The Highest Wallow in the Land

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

12 deer and a chamois

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

First deer for Lachlan

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

Unpredictable wind

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.

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