Unpredictable wind

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

Extracts from an early winter sojourn

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

Broken Horn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the storm

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

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

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

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

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

.

Piggy in the middle

Your some shooter boss!!


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

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

Walkabout with Kaweka's no.2

Ed Bright at Mangatainoka


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


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

From the Diaries [private]

Demented in the Haurangis

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

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

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

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