Roar time Take 2

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

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

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.

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

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 !

“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

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.