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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Echos from the past 5
Andy marden /Comet hutMore 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.
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
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 h
ills. That’s what I call handy camp meat, both animals where well within 250 yds of my bivvy.
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 h
ills. That’s what I call handy camp meat, both animals where well within 250 yds of my bivvy.Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Echos from the past 3
? 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 cou
ple of days at Winchcombe, the weather was good and the hunting was likewise.
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 cou
ple of days at Winchcombe, the weather was good and the hunting was likewise.N.Z.F.S. echoes from the past
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.
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.......
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.
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.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
The war on 1080
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.
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