the worse for wear. I removed the back steaks and rued the decision I made in pulling the trigger.
I sat some time on that scree in deep contemplation. The thoughts ranged through hunting and life in general. The sheer magnificence of my surroundings was not lost on me either. It was though, the ever increasing warmth of the suns rays that eventually broke the reverie. Urging the hunter on, before the day got too much older.

After the storm

2008-11-22T12:41:00.007+13:00

The word DOC put out regarding “Keep out of the National Park, due to snow damaged tracks” etc... With hindsight was a good one, however, in defence of my actions I was waiting for a substantial break in the weather since early June. It was now late August. So when the forecast was for fine weather from Wednesday to possibly Sunday, I was already gone.

The first part of my virgin forage into this area of the park involved a pushbike. Now a pushbike with a man and a heavy pack including rifle, does not come under the heading “fun to be had”. It was quite obvious right from the start, when I proceeded to hit a large stationary object, i.e, a rock, with the front wheel and the handlebars ripped into my ribs, that this would be a trip of few laughs. Much of the three hour journey resulted in skirting around windfalls, over the top where possible, but I learned fairly quickly that to try and push straight through was a non starter. Leaves and twigs are hyper magnetic to the workings of chains and cogs. I would like to say that time passed quickly and in no time I was leaving my bike and starting my series of footfalls. Alas, the truth is it was a veritable eternity. However even eternity has an ending, or at least in this case it did...

No bike on this leg but the vein continued in as much as nothing had changed as respect to windfalls and vegetation obstructions. The track got vaguer and vaguer and the further in I progressed the worse it got. Then just by way of change, there was snow to contend with. Again the further I progressed the deeper it got. Then to further the change, the friendly little orange triangles started up the game of “Now you see me, now you don’t’” he he. Yes and you guessed it, the further I progressed the less of them there were.
Although I did not rest throughout my trek, I felt I was travelling at sloth speed .It was Ten hours from when I started from the road end that I found myself at river level, up to my knees in snow, and it was 6p.m. This special day was loosing daylight fast and there was no refuge in sight. I looked around for the friendly inn, but there was nothing with neon lights and certainly no vacancy signs. After much ado, I sought solace under an isolated patch of scrub, which was actually free of snow under its canopy. Wriggling under, I spread my bivvy and sleeping bags out, had a quick cheese sandwich, brewed up, and turned in.

No need for the alarm clock the next day, I was up and running at daybreak. Running not exactly being the most accurate adjective. The heartbreak was a ditto of the day before. It took me a further four hours to reach the opening stretch of what once was tussock leading up to the hut of my choice. Upon embarking on that long snowfield on my last leg, there was considerable movement a long way ahead. That movement turned out to be a chamois. It was eleven fifteen; the animal had just crossed the river, and was diagonally moving ahead and would likely converge on my heading just about where the hut was situated. My first instinct was to call out and say “put the kettle on mate”. There was no adrenalin left in the system, I was too tired for that, instead, I kept a wary eye and trudged on in the same manner. The chamois suddenly disappeared in a depression, I thought that likely it had seen or smelt me and made off, for there was a steady breeze at my back. A hundred or so yards further and I came to an abrupt halt. That is some tree stump I mused! I stood there looking at that stump for at least five minutes. I was just about to dismiss it and move on, when the stump moved. I slowly raised my scoped rifle and peered through the lens - a chamois neck and head, and looking this way. We admired one another for some time. Eventually it turned away. It was about now that I was beginning to take this seriously .I unbuckled my pack and let it slide to the ground. I then slipped into a dry creek bed and proceeded with much haste in its direction, upon raising my head out of the wash I was rewarded with a broadside view of the animal at around the 100yds range. On one knee I lined the target up. I was alarmed to see the duplex reticle dancing the cha cha. There was nothing I could do to dampen the movement, so with an ah well here goes…let rip… Kabalm. The Chamois about turns it’s body length and vaporises toward the river. Out of sight, I myself converge on the river in time to see it make it to the other side. The Sako ejaculates its deadly 150 grn round and slams the chamois into the ground.

Right at that moment, I did not have the gumption to cross the river and assess the animal. I turned my back and retraced my snow prints back to my backpack, picking up the empty .308 case en route. It was a long three hundred yard trudge to the hut. At the hut I did the usual chores, first being to take the empty water buckets down to the river to fill, I then unpacked my pack.
I noticed the heat in the sun all the while, which also registered to me the need to inspect the chamois and take any meat that I needed. So with daypack on, and always with rifle in hand, I plodded to where the chamois lay.
For the first time in my Meindl boots short life, water filled them to the brim, as I crossed over to the fallen one. On inspection, I deduced the first shot had been amidships. “It” could now be formerly referred to as a nanny, she had 8” horns and was negotiating her life and the country with one eye. So I had shot a one eyed nanny…not something to be remembered by I thought. I took her back steaks nonetheless.
The rest of that day was spent in glorious rest, copious amounts of coffee and tea and mounds of nuts, raisins and chocolates. Despite the rest or because of it my ribs began to get sorer. That thwack with the handle bars yesterday was beginning to make itself felt. The next day was Saturday and I could not move without severe pain, to go hunting was completely out of the question. I began to worry about the prospects of not being able to get myself out of there. The balloon would not go up until Wednesday at the earliest, and I fantasised how nice it would be to ride back in style in a helicopter. No windfalls or deep snow to contend with hmmm…..
The reality though was if a man can get himself in, he can damn well get himself out, so I resolved to see what Sunday would bring, hoping all the while that the weather would not pack in. I was up before the morning dawned, and although still in much pain, I was resolved to having a go. It was with much reluctance that I left my wilderness world and crunched over that now solid foundation of snow across the frozen open stretch towards the distant bush. The trip back was a little easier, for I now had my footprints to follow to negotiate the really bad parts, and also there was a decidedly downward gradient.
It was six o'clock Saturday night when I turned the key in the Nissan and pointed her for home. The weather packed in the next day. As a footnote the ribs eventually took over 6 weeks to heal.

.

Piggy in the middle

2008-10-23T15:59:00.013+13:00

Your some shooter boss!!

From the Ngaawapurua hut; I was , hunting quietly along, when suddenly the whistle of a sika deer, had me grinding to a halt. Somewhere above me, and to the right I guessed, fearing to move too much, in case I alerted her further. I imagined her big ears swivelling around, like radar, and her nose silently questing the air. Again and again her whistle’s rang out. I reached for my shepherd’s whistle around my neck, and give vent a reply. Instantly, she replied again, and this continued for some minutes, with me peering upwards, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of her, I tried to keep my movement to a minimum to avoid the big three....sight, sound and smell .The breeze, which was ever so gently blowing up the hill to her position.
Then below me another whistle, signalling another deer had joined the party, I immediately shut up and left the two of them get on with it, with me in the middle. Some tense minutes passed when eventually a scuffling of leaves, just below my position had me on alert. The scuffling was progressively getting louder, until the whole of the animal materialised against the backdrop of scrub, she was still whistling and looking up hill . She was about fifty or so yards away from me. The treble two was up and spitting flame, the deer rolled out of sight. Instantly ejecting the round, I dashed forward, seeking an opportunity for a shot, at the original deer, and was not disappointed, movement caught my eye, and I could see the hind racing away up hill, driving home the next round, and taking a bead on a fast retreating rump brought it’s just reward. After the report I was satisfied to see the inert form, slackly slump to the earth..
Buzzed by a hawk
Hunting from the Tussock hut, one evening, I was in the heads of the Mangatainoka river,plying my trade as a forest service “gun”.I was working my way carefully down one of a myriad spurs, in that hinterland,when a rush of air, causing some buffeting signalled me to instinctively duck. For the moment stunned, I looked about me to locate the source. That's when I saw the bird come straight at me. Thinking it would flare away when it recognised me, I stood my ground. Nothing like it,it was me that flared away, almost throwing myself down onto the ground,to get out of it's path. Before I had half recovered it was at me again, this time from my blind side, with the talons narrowly missing my head, and screeching, I was forced to duck again. It climbed steeply this time, and in a tighter arc made to return it’s attack, I had just enough time to stand up ,and note the sharp intent in the piercing yellow eyes ,as my unblinking aggressor sortied again. Down he swooped ,aiming straight for my head. This time however I instinctively raised my rifle vertically at the very last moment, there was a sickening thud ,as the hawk made contact with the cold unrelenting steel of the barrel, and in a mass of wings body and feathers, rolled off the spur some yards ,and momentarily lay quite still. I was rooted to the spot, emotions not yet surfacing ,half bewildered by the events of the last few minutes.Then movement, the bird raised his head ,and like a prizefighter,shook it a few times ,to get his bearings,extending his legs ,blinking once ,he then opened the span of his wings and lifted ,gaining height quickly ,and disappeared into the dense canopy overhead.
I quickly made strides out of there,noting the geography ,and promising myself I would not return.I suppose there was a nest with young ones near by, and the bird was just protecting his little bit of space. However having seen the film The Birds.......
Mishap at Tussock

After a number of hours travel in dense bush it was nice to break out into the golden tussock in the headwaters of the Harkness river. Toby and I were making big strides for the hut ,which is securely nestled hard up against the bush edge in the north western side of the park.
Tussock hut, the place conjours up many memories, mostly good, but in this instance.......It was post roar and I was doing really well, hunting wise. I was super fit, and loving every minute of my work, I had my six week tally of forty tails already, and I was only into week five, everything was going well....... I should have known.
I had travelled through from Te Puke and arrived at tussock around midday there was one guy in residence and he was a pretty morose sort, partly due to his lack of success, he had been here two days previous and up till now had shot nothing. He claimed the place was all shot out, I frankly looked at him in disbelief, as I’d averaged a week at least every month since the season began at this hut, and there was always plenty of deer left after I had gone !!!!
I was then determined to prove to him that there were plenty of animals about. The words echoing in my ears as I reached for the door handle “you are wasting your time”,
I shot two deer that night, he glanced at my belt as I entered the hut, and saw the two sika deer tails hanging there.
He increduously came out with the comment you were just lucky!
I hadn’t eaten all day so I decided to ignore this man’s comments and proceed to prepare myself some dinner. Feeding the dog first, I then asked him if he needed the fire for a while. “No she’s right mate ,I’ll have a brew later”, put it on now if you like, I replied, again he was adamant that he was happy to carry on reading his paperback for awhile.
I was nearing the completion of my cooking when a voice came from afar, is that brew ready yet? I said I’m nearly finished but I’ll put some water on the edge of the fire at least it will get a start eh?,
A few minutes later the same question ,then again a few minutes later, I was quickly moving things about meat and onions in the camp oven potatoes in another billy etc. This guy was getting to me now so I got his billy and put it on a hook directly in the main heat of the fire, and then went on to concentrate on my dinner. Unbeknown to me ,in my haste I had not checked the various hooks hanging by the fire, and the one the billy went on was inverted back to the stalk ,to that the handle was just resting on the wire, and not were it should be- in the groove! The water was now boiling I must have shook the horizontal wire, because the next I knew about anything, was that scalding hot water was all over my stocking clad foot, in agony I peeled the sock off, and raced down to the stream, to immerse my foot.Man that water was freezing, but did just the job, I must have been in the stream about half an hour or more before I thought it safe to return to the hut, and even then, all night with alternate bowls of water, firstly warming one bowl at a time with my red hot foot.
The next morning my co resident went a hunting I stayed were I was with my bowls. During the course of the day, I developed a blister easily the size of a soccer ball My mate returned in the evening, and took one look at my foot, and exclaimed, with some meaning “I don’t care what you say, I’m off to Boyds tomorrow, to try and get some help(Boyds, being a hut on the Kaimanawa side of the Ngaruroro river, which also hosts an airstrip. It generally does quite a bit of traffic )
Fair play to him he was away first light the next morning Mid morning saw the arrival of the hughes 500, the doctor on board raced into the hut made a quick assessment, then told me I was on my way to hospital, and asked ,me what did he have to do to tidy up..For instance these things as he made to throw them in the fireplace. He was referring to my forty odd deer tails hanging on the food cupboard door .NNNNNNNN OOOOO, I shouted horrified, those smelly things you have in your hand are my wages, I explained.
Toby was wondering what the hell was going on , as he was uncerimoniously stuffed in the back of the chopper. We landed at Taupo hospital. I was asked shortly afterwards what I would like for breakfast. Eggs I replied ,anything with eggs [they were easily the most thing I missed during those long trips}They took to my blister, ....after my shower of course, with a pair of scissors, then put a dollop of cold cream over the wound. I was in hospital for a week and during that week whenever that cream fell off I would scream in agony , as the fresh air attacked the footI would be in agony

Walkabout with Kaweka's no.2

2008-10-22T16:54:00.006+13:00

Ed Bright at Mangatainoka

Te puke-Mangatainoka-Tussock
Enjoying a nice early morning cup of tea, with some recreational hunters at Te Pukeohikarua hut ,I was surprised early one morning by the arrival of Ed Bright ,who at the time was second in charge of the Kaweka forest park I bid him good morning from deep within my sleeping bag, and made sure he had a nice mug of tea, in his hands ,more by delegation than physical endeavour.

After much banter and general craic ,Ed suggested I join him in a trip down to the Mangatainoka hut ,as he hadn’t been before and would like some company, at first I refused saying I was far too comfortable here, but the more he coaxed me the more I got to thinking , that this guy is second in charge of the whole operation, and although he is asking me very politely ,it’s coming across like a nice order.So reluctantly ,I agreed ,one night ain’t going to kill me, and then I can head off to the Tussock hut via the mangatainoka stream, whilst Ed. Was intending to make his way out to Makino etc.Another advantage being this hut was pretty damned full now, and a man likes to have a bit of space to do his hunting .I had my vietnam pack ,ready in an instant ,cleared the food back in the cupboard ,grabbed sako and the dog , and along with Ed’s dog the four of us took off.Now I was having a lot of trouble with my rifle at this time, in that the ejector was not working .The extractor would pick up the empty case, but as I drew the bolt back, there was nothing to spin the empty case out of the rifle, i.e, the ejector was stuffed. What would happen ,is that the whole bolt with the empty case attached would come completely out of the breech, I would then shake the case free or else kn ock it against my leg, then try and put the bolt back , as quick as possible,pickin g up the next round . [which was again not quick.] Definetely not a repeating rifle ,more a case of a blackpowder cycle!
We had been travelling for about an hour now ,and it was getting around for late morning ,having just covered a large piece of semI open bush in which Ed rightly remarked ,there was a hell of a lot of sign about, we entered the more typical bush for the area. I was looking for a likely looking spur to take us down to the mangatainoka stream and hut. Toby was quite keenly looking over the right hand side of the spur, and shortly after started winding quite strongly, all this was missed by Ed as he continued his conversation albeit in a very low tone, but still sounding to me as if he was yodelling !I made a pace or so over to him,and nudged him whispering that I thought there was a deer over the side. ’I'm going with the dog down to check it out I said . Looking slightly bewildered he nodded ,and silently beckoned his dog to him.
The bush certainly wasn’t too thick for which I was relieved,but made for slow progress ,cos it was a fairly steep slope that I was descending, and that mean’t the cards were firmly in the deers hand .
Toby was loving the aromas, his head jerking back in a series of jerky movements,I was now positive there was a deer somewhere below me,scanning the bush ahead, on a line that the dog was indicating, and straining my ears for any sound that I could pick up, I detected a rustle of leaves somewhere ahead ,then I saw the movement of a neck and head reach up and feed from a low lying branch, it was a stag.Sako was up and spitting fire,the deer down and out ,but more bodies unseen were crashing away,the dog in hot pursuit ,despite my protestations to the contarary.
I had tailed the animal, and was making the last cuts in the meat that I intended taking with me, when Ed arrived. After hearing the shot ,he made his way down to me, and was full of praise, which I guess was nice to hear .We yarned awhile ,waiting for the mutt to come back, finally with a tongue 60ft. Long ,and panting like a locomotive, he was along side ,a growl from me soon had his ears laid flat along his head ,and a shuffling ,belly rub along the grass,was his verson of an I’m sorry gesture.Then we were away again.We followed the spur for a good distance ,before it dumped us in some creek,that didn’t look half bad to travel in, so that’s what we did .We hadn’t been going long ,when Toby started acting up in the best possible way ,and was indicating, which in this neck of the woods ,means DEER. I shot a glance over to Ed. And his dog,not a flicker from either of them, [to be fair Toby and me are a team,both fit and hard and experienced ,in the day in day out grind [pleasurable]of hunting deer], and getting paid for it!Ed and co.were on a gentle walk about.
I alerted Ed to the fact that rounding the next tight bend in the creek, we could confront an animal.Rounding the bend carefully,I saw on a patch of initially open ground,runinng into firstly short scrub,a nd then bush,30/40 yds.above the creek ,two red deer hinds looking straight at us, range was over the hundred yards, sako was up and made the necessary introductions, first deer dropped as though poleaxed, and rolled “all legs”,until a log jamb halted her momentum, I pulled the whole bolt out and shook the empty case free, inserting and picking up the next round, cursing at the lack of fluency and speed. The remaining deer was surging uphill , after the first shot, so by the time I had the leupold cross hairs trying to cover her body ,she was just about being swallowed up by the bush. Ed fired at that moment, and I got one away ,but judging by the reaction of the hind who was still going uphill,they were not telling shots.I was really lamenting my rifles shortcomings, as I was only half way through my six week trip,so there was obviously more frustration in store to contend with.
We reached the hut a short time after, and I spent a good night in Ed’s company ,in the morning after breakfast we farewelled each other ,with he going downstream,and the merle and me going upstream , to find the spur that was to take us to Tussock hut.P.S. I REMEMBER LYING IN OUR SLEEPING BAGS, SUPPER FINISHED AND THE TILLEY LAMP EXTIGUISHED AND ED. MAKING THE COMMENT ; WHAT A DAG, YOU UP HERE A WELSHMAN 13000 MILES AWAY FROM HOME ,NO FAMILY HERE, AND UP IN THE BUSH CHASING DEER- HE HAD A POINT!!!!!
We were not in a rush that morning, the dog and me, we were in cruise control, sometimes you are at one with the bush, nevermore so than when you are pro. Hunting on a six week stint, and around the three week mark, you are definiteley getting there.I might disagree with a lot of things with Russell,but although I hated with a vengence that first day of a six weeker,come the third to fourth ,I was always benefiting with fitness ,coordination ,concentration, and probably worse of all smell.Being a solitary type I used to thrive on this life style, the biggest regret I have always had, was that I was not born a Kiwi.
Any way ,with the passing of time I don’t remember If Toby was indicating or not ,but we noiselessly rounded the bend in the stream ,and surprised four sika hinds,feeding just out of the streambed, as the echoes of the shot resounded in the confines of the creek, a hind was rolling, down the shallow incline towards us,two deer ran directly uphill,as I was struggling with that problem bolt, and the remaining deer ran straight past us and down stream, I hollered the dog to stay put, he amazed me by obeying for once!finally chambering the round ,I let fly ,kaboomph, the hind momentarily disappeared around a bend , then to my utter dismay ,came trotting back towards us on the other side of the creek, tension was high, the bolt came out all right ,but the case would not come free, I then rolled it against my stomach,then slammed it home , the hind was filling my scope, and she was just trotting ,I missed! She passed that close to me that I could have clubbed her.Only twenty yards further on ,and she’s up on the bank,climbing quickly ,then she pauses and looks back,i’ve just finished the drama with reloading yet again ,but it’s really starting to get to me now! I’m finally taking up the final pressure on the trigger,and just at the vital moment the hind lunges forward ,causing me to miss again,this time however there is no opportunity for another crack. How many go’s do you need anyway?All of a sudden my day’s is clouding over.
There are enough variables in hunting as it is,but to have equipment that’s not functioning properly is not quite the cat’s pyjamas.!!!

From the Diaries [private]

2008-08-26T12:38:00.007+12:00

Demented in the Haurangis

We had travelled in last night for a one nighter,flycamp,leaving the series 3 in the small car park at the end of the road
It was early April and the roar was on in earnest, slipping through the familier saddle ,in the Haurangi’s forest park, with my dog Toby,at my side , we were pussy footing down the true left side of the valley .it was typical Autumn weather , cool overcast and very quiet underfoot, in short perfect hunting conditions

.It was still only mid morning, and I had that feel good optimism,almost like an insight into the days events, there were a few stags moaning quite aways down the valley,though things were generally subdued ,untill a stag on the opposite face gave voice to his frustrations , with a loud anguished roar.
I was on the verge of changing course to have a crack at him, when matey boy let loose his replyclose to my right,it was such an agonised,stomach renching call,and so loud in the confines of our dense forested world that the hairs on the back of my neck stood up to be counted .He followed that with ,three more roars before he subsiding into grunts.

.I eyed my dog up suspiciously ,and felt I could read his thoughts, he was wondering his fitness level whether or not he could manage 3,300 ft.per second, in pursuit of that noisy stag, cos he knew that the sako .222 that I was carrying was capable of 3,200 fps.and after all, he only needed a little leeway. He seemed to register the look of menace on my face,because , he just fell in behind, when I moved forward towards the source of the goans
.The roars were continuous now ,there were two stags across the valley going well ,but our boy was manic,and we were close enough to hear the scrub being bashed about too. The dog was particulaly unhinged, and I was by now concentrating as much on my dog ,as I was the beast we were converging on. Intense concentration with every footfall, and only moving when the stag was either roaring ,or wrecking the surrounding bush The silences were so few and far between, that progress was swift .The pungent odour of the animal was everywhere, despite this though I was on constant alert for the presence of hinds ,none were seen.
Finally a small rise was all there was between him and us, and now his roars were bcoming quite deafening. Toby’s eyes were starting to roll in his head. I had already cuffed him numerous times ,on his bony head,with the end of my barrel ,but now it was time to grab hold of his neck in a vice like grip. We edged the final few yards, in time to witness the stag lay back his head and give vent to an almighty bellow, Picture this with his shaggy mane and black underbelly and you can see the scene before me .
He then proceeded to thrash the surrounding scrub with vicious intent, in one fluid motion I released the dog and swung the .222 vixen up ,the stubby barrel coughed once, and the beast fell forward with his own momentum...... neck shot ,in mid groan. The dog was part of the dead animal in a flash. Almost before he had touched the ground .Yeah you couldn’t fault old Toby’s enthusiasm..

Noisy when it rains................

Echos from the past

2008-08-14T15:32:00.008+12:00

old bridge Ngaawapurua

From the diary.....Inclement weather on the Manson
It was yet another end to a six-week stint in Kaweka country.
I was leaving Ngaawapurua, on a heavily overcast morning, and I thought the chances of remaining dry for the whole of the trip, were so remote I would have wagered my months salary. That is If I could have found a bookie on the Ngaruroro river.
The steep climb from the hut was well behind me, in fact I was rapidly approaching the vast open expanse of grassland of the Manson country. It was about then that the heavens decided to let me have it. And it was torrential, rain that had me gasping for breath. In such a deluge I was literally soaked to the skin in the first couple of minutes. So after the hour plus travel, with the rain still not abating, I was feeling like the proverbial drowned rat.
I entered the Manson hut for a few minutes breather, I immediately thought it pointless to be hanging about. So I farewelled Mickey Mouse, [those of you that have been to the Manson hut will understand] and was outta there. The terrain from the Manson down to Kiwi Mouth hut, is all clay pan and scrub. Fairly open sort of country with the final descent into dense Manuka. But well tracked non-the less.
With the rain still hammering down, I turned a bend in the track and there before me were three red deer. Obviously using the track in preference to being in the sopping bush. As one , though, they melted away off into the manuka. Bolt down and rubber scope protector off, rifle up to my shoulder, and I could see nothing! Delving into my sodden Swandri, I found some soaking wet tissue. I applied it to the lens on the move.I dropped the Vietnam pack via the Q.D. buckles and entered the thick Manuka scrub in exactly the same place as the deer.
A couple of paces ,and I picked out movement ahead. A deer, and she was climbing up on a ledge and disappearing over a lip ,followed by the second deer. Up with the rifle again this time there was leaves as well as water covering the lens. There was just no let up in the rain. A hasty wipe, in time to see the last deer hop on to the ledge. She hesitated, a fraction of a second too long.......Kaboomph and she toppled in my direction. I pushed further into the manuka, collecting torrents of water down my neck for my troubles.
I tailed and backsteaked her then made my way back to the track, it was a wild and woolly day all right. For now I could hear and make sense of the constant rumbling in the background, the river was up and raging. There were huge boulders careering along under the surface of the water.
I secured my Pack firmly in place, and made my way down to the crossing. Sure enough the river was a cauldron. Chocolate brown with creamy foam bank to bank, and roaring like a wounded bull. Huge trees were effortlessly carried along as if matchwood in this maddened monolith. Luckily the Forest Service in their great wisdom ,had erected a wire bridge, only a short walk downstream for just these sort of conditions.
And so it was....that I was across and out over the tops to Kuripapango base camp ,and a few days off.

The Manson

Echos from the past 8

2008-08-14T14:45:00.013+12:00

Te Puke...Venison tops...main range in background

From my diary......Some days that have stood the test of time.
Te Pukeohikarua; A sika hind leaps from her bed in front of me, a few bounds more and I could see she would clear the spur directly ahead. The finely balanced Sako. 222 was up in an instant the cross hairs desperately seeking her fast departing rump. Kaboomph, ....then a deathly silence she had vapourised, gone.
I quickly make my way over to the spur and to peer over, ...nothing ..not a sign. Just a small creek meandering around a corner and silence, everywhere else the contours were going uphill. The creek was the only flat gradient around.
It seemed "untrod" from my vantage point. Just gurgling away minding it’s own business, as it journeyed it's way around a steep looking spur.
I made my way down into the creek itself and looked closely and there was no discolourment in the water. Nothing to indicate any passage of cloven feet. But I reasoned if the shot was half good that surely this would be her only escape route....... I pressed on.
I was progressing through tight bends in quick succession, then coming out of the second bend in the creek, I happened upon a complete pile of intestines that lay heaped tidily on the rocks, I closed in on the pile, They were steaming and still warm to the touch.
. There was however no sign of the beast, that lost this vital load of equipment.
A further ten or so yards to the next bend, in this tightly confined creek, and now I was feeling confident, but I admit a touch puzzled.
I continued on and sure enough around that very next bend lay the inert form of the hind. Completely gutted as if from a very sharp knife.
On reflection it seems she must have leapt over an obstacle, the very instant I squeezed the trigger. The bullet would have seared along her abdomen enough not to gut her instantly, but with her leaping and bounding away, the pressure of her
Stomach contents on the already badly cut belly, spelt death.
Another episode from Te Pukeohikarua
The white patch of a sika deer’s rump has me on full alert, as it bounds quickly away. The” snap shot”, when sika hunting is a very useful weapon, and if you can master it, will provide you with a lot more venison in the freezer. Cross hair, sight picture and trigger squeeze as one in a millisecond. But where had he/she gone? Only a few yards of bush left, in the general direction of the deer’s travel, and I came upon a track much like a man made one, so well was it defined. Following along I presently came to an enormous drop on the right hand side, a waterfall, and a huge pool at the bottom, a fearsome plunge. I peered over non-the less, then gingerly made my way back. The track wound on and steeply descended, along the edge of the waterfall into the creek bottom. Now it became clear to me, that this must be the deer’s equivalent to our highways. This would be their only means of transporting themselves down this fearsome drop. Operating on the theory that an animal when hard hit will pursue the avenue of least resistance, I followed on. Scanning the area ahead, often I glanced into the pool at the bottom of the cliff, thinking, if the deer was hit hard enough it could well have gone over. But no sign of disturbance could I see. Reaching the stream, I began to follow it slowly, the water was clear, then all of a sudden it became discolored. My head swiveled around, and directed itself at the pool, and there in the middle, was the neck and head of a sika hind. With no attempt at further movement she was content to just gaze at me, a single shot from the .222 ended her misery.
This one from the Manson;
A bit of background first; My then wife, "Elevina" flew into the Boyd hut to be with me for my last week of my six-week stint. I met her there; we spent the night at Boyds then I took her through tussock, on to Harkness, where we spent a night or two. Ngaawaparua was our next office, followed by the steep climb to Otutu for a few days. Then on to the Manson hut for a couple more.

Otutu bush hut

It was on the Manson that this story is acted out .
My forty tails were achieved just before Elevina arrived. Forty was always the target I set myself at the beginning of each trip, so the pressure was off, in hunting terms.

Nevertheless it was time I got off my butt and did some hunting; having had a 5/6-day lay off.
It was an easy sika I missed, way over on Spion Kop, it was a steep angle downhill shot and I aimed too high on the animal, resulting in the shot going over the top. My heart was still not in the hunting ......not surprising I guess what ,with my wife living with me. I turned for home not long after that dismal shot. By the time I had the Manson hut in sight the light was fading fast, at the same time I realised I had drifted off the track, so abruptly changed course.
In Elevina’s words, apparently she had been watching my progress from the hut. I had been on a collision course ,heading for five red deer, when I abruptly changed direction. They had not seen me and I hadn’t seen them,
.Was what she breathlessly told me when I arrived back. I replied that they might be still there in the morning, not really believing it though.
I awoke at dawn the next day, and waited patiently for the light to improve. With 8x20’s in hand I then went to the doorway to scan the surrounding terrain. Sure enough although the deer had moved somewhat during the night, they were still right out in the open, and were now directly across from the hut, and there they were all 5. All in close proximity to each other. The range was about 500 yds. Thumbing six rounds into the little Sako, [will take seven, at a pinch] knife belt on with spare ammo. And instructions to hold on to Toby. I couldn’t always afford the luxury of leaving the mutt behind but was going to make the most of this one. I slipped silently out the door and down the steep slope, got a last bearing on the deer, then slipped into the bush. The deer would now be out of sight of me for a good 20 minutes, so priority no. 1 was get the wind right. Then later I could concentrate on the silence and stealth. Bit. My target was a large rock which when I set off, was some 30 yds. higher up than the deer where feeding. So it Elvina climbing up from Otutu

meant climbing past the animals, out of sight in

the bush gulley, topping out on a large spur with the large rock hiding my approach.
Upon reaching the rock my heart was hammering in my chest, partly from exc ursion and also from the excitement of the stalk. I took a few minutes to control myself, then edged around the boulder. I could see four then after a few minutes number five emerged from the edge of the bush.

Down on one knee and braced against the hard flat surface of stone. I then selected the first target, which was the furthest away. The stag had just recently emerged from the bush. Then I mentally, went through the sequence of hits. This done I then settled the reticule on the broad red chest and squeezed. Kaboomph, solid hit but the deer turned and walked toward the bush, and disappeared. Mentally cursing for not going for a neck shot, the cross hairs swung on deer 2 Kaboomph too far back, and I reprimanded myself. I was aware of the other animals now scattering, but was forced to hit deer 2 again Kaboomph down he went this time. Deer 3 was flat out when the cross hairs finally found him; I was standing by this time. Reticule slightly ahead, Kaboomph, the deer was still running, working the bolt frantically, spinning the spent case out and away to the right. Kaboomph, I was running downhill before the stag hit the ground. To my left another deer flat out going directly away. Kaboomph, I thumbed six fresh rounds in, and headed for the edge of the bush. It took a few minutes but I eventually found the downed deer. Number one. Three out of five! I was not happy at all. And felt sure I had nailed at least one other. I looked over the intervening ground towards the Manson, and sure enough Elevina was outside looking over. So I called for her to send Toby over. Some coaxing from her and yelling from me had the desired effect. The mutt got over a lot quicker than I did, but he could not help me. I blamed the fact I had not hunted for a week and lost that edge. For when shooting with a .222 you have to be controlled and accurate. The time it took giving deer that extra round contributed to the poor performance.
It was the last day of my trip, and I was due out at Kuripapango, we decided to walk out via the river, as there had been precious little rainfall, in the last few weeks. We were half way into our journey when we disturbed a hare on a sandy beach. Toby immediately cut off his escape route, and bit by bit forced him into the shallows where he broke his neck.

Echos from the past 7

2008-08-14T13:48:00.011+12:00

Paul & Fran outside Ngaawapurua

From the diary..................Kaleidoscope of thoughts .
Looking for new territory to hunt, myself and Paul Roupee Van Der Voorte, one mid summer afternoon were pouring over, our maps to ascertain our roar campaign. We decided that there was a huge area, that has been largely overlooked for ever and a day, and that being the case it needed to be recee’d as soon as possible. And what was wrong with tonight. A one nighter .
we were already packing our rucksacks, and by three p.m. we were on the move, The only reservation I had was that I was running two dogs my own, a red merle [Toby] and a Waimaraner, my then wife’s dog, [Gelert]. Feeding the two of them was becoming a chore; to say the least, however the five of us hit the trail, and it wasn’t long before we put the first deer up.
I slapped it amidships, with the trebly, and it kept going. I then left my pack with Roupee and proceeded to trail the wounded deer.
The next sighting had me again getting rounds away, two in fact; one definitely connected the other a miss. , The hind slowed perceptibly but still kept going, this concerned me somewhat, as I only had a mag full, the rest of my ammunition was still stowed in my pack, which I’d left behind with Gelert, roupee and his dog. Fran.
I was at the point where I was going to lob that rifle down the next waterfall I came to ,when the deer reemerged from the bush. Looking decidedly the worse for wear, she was side on. The cross hairs were on where the neck meets the chest kaboomph, the ordeal was over, down she went . The look Roupee flashed me on my return, said it all, he added words too, “what the #### are you playing at?”
Shortly after that we happened across two sika hinds. Toby and Fran stood their ground The deer somewhere in a scrubby gut ahead. Roupee and I edged forward, Sako’s at the ready, when who trots passed us at a rate of knots,?...... yeah that imbecile Waimaraner, Gelert. He didn’t stop till he was amongst them .Deer in all directions, curses and more hard stares from Roupee. That was the final straw as far as I was concerned.
”Grab Toby” I muttered I’m taking Gelert for a walk. I had to repeat myself once again as Roupee obviously hadn’t grasped my meaning.
Kaabooomphh, I savagely pulled back on the bolt the empty case spinning wildly in pursuit of a fast departing canine. One less mouth to feed I thought darkly.
When I returned Roupee had a firm hold of Toby. His Vietnam pack on his back, our eyes met briefly and no words spoken as I struggled into my ‘Nam pack.

We were not disappointed with the fly camp, there was deer sign everywhere, I got three and Roupee two, and we resolved to return when for the next roar cycle. Then with any luck the place would be crawling with deer. It was also interesting, to note that the deer here were predominately red deer.
Events have a habit of not turning out as you’ve planned, and so it was in this case. Half way through the season Roupee took up a position elsewhere in the forestry. So when the roar was well and truly established, I was by myself and my thoughts were running towards that area of bush. Two jokers stumbled into Te Pukeohikarua about this time and their names were John A and John.B
We yarned the evening away, John A mentioned he hadn’t shot a deer in his life and was hoping this trip would sort things out. I quite liked the two of them so invited them over to the fly-camp with me the next day, they readily accepted.
We arrived in the saddle with about two hours of daylight remaining
Some camp meat was definitely on the agenda so, John [B] and I slid down opposite sides of the saddle we were camped in. I hadn’t traveled far when the guttural grunts and groans of a stag had me on red alert, he was extremely close, and it wasn’t long before he plodded into view. He made his way down to a small creek moaning and groaning all the while .It was at the point when he was about to let a full out roar. I settled the cross hairs of my scope on his atlas joint. I squeezed the last few ounces of pressure on the canjar trigger. After the report the stag was still on his feet, but his tail was wagging furiously and he was walking in tight circles. Amazed at his reaction to the shot I stood watching for a few seconds, before finishing the job with my second round. . Later inspection revealed all; my first bullet had gone straight through his mouth into the back of his throat. Obviously missing the spine, but causing enough pain to confuse the animal. John [B] scored too. Two deer, things were certainly looking promising.
The fire roaring on my return was a welcome sight and fresh backsteaks already in the pan was an even better, welcome. As the shadows started to lengthen, so did the yarns, and it was three hunters awash with anticipation, that finally turned in that night. All that was needed now was for the weather to hold .
The weather dawned the same as the previous, overcast Grey and dismal with a slight breeze. In short, perfect.The three of us headed away, in a northerly direction. Following the ridge, it wasn’t long before Toby became agitated, and started winding his head off. Just off the ridge proper.
I whispered to John [A] you want to shoot yourself a deer? There’s one not far off. I pointed in the direction of where the dog is winding. He immediately slipped the bolt of his .303 home and silently headed off the ridge in a crouch. It took some persuading to coax Toby to follow me, eventually he trotted in behind.
Next John [a] decided he liked the look of a prominent spur leading off into open looking beech. Which left the dog and me, and we carried on some way before heading into our neck of the woods.
We in time came upon a large flat open stretch of ground soft and mossy underfoot.There was great visibility in the open beech forest, and plenty of fresh sign underfoot. We had been pussy footing along for a good half hour, when I detected some movement ahead. Over a hundred yards anyway, it was two hinds, then three and finally four, and right behind was a stag hard on their heels, urging them on at a slow trot. I thought "hello", they must be on to us, side stepping to the right I sought a rest on the side of a tree, lined up the leupold on the stag and Kaboomph!

They all went into a faster trot, at the sound of the report, and also temporarily out of sight, the very next instant. The, first one then all five were heading my way, sprinting directly toward us, with every yard that was being eaten up I expected they would veer off. They obviously hadn’t a clue where we were, at thirty yards the .222 barked and the first hind faltered, stumbled and fell. The rest came on. A touch of self-preservation entered the equation and I made sure a tree was between me and those inward flying kilos of venison. At ten yards on a different target, kaboomph, and around 50 kilos nose dived into the moss. They went around the tree left and right, I swiveled left and then right working that bolt in a blur, blasting 50 grains in two directions in as many seconds. Then dropping the stag from behind with my last round, taking him in the spine. The only target still on her feet was one of the hinds, although I’m sure was hit but making off at some speed none the less, and the dog was in fast pursuit.
After 20 minutes or so Toby returned in a lather, but no amount of coaxing would get him to return after the hind, to what I was reasonably sure to have been a kill. By the time he got back however I had tailed all four of the deer, and taken what meat we needed for our stay. I’ve only once before observed deer being totally confused by either sound or smell. That was in the Tararua Forest Park, hunting in a NW Wind, a solitary deer came from absolutely nowhere at a run, and all but knocked me over. It took three shots to down her too. But obviously it is as hard on deer, in a blustery wind as it is a dog to pinpoint exactly where that scent is coming from.
I tailed another two deer that day bringing the tally to six.

I was amazed when John [A] recounted his experience of when he left us after Toby was winding so well. How he came upon three hinds and shot all three! How many people get three for their first deer? so I was pleased for him. And with John [B] getting two, not a bad day by all accounts. Thirteen tails for one day’s hunting is good in any body’s language. The boys were due out in a couple of days, at the Boyds airstrip, so we packed up and I accompanied them over to tussock the next day.

Me flanked by the two Johns at Tussock

Ballard hut 99,

2008-08-14T11:04:00.007+12:00

From the diary.....The Roar 1999
The roar started for me at Poronui station. This time I was going in style.
It was bitterly cold, as I waited my turn in the Heli-Sika waiting room and I thought it would certainly be no warmer up where I was going either so I prudently decided to buy myself a pair of fleece trakkie bottoms, at the shop.
My turn was not long in coming, and while the pilot was fuelling up I loaded my dive bag, pack and rifle aboard. “Where are ya heading”? , He shouted above the roar of the Hughes 500 rotors. "Ballard" I replied. “Dunno how lucky you’ll be, but we’ll give it a go eh?” he said with a grin.
The weather was deteriorating The mist was covering the high tops and once belted up, a light rain was falling against the Perspex of the chopper. With the earphones firmly in place we could now communicate more comfortably. We lifted off easily and headed out over the fields, toward s the scrubby faces and hills of the Kaimanawa range. The scrub give way to bush and the hills to steeper hills until eventually we were making our final ascent up to the main range and Ballard hut. Home to me for the next 10 days.
The hut itself is situated just under the bulk of the main Kaweka range. It takes around 20 minutes of fairly steep walking to reach the open tops from the hut. The Heli-pad however is a scant 20 yds to the door of the hut! And that is where the Hughes landed. With a “take care and see you in 10 days.” The helicopter took off, into the mist and rain, leaving me to ferry my gear, inside and make myself at home.
A quick survey of the place told me I was the only resident, which fair split my face in two. The essentials were out in a flash, namely gas Primus billy and coffee. The silly tea ceremony over with…

I threw himself over the Heli-pad for a peekee boo. Christ I was behaving like a green horn, and loving every minute of it too!
It was just great to be back again. This time however, I was living in Auckland so things were much easier all round.
There was no meat that night, of the venison variety. But that didn’t dim the spirits any especially when you’ve arrived from town that very day via the big dollar bird. . Lighting the Tilley that night and firing the stove in the guts, the 3 essentials were well cared for, light, heat, and food. A good book, a warm sleeping bag, and a smaller variety Tilley lamp topped the first lot off, and the contented hunter once more closed his eyes, and let paradise wash over him.
The alarm was on early next morning .The Grey light of dawn was still a good half hour off yet, I leapt up from the scratcher, for the wet one, and also to check out the wx. Little wind and plenty of stars, I noted during my brief sojourn. Back inside and the portable gas stove soon had the porridge cooked.
Mission today was to locate the camp meat, and bring as much back as possible. Thumbing the rounds into the magazine of the Sako, the adrenaline was starting to flow. Tucking the 8x20 binos inside my swannie. And closing the hut door at the same time and it was game on.
............It was around eleven o’clock, and I’d recently cut out of the creek bed I was following, due to a horrendous waterfall. I then sidled through some very likely bush to my present location. Which was on my bum looking straight down on a large slip, using my 8x20’s. After a short while..... Guess I then started to doze with my eyes open. When a distant shot across the valley startled me. It also set me thinking that I was not going to fill the larder on my backside. With that I sprung to my feet, and that’s when the unseen one give a shrill whistle. The next thing I heard was the drumming of hooves. As I was in an open spot, and the sun was in my eyes, I had to make hurried steps into the bush, to try and locate the deer. His next brief few movements gave him away. I could just make out, his lower chest area, through the tangle of vegetation and he then stood stock still, 3 quarters on. I could imagine his head looking back over his shoulders.
The crosshairs centered on the small patch of red that was available to me, steadied and squeezed the light trigger of the stubby Sako carbine. The 150 grains. Projectile left its mark on my ears and shoulder, as it screamed, forward to introduce itself. I had a momentary vision of the deer leaping forward, and then all was quiet. I listened and waited for some minutes, I could hear no sign of a deer departing unscathed. But some times that’s of little compensation when hunting Sika. Even under intense pressure they can noiselessly disappear. It took me 15 minutes to locate that animal.
After much searching, I eventually had to retrace my steps back to the exact spot I fired from then start searching again. This time however I found him, he had leapt as he was hit right into a thick stand of Mingimingi. I had my camp meat, a scrubby 6 pointer.
I wandered far and wide over the next couple of days shot another stag, a young 4 pointer but no real sign that the roar had started. Just the odd animal-giving vent to his hormonal urges. Hunting on a bit late, one evening I was way down in The Makino river, With just an hour of daylight left, it occurred to me that if I wanted to experience the delights of a warm fire and likewise sleeping bag I’d better point my nose up high and follow it.
The decision I made was to follow the creek. What a journey it turned out to be. The waterfalls encountered numbered well into the double figures, and most were non-negotiable. Meaning I had to find a way around them through the bush. This should have not been a surprise to me for in the way in via the big dollar bird, we had followed the route of this very creek up to Ballard. I remembered well at the time thinking man that’s some rugged looking stretch of country! So there was no excuse for my decision....... only that maybe I was becoming senile. Even the waterfalls that could be climbed meant it was rifle on the back, and a careful toe and fingernail experience.
Realizing the need for speed, I had attacked that creek with some aggression Fuelled by an enormous amount of adrenaline. It was eventually negotiated with a hell of an amount of luck too. On the home stretch I was more than a little grateful that my fitness level had enabled me to, meet and deliver the goods. That “stretch” had me feeling a little better about myself. And the years literally fell away.
By the time I had reached the area where you draw water, for your living needs at Ballard. The adrenaline had long gone out of the system. To be replaced by the mechanical sluggish,” I’m nearly there” attitude. It Was then that I first noticed the smoke, slowly curling out of the chimney area, bluish in the fast fading light,” I had company” I thought, there certainly was no enthusiasm, in that thought!
However, there was no need for concern for my privacy. The married couple turned out to be trampers and they were doing a one-night stay here, and were leaving in the morning. Besides which the fire was lit, the hut very cozy, and to top it all they were good company. What more do you want? I watched them slog up the track to the tops in the morning. Once again I had my own company.
There were a couple of real wet days thrown in for good measure in which I was left hut bound. And one particular day I became ‘bookless’ a condition that I have on good authority is said, can render a man insane in a very short time. Having just finished my thriller, and with nothing to read. I became a little restless [to add to my dire condition] now not only was I bookless but restless as well? Whilst mooching about the place I came across some tobacco and papers. Well, the last time that I smoked was when I was culling, and that was close to 20 years ago, but as I said I was restless and bookless. I was preparing for the worst with the first drag, but it wasn’t to be I am ashamed to say it was pure bliss. That and the finding of some ravaged readers digest books saved the day.
Toward the end of the week the weather had deteriorated to heavy snowfall and if I was not hut bound before I certainly was now. Coupled with nothing to read, saw a sad scenario whereby I was plucking all the dog ends from around the stove, cutting them open and making up new smokes. Very sad, that was when I decided perhaps a trip to venison tops might not be a bad idea. There would be a hut full of bodies and also there might be something I could salvage reading wise and smoke wise, o.k. ..... I’m gone.
The full brunt of the southerly didn’t hit me until, I’d topped out at the “forks.” Which invited me to go Makino, Studholme or Venison tops choosing the latter had me clinging to my hat [if I ‘d had one] as I ducked into the howler. The snow was all around, and a careless foot placement would have me plunging up to my crutch in icy snow. Although the heavens where heavy with snow, the day was clear, and visibility was good. And I suppose if that I was honest I would admit that it was good to come out of the Ballard basin, to have a look around. It’s not a long walk to the bush edge a half-hour or so, but it was like reaching some sort of sanctuary that day. All of a sudden there was a death like silence the wind had disappeared, here the branches weighed heavy with snow, and the track was ankle deep, and hard to predict at times. A glance over my shoulder saw the tussock dancing, and snows being whipped up and sent scurrying along. I turned back toward the direction of venison tops, into the surreal world of snow and church like peace and solemnity. An hour and a half later and once more I could hear the banshee like wailing of the elements, as I emerged from the steep climb out, onto the Venison tops.......... the mind wandered.
It was a summer darkened sweat stained government hunter and his dog coming through from Mangaturutu. Having stopped briefly at the lodge to sign their names in the logbook. Then in the ageing morning making their way over to Ballard for a spot of lunch.
Just in from the bush edge, the 4 legged one was becoming agitated. And that is the great delight of using a dog to hunt with. Just walking from hut to hut, gives you a chance to nail a deer. He is capable of detecting a deer that’s not there as far as you are concerned!
Anyway to cut a long story short, further investigation revealed 4 japs enjoying the late morning sun, in a secluded gully just off the track. The .222 barked viciously in the confines of the narrow gut, that the deer where inhabiting. Just as quickly the magazine was empty, and there were 3 deer left to tail.
A good mornings work, it was sometimes worth humping venison on your back to feed the mutt.
..............My musings ripped back to the present with the appearance of two jokers, having just emerged from inside with a tinny each. Christ I thought how could they do that to themselves on a day like this. There were six residents in all, four had just flown in, and the other two were with D.O.C. And great company they were too, there was mountains of food and booze home made whiskey, wild pork, venison, and other goods too numerous to mention. During the course of the afternoon, I was invited to sample quite a bit of their ware The whiskey was a particular treat.
It was now late in the afternoon and the stove was powering out quite a bit of heat, unlike outside, where the temperature was apparently dropping below zero. The subjects were the usual, rifles caliber’s, knives, dogs and game, politics, booze and a ton of bullshit on top of all of that. My hosts voiced their concern about me going this late in the day, and advised me to stay the night, offering various articles to keep me warm. They announced it was -6 degrees and that was without the wind chill factor.
I’m afraid though, the thought of the stove at Ballard fired up. The dinner eaten and washed up, the Tilley hissing away, and me half in my fairydown, reading. The peace and tranquillity of that scene [who said I’m a loner?] was too much. I thanked them for their collective hospitality, thanked them again for the supply of tobacco, papers and reading material. Levered in five fresh round of .308 ammunition, whilst on the porch, turned my back on the glowing hut. And with an over the shoulder “good hunting “, I strode away into the gathering gloom. I could see straight away there had been a considerable fall of snow since I’d been inside as my tracks of a few hours had been well and truly covered. Heading back into the bush was bliss itself, quiet and virgin, with an air of expectation. This track, I knew of old ,held good prospects of a deer, particularly late in the day. And it was no surprise a few moments later when a red hind ghosted through the trees off to one side of me. There was little time to spend on her, though as time was moving on.
Half way on the ascent the other side, had me looking ahead through the tunnel of trees, and what a contrast. There was a blizzard raging. The trees at the top of the slope were bent in half; the tussock beyond them was blown flat, and the snow slanting across at a phenomenal pace. And where I stood was a wonderland, of large flakes gently falling, bowed branches heavily laden with snow.
The trip back was a nightmare the wind at my back, which I thought would be spot on, but it, was not to be. Behind my knees and an inch or so toward my calves was packed solidly with ice in a very short time. It would not budge. The wind ripped through my Swandri, as if it did not exist chilling me to the bone. Whenever I wandered off the track I was rewarded with a plunge into a drift, which when I reemerged was transformed instantly to ice. It was a struggle all the way and even with the hut in sight and the worst behind me, I was still not confident of reaching its sanctuary.
By this time I was dragging my custom made Sako by the sling through the snow behind me. When I eventually fell through the doorway, and proceeded to light the fire as fast as I could, I was almost deafened by the chattering of my own teeth, my numbed fingers would just not work For me.
....................However a few hours later it was just a bad memory. The hut was cozy warm, as was I, I was well fed and was contentedly pulling on a weed. But next time I vowed would be different, with saloppettes, warm hat and gloves accompanying me. Was it worth it, for a smoke and a read? Well it sure scared me ,but in my present condition, MY OATH!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr the stag was going well, for the last 10 minutes but this was to be his last roar. I waited around a half-hour hoping he would go again so as to help me pinpoint him, but no chance. I tried my own version, and the bitter silence remained. There was no alternative but to cross the creek, to where he had been bellowing, and have a nosey on that side. I picked up the scuffs and scrapes easily and it was frustrating to see just how close he had been. The footprints deeply etched in the soft ground, told the story of more than one deer heading uphill, and not at a frightenly fast pace either. So follow I did, and after a 100 yds or so the trail seemed to sidle along at pretty much the same contour. The trail then disappeared and the sign wasn’t that obvious anymore but I remained on that level picking my way along as I hoped a deer might do.
Then the bush really starting to open out a bit, almost park like ,with visibility easily a hundred yards or more. So then it became a game of less movement and far more looking.
I had done one large gut in this manner, and was inching my way up a spur to drop me into another expanse of, I hoped similar conditions, When I spotted a pile of fresh droppings, not exactly warm to the touch, but glistening, and screaming fresh, so it was with the utmost caution that I poked my head over the rise to scan the terrain ahead. Again it was open; this time though there was a long stretch of flat open country. Hold on, something didn’t quite look right with that branch and wait that colour is not quite right. But I couldn’t make any sense of a shape, I raised the sako slowly and peered through the leupold 4x scope and even then I wasn’t sure. There was absolutely no movement in what I was looking at. So with infinitely slow movement the miniature 8x20’s got an airing.
Bingo! Stag partly obscured by a tree his body was facing away from me but with his neck craning all the way back to check me out. The extra magnification making the difference, back up with the rifle and I settled the crosshairs where that bulky neck merged with the body. Boompha! And he staggered. Movement at last I thought as I ejected the empty case, and sent it spinning to the ground. I rammed another round in, and touched the ultra light trigger to send another 150 grains in his direction. He rolled this time all four legs reaching for the sky. It was a walk to reach the downed animal, not usually associated with bush hunting, meaning it was a long one.
He turned out to be an immature 4 pointer, one I should not have taken. Because more than likely the big fellow who was doing all the vocal bragging earlier, must be just up ahead unless he’s cleared off with all the commotion. Mistake no. 2 was taking a load of meat when really I should have checked further, before loading myself down. So a hundred yards later when an unseen body crashed away I paid the penalty for not playing all the percentages!
My last day, had me out of the bag well before daylight, the chopper was due in at 1500 hrs. And I was determined to cram in all the hours I could before that time. The forecast was for fine weather, and by the looks of things now, it would be accurate. I was heading for a saddle I had had my eye on since arriving. But due to the vagaries of wind and weather was unable to check out till now. I made good time across the tops then down a sharp spur into the bush, then quietly sneak into the saddle. I was in position by 0800. Hrs, I had figured this saddle, to be the site of major deer traffic, judging by the amount of sign scattered about. There was also a well-used wallow at the far end of the clearing. I settled in to wait with the pleasing sensation of the wind right in my face. It was perhaps 20 minutes later as I sat motionless that a movement caught my attention. Which materialized into a spiker that casually meandered into the saddle. He was no more than twenty yards away from my position and had no idea of my presence whatsoever. So I settled down to watch, he was very alert his ears constantly monitoring for sound I was close enough to see his nose twitching, and his flanks fluttering with nervous ripples. As he was moving, he was picking at the ground sampling this and that. He then trod on a twig, and as it snapped his head jerked up, completely mortified at the sound. He stood stock still for minutes, then finally he realised it was himself, to blame and carried on, with his gastro questing. Trouble was though he was working himself downwind of my position, and it wouldn’t be long before he would get a whiff of the dreaded human odour, or worse still mine! Then that would trigger off his alarm whistling, and the whole deer population would know of my presence. I slowly raised the rifle; I had already determined the boundary I would allow the deer’s progress to reach. Hoping I would not have to shoot him, the duplex reticule was resting just behind the front foreleg. Eventually though it was with some reluctance that a few yards further on I took up the last few ounces of pressure to trip the trigger, and disturb the serenity of the moment. And end his life with 150 grains. Of lead tipped copper. He sprinted 70 yds dead on his feet before slithering to a halt. My gamble being that the lovelorn stags would take far less notice of a single gunshot, during the roar, than the more telling alarm warnings of continual whistling, from an agitated spiker. And so it proved to be. I was making the first cuts in dressing the deer out, when a beeeeeeeeeeeeaiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr echoed around the saddle. Seemingly coming from no more than a hundred yards away, quickly finishing the cuts, I carried the meat to a handy tree and scaled a short way up and balanced it in a vee. Hoping this would be enough to keep the flies at bay, I returned to the base of the tree. Cupping my hands I sent out a very long moan bbbbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeairrrrr and straight away the answering beeeeeeeair, I ducked behind the trunk again and waited, after around 5 minutes. I very cautiously snuck around the tree for a look, the stag was very nearly upon me! A six-pointer, his head slowly rolling along with his gait, was steadily closing the distance to my position. No more than 15 yards separated us, when I slowly raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger and blew him literally off his feet. I was elated to have so much meat to take home, this being my last day. So dropping swiftly down into the scrubby creek where the stag finally came to rest; I quickly dressed the meat I needed. And with two sets of venison I headed for home. There were frequent stops, as I slogged my way to the open tops, the sun now well up in the sky, I finally broke through to the open tops. My next stop, half way up the long tussock ridge, had me brimming with emotion. I turned around to be confronted with such, stunning beauty, as far away as the eye could see was ridge upon ridge of blue/green native bush. Miles upon miles of paradise, quiet and peaceful not a traffic light in sight, not a human voice to be heard. Or any form of machinery ‘cept the drone of the blowflies, I was truly reluctant, to come to terms with the fact that all this would yet again become a memory by the time this day was out.
I was sitting on the Heli-Pad all packed up and ready to go, the sun in a blue sky shone warm and friendly, a myriad of insect life surrounded me. And I reflected on a couple of days previously when, in a blizzard I stumbled down this very slope, desperate to reach the sanctity of the hut. It was a real matter of life and death. The mountains are of course indifferent to our little struggles, it’s not as we sometimes think that they are out to get us, it’s simply that they are impervious to our presence. We can erode them and deforest them rubbish them and defecate on them but they never seek redress, only perhaps in our own minds.
A few minutes late, but the unmistakable sound of rotors paddling through the breathing system, signaled my imminent departure from this gentle but unforgiving world.

Return to N.Z.

2008-08-13T13:20:00.005+12:00

From the diary............The roar 1998
1998 and it is my first roar for quite a number of years I am 45 years .old. I’ve arrived in N.Z. from OZ and I have decided to walk to Ngaawaparua hut.
Firstly I land at the Boyds hut by fixed wing. I have enough daylight left to check my new sako .308 rifle on the airstrip ,a three shot group and the Job is done, and now up to the hut for some tea. Everything looks just how I’d left it all those years ago. . Except this time I have no dog as company.
Soon the coal range is ablaze and tea is on the way. Man I’ve missed this kiwi bush. A Hurried breakfast while the valley is still waiting for the first rays of sun. It will have to wait a little longer this morning, as there is quite a thick fog down, Which should make for some interesting travel.
Sure enough the waist high tussock grass is wet and cold this hour of the morning. There are quite a few river crossings before the slog up and over to Tussock hut I muse. Actually it provided a great walk. Ideal when you’ve been away as long as I have. It helps to break you in gently. And so it proved to be this morning.
I drank in the scenery hungrily with my eyes, afraid that if I should blink .it might disappear forever. .With me this trip is a 3 piece fly rod, with which I hope to catch my first N.Z. Trout. The walk is full of nostalgic memories and they come flooding back vividly.
The terrain transitions from the open high desert like terrain of the upper Ngaruroro River. And now as I enter into the secret dense, Kaweka native bush, the first footsteps in over 17 years. Why have I been away so long?
The steep decent nearly over and I can at last catch a glimpse of Tussock hut, through the trees. I note the changes. My mind rolls back the years and I remember burning my foot at this hut so many years ago. 2nd degree burns, and helicopters ride out to Taupo hospital for Toby and me. But that as they say is another story!
I push open the door and can see immediately that the inside as been upgraded as well. Gone is the open fire that was an instrument to my burns. To be replaced by the very practical iron Aga types which when properly fed can throw out a ferocious heat.
A few twigs, some paper and the billy were soon bubbling. Man I was beginning to come alive. Always a good few minutes spent, with brew in hand and log book checking out the previous visitors, humorous stories, and hunting tales.
Then it was on with pack and rifle in hand, across that tussock wonderland, towards the Harkness hut. I was 20 minutes from the tussock hut, remembering bits and pieces when emotion took over. Without warning floods of tears coursed down my cheeks, obscuring my vision. I suppose I likened it to an emotional sauna. Whereby the tears where washing the years spent away out of my spiritual pores. Replacing my spirit .Complete once again. After the tears, my heart seemed to swell and soar in almost a painful way, and I felt a real elation. It was so very good to be back.
Arriving at the Harkness brought the reality of the changes over the year’s home to me. For there was a hut full of hunters there, with every sort of luxury you could possibly need. These boys had been flown in. There was no doubt about that. I’ve seen less booze in some pubs not to mention less food in some supermarkets, and also ammunition in some gun shops. However they were not short of hospitality either. And I soon had a mug full of hot tea, thrust into my grateful hands. I stayed for an hour or more, yarning away grateful for the brews, And the restbite for my unaccustomed muscles. However if I was to reach Ngaawapurua before nightfall I would have to be putting a into g fairly quickly.
My mind travelled through time again...... I remembered the time I had broken the stock of my sako222, at tussock and had to walk out to get it repaired. How I ‘d reached Kuripapango base camp that same day with little difficulty. And now, I was feeling pretty stuffed, half way along the track to Ngaawaparua. Times had changed all right.
There wasn’t much left of the day, when I saw the smoke lazily rising from the Ngaawapurua hut, and my mind cast back again over the years, to a hot late morning, about 11 .30 or so. And me and Toby where drifting in from the Manson country. We’d just crossed the bridge; or rather I had, as Toby preferred the swim across the ngaruroro. And this particular day he definitely had the right idea. On approaching the hut the dog became very keen. Head lifted, and quick sniffs, with that half closed eyed look of pure ecstasy.
Don’t be silly dog I chastised. Taking in the time and general heat of the day. Plus the general lack of cover, there was just no where to hide up. I dismissed the dog entirely.
We were passing through to Te puke, so it was a quick squizz at the hut book, sign it and shoot on through. The door was open, as I would soon be going through it again. When a loud drumming of hooves attracted my attention, and a deer shot past the doorway. [Which was in a different position then] .
By the time I had collected my rifle, the deer had found sanctuary in the all-encompassing bush. His marks where there though, the scuff marks were plain to see right to where he had skidded when he changed direction to follow the uphill grade.
We followed for some way. With the sika whistling but just keeping enough in front of us. After some time I called it off. A glance at my very smug looking mutt told all ,as we retreated back to the hut. Reminding me not to take him so cheaply again. .... And that reminds me of the first bit of guidance I had from Roupee van Der Voort when I arrived in the Kawekas. Never unload your rifle till you can touch the doorknob of the hut.
There were two men in residence, a very likeable father and son pairing, with a deer in the meat safe, they were enjoying some success as well.
It was evident after some yarning that things had changed big time in the Kawekas. Every hut would be booked out during the roar ,I was being told .
How we deercullers would have loved that! [Not]. But on the other hand I can also see why they, dispensed with the services of paid ground hunters. It certainly gives me a sense of privilege to think I had experienced the good times. I had my memories as they say.
It was one very psyched up hunter, wolfing down the porridge next morning and picking up the virgin sako 308, and heading across the walk-wire. I’d made a couple of hundred feet elevation, enough to drown out the busy Ngaruroro, when I heard my first roar. Way down and what seemed to be across the river. A Jap and going well too.... Ah it was so good to be back.
It was getting on for noon and I’d been dozing. A Sika hind bolted along the terrace in front of me. I suppose I could have got a snap shot away but the first problem to be addressed was that I was moving far to fast. I should have had that shot at a standing animal.
Minutes later, I was approaching a very big slip. Which was mostly covered in second growth. I was about to take a couple more steps to look over the lip and have a more generous view. When a shrill whistle disturbed the silence, sounding unusually loud. Without further delay I made 3 or 4 quick strides to the edge of the slip. The whistling continued, but try as I might, I was not able locate the Jap.
She was Some-where in the middle of the slip …but where? Stones rattling there she was with Bambi in tow making a U-turn at the apex of the slip. Hurtling along one of the few open areas. This time my snap shot was on. One fluent movement the merging hairs of the leupold 1-4 traversed the length of the hind. Squeezing the feather light trigger of the stubby barreled Sako the moment there was a suggestion of daylight ahead of it’s nose.
For a fraction of a second I’d thought I’d squeezed too soon. Boompha, the falling body and flailing legs however told a different story. The Bambi made one more body length with her momentum and was swallowed up, by heavy bush on the other side of the slip. The range would have been a 100 yards +and it took me a few minutes to relocate the deer. But at last there she was, the first deer in a long while.
I was surprised to find later whilst dressing the animal out that she was still lactating. In fact I don’t remember ever having come across a Bambi in the rutting months before. Let alone one still being weaned. I now had my camp meat, the hunter had truly returned.
I was to shoot another couple of animals for the trip but alas no trophy material. The wasps however, where a shock to the system as far as I can remember I don’t think there were any when I was with the forest service.
It was next to impossible to try and process the meat anywhere near the hut. Far betters to wait till after dark and do the job by lamplight.
But the real highlight of the trip was to follow. The track back to tussock was uneventful, reaching there, mid afternoon. After an early start from Ngaawapurua. The hut was empty as I’d left it, and I was pleased to have my last night there to myself. I was due to fly out in the afternoon, of the next day. So the plan was to wave the evening hunt, and get up early in the morning for a poke around.
The morning dawned clear as a bell The hint was that it was going to be blue skies and sunshine, to farewell me on this great trip. A hasty decision, I’d lugged this rod from oz. Surely it was time to make full use of it. The weather being so fine, was the determining factor. Hell I’m going fly-fishing! Packing the rucksack in record time, and it was off to the Ngaruroro, to spend the morning.
The vistas of open tussock country greeted me on emerging into the Ngaruroro valley. Below me meandered the river itself in its infant stage, narrow, clear, fresh and high tussock bank to bank. Just the start of it’s long journey to the coast. There was quite a stiff breeze picking up. Tossing the yellow tussock this way and that and contrasting with the blue ribbon of the “Toddler ”Ngaruroro, and the still bluer sky.
It indeed was an awesome sight, and when you add to that the feeling that you have it all to yourself. Is it any wonder that the emotion over flows at times?
I dropped my pack and rifle by a conspicuous bush loaded up the rod with large hopper dry fly, and about 12’ of tippet in front of a sage 6 weight forward line. I then proceeded to explore downstream with the intention of fishing back to my gear. The water chattered away in the rapids and grew serene and tranquil in the pools. It was always gin clear and a pristine freshness pervaded all.
There were trout too, at least one in every pool, languishing deep in the turquoise pools or feeding gently in the riffles. The tussock grasses where bone dry, and with every step I would disturb endless amounts of hoppers. Some hurling themselves into the busy river, to be borne away destined to end up in a big trout’s belly. Eventually I curtailed my adventures downstream, as I did not want to wander too far from my gear. The river was becoming more gorge orientated ,and also by travelling down the river I was putting down too many fish. So now with the sun in my face I proceeded to fish my way back. At times having to cross and recross the cooling waters. Eventually I came to the tail of a very long pool. Resident there, were 3 big rainbows, about 18 ins, from the surface and as many ins. Apart. They swayed this way and that, forever scanning the stretch of water in front of them in the hope of spying some morsel or other.
The stiff breeze would blow intermittently and ripple the surface and shield them from inquisitive eyes.
Whilst making ready ,one then shortly, another of the fish darted with some purpose upstream, I could barely see the remaining trout, as I made my false casts. The breeze was really getting up now, and I had to direct my fly into the wind. So as not to line the trout. The wind was my ally this day, as the hopper landed a couple of feet upstream of the rainbow and was floating naturally over him. By now the fish was invisible, but the sudden splash relieved the tension. I gathered the slack line as fast as I could, the line went taught. It trembled slightly and then the sage 6-weight rod bent savagely into action. The fish angrily shook his head and tore off downstream leaping out of the water. He next returned and this time blatted upstream, wow I had some fish on here.
The fight lasted some minutes, but eventually I coaxed him up to the surface, where I could see what a really good hook hold I had, right in the scissors. I relaxed a bit then and managed a few photos from the camera that was around my neck. I then played the trout gently into the waiting net. I guessed that he weighed around the 7 lb. Mark. The sun glinted off the greens and purples of the rainbow trout’s flanks. Not for nothing are these fish named rainbows I thought.
It was one very contented man that snatched a mini siesta, lying against his pack in the autumn sunshine, alone in the upper reaches of the Ngaruroro River,
Then pack on and the gentle trudge up to the Boyd hut to await my fixed wing taxi, out of paradise.

Echos from the past 6

2008-08-13T09:53:00.006+12:00

More from the diary........
The incidents occured consecetively over the three days, and were very similar,which proved to me that the sika stag during the rut ,is a totaly different animal to the rest of the year.......more prepared to fight than run. This particular day, on closing the hut door, to heavy overcast weather, gun metal Grey sky, with more than a threat of the vertical moisture. Windy too, picking up all the time, and cool enough to be wearing the ole swanny all day. Which is a sure indication winter is round the corner, and the easy days are behind you. Anyway, the dog and me decided [telepathically] that we would be better off down East creek. Way down, out of this swirly wind. Anyway creeping along, Indian like [and that was only the dog], for there was fresh sign a plenty. Deep down into east creek,we were now out of the worse of the wind, here there was a gentle breeze, blowing the right way,which was in your face!! Although looking skywards the clouds were fair scudding along. We were following not too far behind a sika stag. Then the unmistakable stench of deer, like a wall of smells you physically had to push yourself through. Toby warned me with his eyes, as we eased ourselves out of a small, only trickling creek “Watch those big size 9’s boss” he screamed, in the noiseless-pollution. I warned him back just as noisilessly. Barely moving, side by side we eased into an open corridor in the bush. And there, standing at the end of it stood our stag. No more 20 yds separated us. He was looking me right in the eye; I would have had a bowel movement if I’d thought him similarly armed. I eased the sako up slowly but fluently expecting him to take a hike any second, the crosshairs found his head. Christ am I really going for a head-shot? Why not it’s filling the scope pressure on the trigger, ....click.!!! Still looking at the deer in the scope, my mind racing,....... and a misfire? I don’t believe it . I don’t believe that the stag is still there looking at me. Trying to be as fluent as possible, expecting the deer to move anytime. I managed to reacquaint myself with his image, once again. Ejecting the offending round and chambering another, again the trigger squeeze. A little more emotional pressure was experienced this time. I was rewarded with a Boompha. The dog the deer and myself didn’t move a muscle, the report still ringing in my ears.! I worked the bolt, levered in a fresh round, and put the rifle back to my shoulder. That’s when he took off Breaking branches just crashing headlong through the scrub. The dog gives me a withering look,....... I don’t remember reading that in the script he muttered. I was understandably shaken. You do not miss from that range. I could still hear the stag clattering away, albeit further with every stride . It must have been pure frustration cos...... I sent the nasty one after him, with a ‘GET HIM’. Toby vaporized he just didn’t go, he simply didn’t exist for me. That dog didn’t usually have to be told to go chase deer. So when he actually heard the words, well let’s just say he never said what? Pardon? Say again? I was mentally thrashing myself with the biggest branch I could find, when I heard the barking. Quite loud, which sounded very much like a bail. I jerked myself into the present and steamed off down hill in the direction of that wonderful barking. Under and over logjams, tearing through bush lawyer and the like, in and out of creeks. The barking would often stop and start again further away, so I would go as fast as I could toward the noise stop then listen then go again. Eventually breathless and battered, I arrived at the river. The barking was deafening in the confined space. Looking downstream I was rewarded with a wonderful action scene. The stag, head down was charging Toby, in the middle of the stream. Toby was half swimming the water was splashing everywhere the sako was up in a blur. Too fast cos the .222 round found the space between deer and dog. A geyser of water leapt upwards between the animals. They neither batted an eyelid, although I suspect the dog’s thoughts on my marksmanship are unprintable. Finally the next time I drew a bead, marked the end for the stag. I reached them; the stag half-immersed in the river slowly drifting downstream, with Toby hanging off its rear end. I just had to examine the head for my own piece of mind, sure enough a hole straight through both its cheeks.
Day two, again I give rein to the dogs natural instinct to chase , though more this time ,to curiosity rather than frustration.
The weather pattern was much the same, as was the locality of our hunting, and again I had the box seat to the action.
On a face across the stream.I watched as the stag flat out sped across. Half a dog length behind was the mutt. The range was around the 80 yd mark ,I was leading plenty ,and at neck height .Twice I sent smoking empty .222 brass cartwheeling towards the bush floor,it made little difference to the action in front ,jacking in a fresh round ,the stag turned sharply and executed a 90‘ turn,and galloped straight toward me ,across the stream ,and disappeared under the bank I was standing on,that’s when the real commotion started ,scuffling of foliage ,breaking of branches, and of course barking ,it only took a few steps to peer over the bank to witness the scene,similar to yesterday ,but close this time so close I could just reach out ,the speed of the stags thrusts were impressive from where I stood ,i’m sure the dog was equally impressed,whilst the antlers where in his face the dog had no choice but to retreat,but the minute the deer raised his head for a look ,Toby regained a little ground, with one hand I reached out ,and the sako ,with it’s abbreviated barrel,was an inch or so from the heaving neck of the deer , a beckoning motion of the index finger,against the canjar trigger,boompha ,and all was quiet yet again in bush city.
I was in a different watershed all together ,for the final of this triology,the deer scattered in all directions,a stag and four hinds,to everypoint of the compass, that jacksy ripping wind again, don’t you just love it ?
Blurred grey bodies and laughing white tails, Go get him! I said to canine ,i think I managed ...g in go and I was on my own!
At the time I was at the head of a couple of different creeks, and after waiting around ten minutes , with fairly blustery wind howling ,the ears start to play tricks on you.Is that barking ,very faintly ,no can’t be ,try walking along a bit ,have a listen in different location, wait for the wind to die down a bit, listen again ,oh hell maybe ,i was beginning to wish I hadn’t encouraged ,the dog to do his favourite..... chase.. them round the galaxy job. I finally made a decision to head down a spur fifty or so meters, then sidle slowly along ,and zig-zag ,that type of pattern until ,......
Are the ears playing tricks on me ? Was that a bark ,the wind was now scuffling leaves along the bush floor,and rustling the branches overhead,mouth open now [supposed to inprove hearing!],i move further towards the sounds ,yes a definate bark,quicker now .i pick up speed ,,the barking gets louder,obviously a bail . I pull out allthe stops and run down hill throwing caution to the wind.And I stumble right in to the action.
The stag is imprisoned , his antlers are caught up in bush lawyer ,and he is frantic ,he is kicking out in all directions ,the dog going in where he can.Upon seeing me the stag makes an almighty lunge ,and frees himself enough to rear up on his hind legs ,towering above me front hooves flailing at the air,although still caught up in the lawyer, and supplejack.
I level the .222 from the hip and direct my fire toward the chest region ,boompha ,he convulses and falls sideways ,it’s over.
.....Those three days educated me in ,the fiery nature of the sika stag, and how in the roar at least , he is prepared to stand his ground and fight ,rather than other times in the year where perhaps descretion would have been the better part of valour rule. ...He would have been long gone.

Echos from the past 5

2008-08-13T08:58:00.007+12:00

Andy marden /Comet hut

More from the diary.......Twelve months of Cray-fishing behind me, and I’m back shooting deer for a living, this time in the Kaweka ranges,[A scrubby range west of Napier] I’ve changed my rifle. It’s now a sako vixen, in .222 cal.with a cut down 19” barrel. I also have a different dog, his name is Toby, and he is a red merle.Australian cattle dog.
Kuripapango is the new base camp, and it’s nestled in just off the Napier - Taihape road. After my initial interview with Wally Dayton [environmental officer, Kaweka ranges] I was sent along to see Russell Hulme, ranger in charge of the deer culling operations at Kuri. One time deerculler who hunted ten consecutive seasons in the Tararuas. I spent the remainder of the day with Russell. Packing my gear away getting the low down on how things are done the usual dos and dont’s. After breakfast the next day, we took the landcruiser, up to the Burns range This is where the winter’s operations were taking place and was introduced to two of the forestry’s guns. Rupeey Vandervoort, and Selwyn
The next couple of weeks, were spent in the re toughening up process, after 12 months lobster fishing, the bodies computer has to be reintroduced to climbing mode! Even wearing shorts again.
The cold wind the abrasive scrub took care of toughening the skin. The hairs on the legs were introduced savagely to such delightful plants as hook grass, which render your legs, to Kojak head lookalikes in very short order.
There were plenty of deer, on the Burns range, but the job was to rid the place of sheep A sheep shooter! What next?
Generally what you saw you usually shot, unlike deer and even goats. Wild sheep maybe, but still sheep. The difference being, the tips of the ears were now the proof of kill, not the tail which is just as well. The prospect of walking around with a few daggy tails on my belt was not exactly inspirational.
I was high up on the Burns range, in a stiff breeze, overcast conditions, and gunmetal sky hunting the many clay pans that abound the area. When I spied a lone ram, some 100 yds. Beneath me, quickly bringing the compact 8x20’s to bear. I could see he had a double curl to his horns. Now standing there in the open, with the wind plucking at his shaggy unkempt fleece, he could well have been a trophy Dall ram, high up in the Alaskan wilderness.
I’m afraid that is how it seemed to affect me. As I closed the gap down to around 50 or so yds, I noticed that my heart was racing far too quickly, the cross hairs on the leupold 1-4 scope where dancing around, enough to give credit to Fred Astair. I of course attributed this to the high winds! The first 50-grain emissary merged with the landscape, [Somewhere!].
The ram, in full flight now, was reluctant, to stop, but stop he did.
It was a hunter awash with woe that ejected his third empty case, and was able to take his proof of kill.
It was often windy on the Burns range. Offsetting that was the fact that most days dawned dry. Which is always preferable to that vertical precipitation .
The Following winter, [and the year escapes me at the moment,] was the first liberation of the upland game bird ‘Chukor. I was camped with two different guns, Dave Pratt and Andy Marden, and we had a bet on, as to who could bag the first Chukor. Not the cleverest of ideas, but an insight to the level that sheep shooting can reduce a man to. I won the bet, but it was a sorry bird, that was paraded, and then hastily buried that same sorry evening.
I am a big fan of the .222 and had two wonderful years, using it to deadly effect, shooting both red deer and sika in the Kawekas But two things for me built my confidence. Firstly the N.Z.F.S. supplied us with American brands of ammo. DEFINITELY not designed to give you an edge for deer hunting. Too fragile!
I would trade my quota of rounds. Brady and Collings of Wellington would usually supervise the transaction. Exchange them for 50-grain nosler projectiles, powder and primers. I would then reload my own. The nosler bullet being a lot harder and less likely to fragment as easily as the varmint type American counterpart. [Paul Roopee Van Der Voorte used to use Sako rounds to deadly effect. European rounds being the a good choice also.]
The second big edge I had was my dog, In the likely event of not hitting the target as sweetly as you’d like and the deer putting some distance between you. The dog is the one that is more likely to track that animal down, quicker and more effectively than any man.
[These days, I am a lot older and not running a dog.I also do not get out on a pro.basis as often as I would like. I only shoot one animal so the tool is the .308 cal., but again in a Sako, and the surname is Forester. The both rifles are, however identical in as much as they are both Using leupold scopes, cut down barrels ,and being Sako’s,.... weight and balance being reciprocal. Also sight picture being familiar it is not a problem to switch from one to another.]
Te Pukeohikarua, Harkness and Tussock huts were the main targets, for deer reduction in my day. Te Pukeohikarua in particular was a great favorite of mine. [It unfortunately has changed quite a bit these days].
I once spent 4 weeks on the trot hunting from that hut. There are so many watersheds available close to hand. It wasn’t too long before I was able to suss out, exactly where the small pockets of red deer lived. I regarded this as great advantage continuous sika hunting can wear a man down. Often was the day I would say to myself, right I’m on reds today, and would find them so much easier to hunt, almost like having a w/end off. Looking back on my success in the Kawekas, I would in fact pinpoint my advantage over my fellow cullers, as being just that! The ability to find and shoot the much easier red deer. My tallies at the end of six weeks would almost always be at least close to half-and-half red/sika ratios. Whereas, my contemporaries would tally maybe one third of my overall tally, but would feature all sika tails!
The roar is a magical time of year, and as deer cullers we were no exceptions. This was the highlight of the year, make no mistake.
The weather of this particular rut, 1980? Seemed to roll on, everyday similar to the last, in as much as they were cool, and mostly dry always overcast but unfortunately, with the arch enemy, the everpresent wind to make things a little interesting. It made a contrast to the days of summer, those long endless, hot, dry trips where a man would lie in his bag in the late morning, gently coming awake to the drone of a few dirty big blow flies. The cullers alarm clock! Not to mention the gentle but progressively, urgent thumping of Toby’s tail against the hard wooden floor of the hut.
This particular day, on closing the hut door, to heavy overcast weather, gun metal Grey sky, with more than a threat of the vertical moisture. Windy too, picking up all the time, and cool enough to be wearing the ole swanny all day. Which is a sure indication winter is round the corner, and the easy days are behind you.
Anyway, the dog and me decided [telepathically] that we would be better off down East creek. Way down, out of this swirly wind. Anyway creeping along, Indian like [and that was only the dog], for there was fresh sign a plenty. Deep down into east creek,we were now out of the worse of the wind, here there was a gentle breeze, blowing the right way,which was in your face!! Although looking skywards the clouds were fair scudding along. We were following not too far behind a sika stag. Then the unmistakable stench of deer, like a wall of smells you physically had to push yourself through. Toby warned me with his eyes, as we eased ourselves out of a small, only trickling creek “Watch those big size 9’s boss” he screamed, in the noiseless-pollution. I warned him back just as noisilessly.
Barely moving, side by side we eased into an open corridor in the bush. And there, standing at the end of it stood our stag.
No more 20 yds separated us. He was looking me right in the eye; I would have had a bowel movement if I’d thought him similarly armed.
I eased the sako up slowly but fluently expecting him to take a hike any second, the crosshairs found his head. Christ am I really going for a head-shot? Why not it’s filling the scope pressure on the trigger, ....click.!!!
Still looking at the deer in the scope, my mind racing,....... and a misfire? I don’t believe it .
I don’t believe that the stag is still there looking at me. Trying to be as fluent as possible, expecting the deer to move anytime. I managed to reacquaint myself with his image, once again. Ejecting the offending round and chambering another, again the trigger squeeze.
A little more emotional pressure was experienced this time.
I was rewarded with a Boompha. The dog the deer and myself didn’t move a muscle, the report still ringing in my ears.! I worked the bolt, levered in a fresh round, and put the rifle back to my shoulder.
That’s when he took off Breaking branches just crashing headlong through the scrub. The dog gives me a withering look,....... I don’t remember reading that in the script he muttered.
I was understandably shaken. You do not miss from that range. I could still hear the stag clattering away, albeit further with every stride .
It must have been pure frustration cos...... I sent the nasty one after him, with a ‘GET HIM’. Toby vaporized he just didn’t go, he simply didn’t exist for me. That dog didn’t usually have to be told to go chase deer. So when he actually heard the words, well let’s just say he never said what? Pardon? Say again?
I was mentally thrashing myself with the biggest branch I could find, when I heard the barking. Quite loud, which sounded very much like a bail. I jerked myself into the present and steamed off down hill in the direction of that wonderful barking. Under and over logjams, tearing through bush lawyer and the like, in and out of creeks. The barking would often stop and start again further away, so I would go as fast as I could toward the noise stop then listen then go again. Eventually breathless and battered, I arrived at the river.
The barking was deafening in the confined space. Looking downstream I was rewarded with a wonderful action scene. The stag, head down was charging Toby, in the middle of the stream. Toby was half swimming the water was splashing everywhere the sako was up in a blur. Too fast cos the .222 round found the space between deer and dog.
A geyser of water leapt upwards between the animals. They neither batted an eyelid, although I suspect the dog’s thoughts on my marksmanship are unprintable. Finally the next time I drew a bead, marked the end for the stag. I reached them; the stag half-immersed in the river slowly drifting downstream, with Toby hanging off its rear end. I just had to examine the head for my own piece of mind, sure enough a hole straight through both its cheeks.

Echos from the past 4

2008-08-13T08:49:00.007+12:00

More from the diary....... We then traveled down to Neill forks, spent the night there, then on to Mangahuka, the highest hut on the block and I believe the best hunting also.
We were almost at the end of the climb when Gary’s, dog “Lassie” started winding off to the side. Packs still on we followed the questing dog. Gary up till this time was having a bit of a rough time with his hunting. It comes to us all at one time or another, and it’s a case of the harder you try the worse it seems to get. But you have to keep on trying because sooner or later the hunting gods will smile on you once more.
I am afraid they we were not about to smile yet awhile. I stayed where I was whilst Gary sneaked down to where lassie stood stock still staring straight ahead. I saw his rifle come up and boompha ,the cut down 303 spoke. The next moment a hind, at a quick walk came into view. There was a small gap in the scrub, into which she moved. The Mauser came up and coughed up 130grains. The hind collapsed where she stood, I was half hoping Gary’s deer was down also and this was another, trying to escape. Until I saw him with his hands on his head and pure anguish written on his face. It all told such a story of woe that needed no words.
After a couple of days of still continuing good weather, at Mangahuka the hunting gods where still smiling at me, but where positively laughing on Gary. ...Yes his luck had changed at long last, and the deer where starting to feel the wrath of a deer hunter back in form.
It was time for a change of scenery. Gary remained at Mangahuka. I decided to trudge my way along the main range. Early that same clear morning, on the way to Aokaparangi bivvy, I picked up a dozy spiker.
Even at that early hour, in the short time it takes to tail and whip off a couple of backsteaks, there where clouds of blowflies, droning about my ears.
What a feeling though, to score so early in the day. The sky was blue and not a cloud in sight, walking through the golden waist high tussock, , Able to wander where I pleased, physically fit and to be paid, as well. Man I was really living!
Aokaparangi hill was looming above me. Above the East Ridge the sun had already risen. In the suns wake, strolling along without a care in the world where two stags. I raced for cover threw my pack off, then edged over a tussock ridge, quickly found the lead stag in the 4x Pecar scope and watched them. The distance between them and myself was down to 100 yds and I dropped the first one where he stood. The other stag with two bounds reached the ridge top and disappeared over the other side. Angling slightly down hill I sprinted so as to ambush the stag as he made for the sanctuary of the bush. I topped the ridge only to find the animal stock still no more than 20 yds away looking quite bewildered. Upon spying me he started to take off. He
pitched forward in a heap whilst the report of the .270 was still reverberating around the hills. That’s what I call handy camp meat, both animals where well within 250 yds of my bivvy.

Echos from the past 3

2008-08-12T14:13:00.009+12:00

? Roberts and Earl Marshall taking a breather on the main range.

...More from the diaries
The summer season did finally arrive, and the Tararuas were, where it was meant to happen.
We were taking in the view from the track that winds down from Winchcombe bivvy,up towards the Tararua Peaks......... I remember Earl saying, “if it’s all like this I’m packing it in”. Meaning those hills look bloody rugged.
They indeed were, but neither he nor I packed it in…or at least not that day.

Gary Hansen and I had spent four eventful days at the old Alpha hut. The last day before we were to head off across the main range, dawned fine but with clouds banked high across the length of Marchant ridge. It could only mean one thing, a North Westerly, and when they blow, you might as well stay indoors, ..and stay indoors, Gary and I did. But when you are keen, and it’s your first season to-boot, and the skies are still blue then you do as I did, and that was what I was getting paid to do,... hunt.
So therefore when I left the dress circle and headed for home a few hours later, with 3 redskin tails on my belt and a load of backsteaks, I was one very pleased hunter.
Although the wind had been wicked all morning, blowing first one way, then the other.
The fickilness of it, made me certainly entertain thoughts, that were far from complimentary to my mental state of health.
...... That is until I stumbled on a hind, yearling and young one, in a deep sheltered gut. With the sun glinting off the ejecting rounds,.....I laid them low with four shots.
The day before, saw me half way down Quoin ridge in the headwaters of the Eastern Hutt River. Glassing the surrounding countryside. When I spied a stag, sporting a good rack of velvet. The range was I guess around the 500 yards mark. He was on a slip, feeding and enjoying the morning sun.
Now that’s long range by anybody’s standards. It was easy to cut the distance down, due to all the depressions in the landscape between the deer and myself.
The range now was about 70 yards. But even at that short a distance, and with the .270 still reverberating around the surrounding mountainside. ….. I had that sure feeling I’d missed. No tell tale thwock, nor any other obvious sign of a hit. Just the stag making a headlong dash, to the creek bottom and out of sight.
Now the Mauser model 2000, is a fine hunting rifle, but unfortunately has no half cock arrangement, although it did have a click safety. There was no excuse for what was to follow. Although the deer didn’t show any signs of a hit I have always made it a policy of mine to follow up on every shot regardless. So it was in this vein, that saw me quietly sneaking down through the thick undergrowth on my side of the creek.
The last thing I remembered was seeing this huge rock looming up before me, .......then I was blind and on my back in one movement. The echo of the shot was fading into silence.
Finding myself in this situation instantly convinced me that I’d shot some part of my anatomy. I stayed for some minutes mentally scanning my body, and waiting for the pain to short circuit all that.
Putting the pieces together afterwards told the story. Pushing through the heavy scrub, I was holding the rifle in my right hand at arm length pointing forward. When I guess a twig or piece of branch had entered the trigger guard and set the round off. The bullet hit the rock, sending rock fragments back into my face, with enough force and shock to send me over on my back.

Winchcombe bivvy was the next venue .It was dawn and I had elected to hunt the headwaters of the Hector. Gary was to hunt the bush on the Waiohine side.
On arriving at Winchcombe the evening before, we’d spied a red stag way down in the Hector, headwaters. Too far away for a hunt in the light that was available that evening, hence the dawn approach.
This was first light, on a beautiful clear day. The sun was an hour or so away from rising so Gary and I went our separate ways. I was away through the thigh high snowgrass, back up the ridge we’d traveled the day before. My plan was to travel for 20 minutes or so, then drop down the hector side into the headwaters and make my way to roughly where we had seen the stag. Making my way down the steep dew soaked tussock in the early morning was exhilarating to say the least. The need for stealth and speed. Was of paramount importance Before the morning gets too late.
The draw back of morning shooting in summer is just that, always trying to beat the clock. But the plus, is just the sheer excitement of the new day and what might lay ahead.
Within about 100 yards of the valley floor, I spied a movement around 300 yards. Bino’s up, sure enough deer A stag in fact, was it the same one?sure looked like it.
He was Reaching high into the tree, to feed, the sun just starting to bathe the valley floor with it’s warming rays, bringing to life the soaking tussock stems, festooning them with sparkling diamonds.
I vaguely took in the rich tapestry that the elements were providing for me.
I was quickly planning my stalk, the hardest part being the initial 100 yards, which was very exposed. Fortunately the stag was quartering away from my position and also my side of the valley was still in deep shadow, so making use of every advantage the contour would afford me, I skipped forward soon covering the first leg of my journey.
There was a couple of dry creek beds and some stunted trees and assorted scrub between us.Easing out of the last one I estimated mentally that I should be in a very comfortable shooting position [range wise]. I edged my head over the lip, and the stag was still there, full bodied ,grey velvet head thrown back occasionally balancing on hind legs and thrusting himself upward in search of the more palatable pickings. He was indeed a fine sight, standing there, belly deep in tussock, deep red coat contrasting with the vivid green of his dinner table.
I almost missed the hind on my side of the Hector stream. It might have been embarrassing. So intent on the stag was I, that I had completely missed her.
Her cream rump patch led me through her right front shoulder, crosshairs wavered then settled, bang...thump....’ she was down.
The stag’s rump was disappearing out of sight I, was up and chasing after him as soon as I’d recovered from the recoil. Splashing across the Hector, grabbing fistfuls of tussock on the other side, heaving myself up just in time to see the big fella, being swallowed up by the stand of bush. I dashed along the flat, veered left, and climbed swiftly to a grassy knoll, overlooking an almost circular patch of bush about the size of a tennis court, completely isolated in the tussock landscape.
Unless he’d sneaked out the other side whilst I was climbing the knoll, I would have him trapped, [at the narrowest point he would only have had to make about 20 yards to reach the main body of bush]. A branch snapped in the middle of the patch, and I relaxed a little, I wasn’t going in, he would have to come out, I was holding all the cards. After much hollering and shouting and lobbing stones, he emerged. Cautiously stepping out at the further most point, 10 big points of velvet. A head, neck, then the whole body looking over his shoulder at me all the while.
The sun was well up at this time and the whole valley floor was bathed in luxurious sunshine. He had reached past the last line of stunted leatherwood, when the .270 spoke.
I tailed both animals, took two sets of backsteaks, and started the long hot climb out of the Hector. It was maybe a half hour later and my rifle was slung over my shoulder when a hind, who was obviously hiding up until then. Lost her nerve and bolted downhill on an opposite spur to me. It seemed an eternity
until that Mauser was settled into my shoulder and my first shot kicked up rocks behind. Ejecting the empty case, and sending the glinting brass out and to the right of me. I quickly sought the hind again in the 4x Pecar scope. This time leading even more ahead of her I touched off another 130-grain emissary. A solid thump, a couple of cart wheels and she was rolling against a rock in a cloud of dust, mortally hit.
We had a good couple of days at Winchcombe, the weather was good and the hunting was likewise.

N.Z.F.S. echoes from the past

2008-08-12T13:57:00.004+12:00

More from the diaries......... 2
My next recollection takes me down to the Rimutaka ranges, in the Wairarapa. Employed now as a hunter for the N.Z.F.S. It was winter again, but this time we were on goat hunting operations. After being dropped off at the road end by the then ranger in charge, [Vince Duckett] with instructions to meet up with Earl Marshall Who’d already been in for a week? I set off in good spirits; pack on, rifle in hand, and a brand new adventure round the bend of the river.
Earl turned out to be a tall rangy, young and very fit type who was enjoying his first season as a hunter. He was, with some relish, looking forward to the summer and getting a look at our block in the Tararuas.
Goat shooting, I found can at times can get quite hairy [no pun intended.] I was to find out how so, one mid afternoon, high above the ????? River. So high in fact, that the river way below resembled a very thin ribbon of blue. There in the bluffs and crags was I, hot in pursuit of one of our smelly friends. Blindly following where he would lead, when I noticed that I was now being very careful where I was placing my feet and hands. So much so, that I stopped, glanced down and with some consternation noted that the ribbon was directly below me. Save for some 20-ft. of severely sloping ground heading in that direction.
Just after the thought occurred to me, [what in the hell am I doing here?sort of thought] my feet had lost what little traction there was available to me at the time. I started to slide, gaining momentum too quickly for any other reaction, other than a blood-curdling, scream. With formula 1 like acceleration I cleared the edge and soared into vacant space betwixt crag and river. I parted company with my beloved Mauser .270, but instead of hitting water miles below; as I fully expected. The fall fortunately was broken by shingle, deep loose shingle. I estimated I’d fallen, around twentyfive to thirty feet ,and it took me some minutes before I was able to locate my half-buried rifle.
Everything looked fine scope wise, a dent or two, some blue lost, but otherwise the steel Pecar 4 power was just fine. The Mauser likewise, some dents and scratches but otherwise ok. How it was going to shoot however, I was yet to find out. My leg was deeply cut, high on the right thigh, requiring a few stitches. There of course was no Doctor [never mind the fact I didn’t have an appointment] on hand; I would just have to let nature take its course. Earl and I were to spend the remainder of the winter in the Rimutukas, camping together and most times sharing the goat tails.

In the Begininng.......

2008-08-12T13:22:00.004+12:00

From my Diaries in the 1970's and 80's...... 1
It all started in Brisbane [Australia] when I stumbled across the book entitled Pack and Rifle by Phillip Holden, the book described the life of a New Zealand deer culler employed by the New Zealand forest service. The author went on to describe his day to day life being paid to hunt deer for a living. In this day and age [the year incidentally was 1974] it astounded me to say the least. I’d no sooner read the book, than I was myself applying for a position as a hunter . The much-awaited reply was dropped through my letterbox, in the suburb of Kangaroo point . With regret [the letter stated] Mr. Garnett, without first interviewing you, it’s not our policy etc. etc. etc. The letter being signed, Ian Logan P. I. C. ,Noxious Animal Control N.Z.F.S. Palmerston North. To cut a long story short, I was face to face with Mr. Logan within the week! The resultant chat had me cooling my heels for a week before journeying up to a very small town in the central Nth. Island called Mangaweka. Penetrating further from Mangaweka alongside the Kawatau river toward the ranges and you eventually arrive at the base camp for the deer hunting operations, which is called Kawatau.
It was here then, that the field officer for this area, Henry Dorrian took me in the winter of 74. I met Henry outside the PO in central Mangaweka as arranged. After a few pleasantries I was told to stow my gear in the back of the Toyota. He had a few things to attend to and said he would not be too long. “Get yourself a beer”, and I will call back for you in half an hour. I’d had a few beers before I caught sight of Henry again. In fact there were two Henry's.
Kawatau base camp was sitting hard up against the bush edge. I remember my thoughts as we arrived at the base. Am I actually in Deer country?. I kept repeating the question to my self, already knowing the answer, cos the answer was all around me, spectacular mountains stretching for ever in most directions.....snow capped too. The awe in my expression must have been obvious for all to see.
I was introduced to the lads who seemed a great bunch. Henry stayed the rest of the day. In fact, to help settle me in, the night also. The next day I was to be put to work as a track cutter. This was the prime job of the Ruahine hunters in winter. It entailed a six-day week with Sunday off. The Sunday [I had decided ]was the day I was to learn the art of deer hunting. I gleaned much information and advice from my work mates during the coming weeks. And put them into practice on the weekends. Photo point ridge was the area that yielded my first deer. High above the Kawatau river in mid winter, late morning, just a little above the deer enclosure on photo point ridge, saw me slowing to a halt to examine fresh sign in the form of two sets of deer slots, and fresh droppings. Making as little noise as possible, I followed the well-marked route of the deer. Through the sparse trees above me I could see the snow covered tussock. The breeze thankfully, was blowing directly into my face. I had stalked carefully through two shallow gullies, when my nostrils picked up that unmistakable smell of deer! Moving even more carefully than ever now. Barely moving I snuck over the slight rise that was both a mixture of snow grass and beech, to be confronted by two heavily bodied stags. Facing quarter away, but looking back over their shoulders, their eyes locked on to mine. Just for the most fleeting moment, we stood face to face. Then with a heavy grunt they forged ahead, one just trailing the other over the lip into the next gully. Somehow I reacted at one with their movements, and as the second stag disappeared over the lip, the 30/30 reticule of my 4x Pecar scope picked up the stag just behind the shoulder. Swept forward and at the same time I squeezed the trigger of the Mauser 270 cal.rifle. After the blast, and recovering from the recoil, I heard much crashing of a big body forging itself through scrub. Silently praying it was only one body escaping, but denying myself the euphoria, of believing I had finally nailed my very first deer. Unable to contain myself any longer, I sprinted forward, almost tripping over the fallen beast. I must admit to quite a few emotions right then, including a deep sense of regret and remorse. The head turned out to be a reasonable ten pointer. It was promptly chopped off and I’m afraid, chop being the operative word, no hint of meat being taken either! This was pointed out in no uncertain terms by Henry Dorrian later that evening. Making my way down through the bush, with the Kawatau River almost in view, I stopped for a breather. Looking across onto a face of crown fern, I was surprised to see a neck and head of a red deer appear as if by magic [hind] two shots later, and the two hinds had completely disappeared. I searched high and low, but to no avail. It remains as much a mystery to me now as it was to me then.
Before crossing the river that day, I was to lose my puma ‘rabbit’ sheath knife, but it was still a proud and tired track cutter that returned, to the Kawatau base camp that winter evening.

The war on 1080

2008-08-10T14:43:00.003+12:00

It appears anti-1080 lobby groups fears are being realised. Following a recent 1080 drop on the West Coast, seven Kea parrots died. A protected species, there are fewer than five thousand Kea’s left in the wild. There have also been recent reports of farmed Deer and domestic animals being poisoned. 1080 poison (or Sodium monofluoroacetate) is dropped in pellet form into New Zealand’s rugged backcountry to control the spread of pests. It works by stopping animals from producing energy from food. They then die from heart or respiratory failure. Whilst the Department of Conservation (DOC) have always defended the use of 1080, there is concern internally. A recent report published said: Aerial 1080 may well be a significant threat to the kea population with some drops probably devastating. There has been recent concern of the actions of 1080 protestors with an animal control officer’s dog being poisoned and 1080 poison being sent to some government agencies. This is an issue that seems to stir up a lot of emotion – on both sides of the coin. Many are concerned that the indiscriminate aerial drops of 1080 pose a major threat to our endemic fauna, not to mention the potential for poisoning the water supply and threatening our ‘clean green’ image.

deer on the tops

2008-07-10T10:25:00.010+12:00

The steep climb over with, I was breathing hard,but was now on the backbone of the range heading South. There was plenty of snow about, witness to the fact with every step I was crunching ankle deep in frost encrusted snow.Looking west, where the chill wind origins lay, the menacing sky told a story. Heavy laden gunmettle grey clouds charging my way, by the second, enveloping features, rending them invisible. Twenty minutes further on , I was caught up in the swirling mists and sleet.

Pack off and salloppetes and crampons retrieved.........A tad further on after negotiating a steep ice clad slope, I decided to descend down the sheltered eastern side. Almost immediately I was now out of the wind and even the sleet had abated. Whiteness everywhere ,with occasional upthrusts of rock in shades of black and grey, overcast and drab skies, with intermittent blue patches, was the setting for the day.......Approaching a deep crease in the terrain, which turned out to be the birth of a creek, I followed the contour ever downward. Still high in the snow covered tussock and still some way from the bush edge, I spied movement.

Four deer were in the creek gut a couple of hundred yards below me. It was the usual story, one , no two, three and four picked out with patient use of the Leica's. They appeard to be feeding on the exposed tussock, that snow had recently slipped off, I guess it was the nearest to silage.......Using the snow for once to my advantage, with crampons facing down hill, and sitting, I commenced a controlled slide of around a 100yds undetected to the lip of the gut.

Pack off and Sako Vixen rifle rested atop, I picked up one of the spikers in the 4x scope. Range around the 100yd mark, cross hairs under control...squeeze....kabaalm thud. The .222 's report in the mountain vastness, was like a slap against skin in it's quietness, the thud of the 53 grn Barnes h.p. projectile hitting home seemed far louder. He was sick, still on his feet, but only just, he was going down. Before any suffering could kick in I did not hesitate, and planted another 53 grn., this time in his neck. He went down poleaxed.

I watched the remaining two hinds and spiker for sometime, [they can be seen in the picture, double click your mouse]barking and pacing around, looking for the source of danger, and wondering what had happened to their fallen mate. I did not move from my concealed position until the last of them had disappeared into the distant bush.

www.tripletui.co.nz

2008-07-09T08:25:00.005+12:00

Idyllic getaway; Log cabins, mountain vistas and a river runinng through it........

Horn rot

2008-07-09T07:54:00.002+12:00

Leaving the hut in darkness with only my Petzl headlamp as company to light the wasy, I trudged along the track breaking the thin crust of ice atop the snow with every footfall. It was bitterly cold as I meandered down the gentle incline towards the unseen but noisy river. My journey now aquainting me with my voiciferous neighbour, although we had different destinations and agendas. The way ahead for me was witchbum black and inspite of the channel of directed white light, I still would trip and stumble and bark my shins against unseen rocks and stumps.
As time progressed however the inky blackness of night was slowly replaced by the shadows and half light. So it was, when my watch registered a half hour of travel, the light had strengthned to the point where Mr. Petzl was thanked for his services and retired to the depths of my day pack. This coincided nicely with the end of my bush journey. There I squatted down and surveyed the options ahead. The tussock and scrub sided river stretched out a hundred or so yards ahead before taking a steep left hander out of sight, Large slips and screes savaged the upper bush on both sides rising up to steep rock formations. Immediately to my right spilled a sizeable creek which had a 30ft waterfall just visible from my position. It was this creek I decided to explore this day. Crossing the creek to the true right I battled the snow conditions to the bottom and to one side of the cascading water. The scrub and tight bush imposed it’s presence, leaving only a narrow soggy at first open climb, it quickly became more rocky and icy eventually leading me to sling my rifle on my back to leave my hands free.
I stood above the waterfall, somewhat shakily and a good deal warmer. I glanced ever upwards at the increasing steep sides of the creek towering above me. I was now roughly inline with the bush edge on both sides. The open country stretched before me, dressed in tan coloured tussock , hebes and assorted alpine plants that reached far up the slopes and ended in drab grey and black precipitous rock formations. Everything generously decorated with white snow and ice.
I left the confines of the creek, and contoured away to my left skirting the bush edge. I started to flounder in drifts. When not finding those, branches that I would brush again would reward me with a neck full of snow., Looking on the bright side though , I was generally feeling grateful of my knee length gaiters, I just wish I had a pair for my neck as well !!.
A chamois buck materialised trekking out of a depression high above. He was moving in a purposeful way conveying haste to me. The way ahead for him had perhaps fifty yards of open ground leading to a prominent ridge, once over that who knows. I threw my body to the ground and quickly sought his form in the glass ware. The animal continued to pick at this and that , whilst still on the move. I was in a position that could hardly be described as benchrest , being draped over one hebe and angling by body around another. The buck was within a few strides of the ridge, he then paused and looked straight down to me. The sights quartered his shoulders and I squeezed the light trigger....thud/kabalm...the animal looked as if he was picked up by some invisible force and slammed against the hill. A few minutes later his leg was seen to twitch twice.
The long climb up to the chamois was a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. His coat turned out to be a first class winter one, but when I turned him over, I was to find horn rot on his other side. I reached for my buck folder and proceeded to relieve him of his pelage. Too bad about the hooks, but skin and meat was still a good deal for me.

Ambush Foiled

2008-07-08T16:05:00.010+12:00

.........The wind was now no more than a gentle zephyr, and sun had risen high enough to bathe me in it's rays. All this in just an hours sidle from where I had first emerged from the snow laden bush.

.........The neck and head of a chamois appeared on the skyline, just fifty yards above my position............The buck was pressing his female entourage forward, pretty hard, they were now a long way off, maybe six hundred yards or more, filing through a depression heading north............... The ambush was semi successful, in as much that I had halved the distance between us, and arrived there undetected. I was more or less opposite them, but I only had a fleeting moment for a shot, as they were moving quickly......kaboomph, the buck jumped a foot in the air, as dirt and rocks sprayed his underparts, I had not held high enough, mayhem !......

Man you have to admire their agility and ability to eat up the terrain in a hurry, when they are under threat.