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................

Echos from the past

old bridge Ngaawapurua

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

The Manson

Echos from the past 8

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

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

Otutu bush hut

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

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

meant climbing past the animals, out of sight in

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

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

Echos from the past 7

Paul & Fran outside Ngaawapurua

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

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

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

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

Me flanked by the two Johns at Tussock

Ballard hut 99,

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


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

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

Return to N.Z.

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

Echos from the past 6

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.