Bull Tahr Hunt

The phone rang and I picked it up. Steve Garnett? Yes I replied. “Deer on my Doorstep” the book by Colin Davey came the voice, yes? I said warily my mind working overtime. The names Glenn, Glenn Soroka and I sent you a copy many years ago. The fog was slowly lifting, but still not quickly enough. “Remember the Kawekas early eighties at Te Pukeohikarua hut” he went on. “Me and my mate Pete...... a huge snowstorm”....”Yes of course” I interrupted.
I was in my second season culling and these two guys descended on my office at Te Puke and we sat out a two to three day snowstorm together. The hut at that time was an open fire affair and the southerly wind would sweep down the chimney with malicious intent. We three would be huddled staring into the embers and in unison would rock to and fro with the coming and going of the downdraft of smoke. They were good company. I remembered When it was time for them to leave they asked for help to navigate the tops in the deep snow and slashing wind, and I remember taking them down as far as the Harkness hut. I remember Glenn promising to post on a book I had been looking for, for some time, and I was amazed and grateful on returning home after that trip to find the above book.
We went on reminiscing for sometime and eventually Glenn mentioned that he had a young workmate that was helping him at his work http://www.sorokarifle.com/ , and that he was Canadian and was going home shortly. He was wondering if I would like to accompany them for a Chammie or Tahr hunt.
Now this was pretty good timing and apart from a Uk trip I had planned for the end of May to my daughters wedding, I was available.
I was indeed planning a Tahr trip of my own. Anyway We exchanged a few emails and planned on an early June trip if the weather was kind to us.
Glenn and Brooksie arrived late Saturday afternoon on the 5th June. The forecast for the week ahead was perfect. We were heading for the West Coast and perfect was no mean feat for that neck of the woods, in fact the previous week saw fine weather on the coast albeit very windy, whilst the rest of the country suffered much rain. All in all the gods were indeed benevolent.
We yarned a while over a coffee and biscuits and then set off for the five hour journey south. We arranged enroute to stop a night in a back packers, it was the White Heron actually in Whataroa. We made good time. On arrival we sorted out our gear one more time in manageable loads, and were abed at around midnight.
James Scott was booked to fly us in at o830hrs on Sunday, and we arrived at the car park at o820. It was to be my first sojourn into the Southern Alps. I measured them from this distance with a high level of respect, the dark green bush level looked to be a quarter of the overall height of the mountains. The higher levels were steep and precarious looking. They looked far more menacing than most of the country I was used to in the Nelson Lakes and they were cloaked in snow and ice.
While we waited for the chopper There was a distinct chill in the air, but I at least was snug in my gaudy red down jacket, I must admit I was impervious to Jack’s nip.
The chopper arrived on time and we quickly loaded. Brooksie got the prime seat at the back with all the food and equipment and for good measure he got Glenn’s dog “Shiva” on his lap such are the joys of youth. I was wedged in the middle front and Glenn was up against the door.
Under ten minutes travel, and we were at the head waters of a creek looking for a camping site. All I could see was rock, rock and more rock. We eventually landed on a small level area and proceeded to empty the chopper we then confirmed our departure date and farewelled the pilot.
The two tents were up in no time. I got a two man to myself and Glenn and Brooksie shared the other. The mountain radio was set up the food stored in the rock bivvy, and we had a home. Glen had nominated himself as “the camp bitch” apart from being out of sorts, he was a veteran of at least four other Tahr escapades, and had bagged amongst others a 13” and a 13.5” head He had his resident pot licker too to help out in the kitchen
The three of us then had our glasses trained on the peaks high above us. Glenn found a bull way up in the distance on a ridge and I found one a lot closer again on a ridge with a few nannies as company. Although mine was closer, it was in what seemed to be more of a precarious position and the creek that would offer the quickest route to him looked impassable at this early stage. So we opted for the first one and it was an opportunity to stretch the legs and physically cover some country and get a feel for the land. Brooksie and me set off at around 11.30 to see how close we could get to the faraway bull.
It took us an hour to top the scree that was adjacent to our camp, a journey I thought would be 20minutes max. We had picked a route with the binoculars that seemed very feasible with only a few areas that raised question marks. However the binocular route and the physical route were two different things, and many a time we had to back track and find alternative means to progress. It was 1630 hrs when we topped the ridge that the bull was last seen on, unfortunately we were a lot lower down on that ridge, due to chosing an easier line, and even this line had us hanging on by our fingertips and being very religious .Looking into the next gully had me experiencing a pang of vertigo. We were hoping for a scree to descend, so that we would not have to backtrack the way we had come, but all we got was a vertical plunge of sheer rock wall to the creek bottom. Above us on the ridgeline were huge broken slabs of rock, which if even we had the time to climb the physical effort needed was beyond us. We off loaded our daypacks and scoffed our late lunch and wondered what the hell lay in store for us on this trip. Whilst we relaxed, we took in the immensity of the faces and sheer wildness of it all.
We down climbed with much care and mutual encouragement and arrived at camp slightly chastened by our experience. Glenn who in his role of camp bitch and chief observer was shouting “Hey Brooksie I have found a bull for you, take a look” So we three took up the glass and viewed the bull on the somewhat easier face down side of our camp. It wasn’t long before we spied one or two more as the shadows lengthened.
I was impressed with my first viewing of the shaggy patriarch of the mountains he looked more to be a grizzly bear at distance, with his long and rangy mane sweeping the ground. I was slightly disappointed with the country he was in however, seemingly more suited to chamois,and not the heights and crags I was more used to reading about. I made up my mind there and then that the bull I was to shoot would be in more testing country and I was more than happy to see Brooksie realise his quest .
The next morning after breakfast we resumed the glassing and again saw the bull of the night before, or at least one similar. I then started to scan high into the crags further upstream and was rewarded with a magnificent looking bull making his way horizontally towards the bottom of a steep rock shute encrusted with ice and snow. Meanwhile Glenn was shouting to Brooksie to get his arse into gear and stalk the bull on the scrubby face opposite us. “Are you coming with me?” Brooksie asked, before I could answer Glenn said “go by yourself, you’ll get it, you will learn nothing going with Steve”, I wasn’t sure how to take that to be honest, but decided that it meant it would mean more to the lad to stalk and shoot it himself rather than be led by the hand so to speak. So with that we separated and Brooksie aimed for the scrub above our camp and I pointed my nose toward the snow shute.
After a hard climb of about an hour and a half I started to enter the shute. It was about then I heard the first of three or four shots going off. The third and fourth were spaced out over the next hour, The lad’s into his bull I mused.
The going looked reasonable enough. I looked high above me and the top of the shute was just out of eyesight, doing a dog leg 7/8ths of the way up. I firstly checked all the nooks and crannies above me for any sighting of the bull, but was not rewarded, so I began to climb it was upward ever upward. About half way up the shute I started encountering black ice and more snow, I was thankful I was using my new “Markor 45” litre day pack which enabled me to stow my rifle in it’s scabbard at the back, and use both my hands, for I was now climbing more. On one precarious pitch when I was hanging on by toenails and fingernails, and thinking seriously about using my gums!
One slip would mean a fearful plunge down an icy slope and clattering into a huge rock at the bottom. I then noticed my fingertips on both hands had gone white as snow, and then the pain started. I had been so preoccupied with my predicament that I had had my hands immersed in the snow for far too long at a time and contracted a mild frostbite. I found a thin ledge to balance on and I quickly thrust the offending appendages deep into my fleece shorts, ah the agony and the ecstasy. They took an age to regain their circulation. It was at this point that I knew I was not going to retrace my footsteps, for better of for worse I was going up. I hoped and prayed that when I got there I would find an easy route down.
I was finding it increasingly difficult the higher I got, the holds were getting smaller and smaller, and I was full of anguish and uncertainty as to the outcome of the day. Eventually With the end in sight I came up against an unsurmountable obstacle. It was a black ice encrusted rock that overhung my position. I tried umpteen times to get around, but could not get in a safe enough position to commit myself for fear of the yawning drop below me. There was a shallow cave to my right and I retreated there to nut this problem out.
Looking up to the roof of the cave I saw daylight, two small openings were apparent. I took of my pack and rifle and wedged myself up a chimney of rock until I was within arm reach of the openings. I figured if I could remove enough rock I might be able to squeeze through one of the openings and so leapfrog my earlier position. I braced my legs against one wall with my back to the other and pulled out four huge rocks and let them slip between me and the rock face, they cascaded down the shute breaking into smaller pieces and taking even more rocks with them. I managed to clear quite a wide shelf which I could then clamber up on to. I was overjoyed to see that it was indeed possible for me to squeeze through the openings. I then shimmied down to my pack and brought that up and pushed it ahead of me through the opening and then followed through myself.
Ok, I am still moving, I tried to convince myself. I still had a couple more hairy moments before finally topping out onto a ridge that was so thin, that it took my breath away. Despite its lack of width, there were fresh Tahr tracks running over it! The other side plunged straight down. I took off my pack to rummage through and found my lunch, two snickers bars! I had forgotten to load my bread and sardines. Worse my camelback had lost its mouth piece somehow in the climb and the whole contents of water had soaked through everything. I have a valve as a back up after a similar incident last year, but I had had the valve on open....bugger.
It was midday and no water and if that was lunch I had had it! I now needed to concentrate on a way down, and there was no way I was going to tread the tracks of the Tahr! So, treading a path under where he went I followed in his general direction and that I found quickly became non negotiable, so I retraced my steps back to where I had lunch. I took a breather to admire my surroundings snowy peaks in every direction a blue sky windless and best of all you could hear a pin drop...my heart was beating though, and loudly too. I slipped carefully in the other direction and spied the same prints descending diagonally into what looked like a deep snow gulley, that in turn descended aggressively toward steep scree and eventually the creek floor...if only I thought. The Tahr had not gone down the gulley, as I could see his prints ranging ever higher. I carefully followed his tracks, squeezing past overhanging rocks until I made firm contact with the gully. The snow was deep and I sighed with relief. I faced inward and kicked steps using the steps I’d cut in turn for my hands I gradually descended. I am going to make it I thought!
I eventually reached the scree and then sat down and glassed the opposite mountain. A nanny was seen standing on the main ridge looking down hill and away from my position. After an hour of further glassing I spied a decent looking bull with a range of nannies. Decision made I was going to stalk them, firstly I glassed a suitable route amongst the sheer rock face. Most of it I could see was unclimbable but there was one chance.
It took an age to make my way down the remaining scree, always conscious of where I wanted to start my climb up the other side. I was starting to ascend the other side when I notice a young bull high above me poke his head over a huge rock and look down in my direction I froze for some minutes until he lost interest and pulled his head back in. The climb was far from easy but eventually I was nearing the crest of the final spur, the wind was blowing up my arse and I was frustrated after all this effort to be denied at the last hurdle. Then I heard some snorting and whistling and knew my number was up, I reached the top and saw some tail ends scurrying across the rock faces, mostly nannies. I had already taken my rifle out of its scabbard before topping out, but had somehow joined the top strap of my pack through the sling of my rifle, so when the bull fleetingly showed itself I became entangled and by the time I got myself organised he had vanished. Mark that down as a new gear mistake!
I decided I had climbed quite enough for the day it was now 3pm and high time I started hunting instead of climbing. The plan was to hunt my way back to camp, mostly down hill which suited me fine. I was glassing a creek way down on the opposite side of the mountain I had climbed when I spied three or four nannies. That will do me I thought the route to the creek was easy and fully out of sight I quickly made up the ground. After some minutes I edged slowly over the lip on my stomach and there were five nannies and a bull in full view gorging themselves in the short scrub and grasses. Now this was only a young bull and not really what I had come all this way for I had come a long way however and one in the hand is worth .
......I placed the .308 on my pack and dropped the animal, all hell broke lose unseen nannies erupted from everywhere but best of all a huge mature bull stood up on my side of the creek. In an instant I saw his long shaggy dark brown pelage and decent bone, I cross haired him and sent Barnes on its way. He collapsed in a heap and didn’t even twitch. The shot had hardly stopped reverberating, around the mountains when a huge thunderous roar assaulted my ears that more than matched my rifles feeble croak. Looking across the valley in alarm I noticed a huge fissure appear in the snow behind the glacial front I thought for one second that I had started an avalanche, but no other movements were detected.
I quickly moved over to the fallen one and hurriedly took the usual snap, too hurriedly I found out later. Time was getting on already well after 4pm. I started to cape the animal, but due to the impending darkness, I had to leave him half done. The gloom was upon me I had no torch and it was a long way back to camp. I picked my way off the steep face and by the time I was in the scrub it was totally black. There was much hilarity making my way through the monkey scrub etc......not!
The lads had left on a flashing head torch for me to reference in the creek bed and it made a huge difference. I called out when I was a couple of hundred yards from camp and out of the darkness came a light carried by Brooksie who escorted me in. I was totally knackered. I learnt Brooksie had been unsuccessful with his day having missed his target. Bed was a great place that night.
Mission the next day was to finish the job of last night. Brooksie was heading in the direction of his misfortune of yesterday. We teamed together until we came to the bottom of the first scree then he angled across the face and I began the long climb to the tops. I topped out after an hour and a half climb then dropped down the other side for the short walk to the bull. I made blade cuts on the stiff one. and managed to cape him and severe his head. I stowed the head and cape in the Markor and beat an early retreat for the camp. Just as I was starting the climb around twenty nannies and young bulls appeared way down where Brooksie was hunting. They ran across me around 150 yards below me. I stopped and retrieved my camera and snapped off some shots. They weren’t stopping that’s for sure. Just as I was thinking Brooksie must have nailed the bull, he appeared herding another few nannies in front of him, stopping below me to pose for pictures. I eventually tired of him and carried out the slog upwards.
With camp in sight, I heard a curse and looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see Brooksie on my heels. ”What ya know”, I greeted. Frigging Remingtons he spat out [He was not overly fond of the breed]. “What happened? “”I took a shot and then could not eject the case, it is jammed in the chamber” he moaned.
We later found out that the rounds reloaded for the trip were only neck sized and too big for the chamber. Brooksie ran the rest of the rounds through the rifle and found 50% were to be discarded due to being too tight. We ejected the problem case with a tent peg propelled by a rock at the barrel end.
The rest of the day was spent fleshing and capeing my bull, before salting and folding away. We measured the bone and it went 12 and 1/8th.
The last day started with Glenn pushing the lad out of the tent in the dark and making him a feed that would keep an army on the march for days. He badly wanted him to get a bull. Daylight broke and the glasses were trained on the hill. A suitable bull was found and Brooksie was away with instructions ringing in his ears. I had decided to have the day off and watch the lad’s performance. I had killed one too many bulls anyway.
We watched Brooksie make the scree and were frustrated that he could not see the bull which was 200yds away and slightly above him. We saw him lie down and point his rifle, but not at the bull we could see. It finally dawned on us after we gave him loads of abuse, that he must have spied one himself. Two shots, rang out the second of which sounded solid, and we watched Brooksie traverse the face to the further ridge. When he reached there he gave the thumbs up and we could relax. The Canuck had his bull. He was home shortly after midday and a couple of hours was spent knocking his head and cape into shape the head went 11 ½. It was 1500hrs and with a quick consensus it was decided we would call up and see if we could hitch a ride out a little earlier than expected. We were told to be ready in 30 minutes........ Man we flew around camp.
We enjoyed a beer that night and the boys were on the ferry next day back to the lesser island.

Roar time Take 2

Part 2
A week has gone by this time the forecast looks more stable. The roar this year will have to take a back seat to an area I have badly wanted to explore for a few years now, and who knows this area might produce as well.
It’s now day2 and I am back in residence with Hennessey up and water collected. The weather is fine and settled. This time glassing from camp does not produce an animal and the afternoon goes by with no action. Day 3 A cold night has produced ice covered tussock and my hands soon become numb after numerous pull ups on the steep slope.
It takes an hour of climbing before I top the ridge behind camp, an hour filled with anticipation, for the view over this ridge has only been seen before only on a map and never confirmed with my baby blues.
At last I top the ridge and I am rewarded with a fine view of tussock stretching far and wide. Gullies, creeks, spurs, tarns and rock faces, all need to be minutely inspected with my binoculars. I search around for a likely looking spot in the shade, where I can sit down and scan the country ahead.
It was perhaps 40 minutes later that the colour red stood out from it’s tawny surroundings,at the same time I was aware at last of feeling the warming rays of sunshine on my back, as the sun begun to climb the morning sky. The red colour turned out to be a hind and alongside her materialised another two animals, looking very much like hinds as well at this range. The range was extreme, maybe a mile or more. I dismissed the animals and began my search closer to my position, but frequently rechecking on their position from time to time. After a substantial amount of time spent re-examining the country in front of me, it became evident that these three animals were the only ones I could find.
Even at this extreme distance I could see that the animals progress would soon be halted, by what looked like from here as a huge non negotiable chasm., so I scanned some more with the binos to try and ascertain an alternative route that the animals might chose, after some minutes it became obvious that they were making progress parrelell with the chasm, and at the same time dropping in height and heading toward the bush edge.
I quickly mapped out a route that would bisect theirs and took off on a very long stalk. There was not much need for stealth at this range, more of need to close the considerable distance involved as quickly as possible.
I suppose the range was in the vicinity of 800yds when I slumped to the ground and produced my binoculars to recheck on my redskins. Now I could see one at least carried some antlers, or more to the point spikes for he was only a spiker as further inspection confirmed. It looked for all the world as if a spiker was holding two hinds during the roar. Tut tut where were all the macho ones? I watched the trio for around ten minutes as they picked here and there fussily , occasionally reprimanding one another and then frolicking together in child like play. All the time they seemed consistently to be making for a sharp scrub covered spur that gave way to bush and eventually leading to an open tussock terrace and eventually a sparkling fresh creek.
This is precisely what I gambled on. The fact that they had spent all morning on the tops, they were now more than likely very thirsty. They were ready for some water. Taking no chances I found a deep water course and dropped altitude using this vehicle. Combined with the very high tussock, I was able to keep well out of sight as I continued on my course.
I eventually found a rock that was over looking the tussock terrace at the foot of the spur opposite. I took off my pack and levelled my rifle. The range was around 150yds and I lay in wait. Occasionally I would glimpse a body through the heavy bush as the animals made progress.
At long last a hind materialised out of the bush, the spiker was about to follow, when suddenly he looked over his shoulder and waited. The second hind appeared behind him and he waited for her to catch up and then pass him. Hind 2 was now in the open, I waited for the spiker.
Finally he showed himself, like some wily old royal stag, cagey to the last. The cross hairs settled on his shoulders for an instant. The shot struck and his front legs left the ground and arced high above his head, he then crashed sideways to the ground.
The remaining hinds barked and carried on a bit before finally departing, into the safety of the bush.
Day4 had me packing up camp and sidling my way out, up the big rock scree into the saddle. I was in deep shadow and making good progress. Some movement across the scree drew my attention to 5 chamois moving uncertainly in the sunshine. They were looking my way but unable to ascertain what I was due to the sun in their eyes.
I glassed them carefully and picked out a buck with a nice set of hooks. Not incredibly big but a good downside curve going I estimated around the 8” mark.
I levelled the stubby .308 over a handy rock and took the buck in the shoulder.
No sign of a roar this high up, but satisfied that another piece of country and been seen and covered.

Roar 2010 Part 1

It was an arduous journey into my chosen campsite. I bypassed the solitary hut and ascended the steep ridge to the tops with a heavy pack. Three hours later had me reaching my first waypoint.
I had with me my Hennessey hammock instead of my usual tent for this trip, mainly due to the fact that my eventual destination was in very steep country and would be unlikely to afford me a place to pitch it, also it was about time I used this bit of gear. I have owned it some years now and it has only previously seen one outing
Unfortunately I was still very much on the tops when I decided to camp for the night so left ole Hennessey asleep in the bottom of the pack , and just decided to bivvy the night instead I awoke the next morning to a coating of frost atop my bag.
I rolled over and lit the primus and waited for it to boil whilst still snugly wrapped up in my feathered tomb. I lay there watching the early morning unfold , I was above the densely misted valley bottom looking across the divide at my equally clear mirror opposite mountain range. Everything was still in deep shadow, with only the slightest hint of gathering light emerging over the distant ridgeline to the east , heralding the dawn of a new day. It is a great time of day lazing away the early moments with the anticipation of the scalding tea to come and even breakfast too before stirring the stumps and reluctantly leaving the cozy nest
My gear was packed and I was ready to move out at 0830hrs. The plan was to sidle just above the bush line for an hour. Next there was a steep inlcine climbing away from the bush edge that I had to climb to reach a saddle which would permit me entry into the next watershed. The sun was gaining strength on my back all the while and the sweat was beginning to flow, finally I was in the saddle and able to scan the whole headwaters of my chosen piece of country I sat down and bisected the area with my binos for a likely place in which to set up my camp. I could see immediately that water would be a problem, for the nearest creek was about a fifteen minute walk from where I proposed to string out my hammock in the trees.
Never mind I mused, it doesn’t seem as if I have any choice anyway I shall just have to fill up my water bladder and make the repetitive journey for water. I slung my heavy pack atop my shoulders and made the long arduous journey through the tall wavering tussock and scrub meandering across the huge amphitheatre of open tops.
Two hours later I was at my proposed campsite and set about making it my temporary home. A brew, and a bite to eat. I then filled up the bladder in the stream and then stretch out in the tussock and glass the basin for any sign of game for the rest of the afternoon. It was so relaxing to rest my weary muscles and stretch out in the sun kissed alpine grasses, alternately sleeping and glassing the vast open country.
Some time later I was brought to my senses by some rock fall to my rear, I swivelled round to witness two chamois cavorting down from the heights, seemingly playing a game of tag. They ended up with tongues rolling and gasping for breath around 160yds from my position blissfully unaware of my position. Camp meat was high on the priority at this time and it was with these thoughts that had me rolling onto my stomach and laying my pack infront of me before resting my .308 atop it. Picking out the nearest animal I then laid the duplex reticle on her shoulder and squeezed off the shot. She raised her front legs into the air and fell sideways as the 130 grn Barnes found it’s mark. The other animal was in full stride and making good headway up the nearest scree, with hardly a backward glance he was soon out of sight.
In due course I wandered over and retrieved my meat, it was a good start to the trip.
Later that night the heavens opened and rain fell with monotonous regularity on my flimsy shelter. Around three in the morning I had shipped a couple of inches of water in my hammock, due to the fly not being properly centralised. It was a cold and wet hunter that greeted the mist clad moist dawn
It had been a long cold wet night and a decision had to be made, my sleeping bag was saturated, and by the way the day was shaping up, it was unlikely I was going to be able to dry it out. I hung around until 10.00 hrs. I then finally made the decision to call it day and head on out.
I decided instead of traversing through the waist high soaking tussock, to head for the tops via various screes. I headed high into the weather and the visibility deteriorated accordingly. I lived in that peas soup for the rest of the day, before finally making the hut at 1740hrs that evening. Everything was drenched in my pack. I reluctantly slid into my soaked sleeping bag that night and slept fitfully.
The next day was much the same, so I reluctantly packed up and headed out to civilisation.

Three spikers

Early February and a hot spell forecast for a few days with the freezer getting lean on venison it was purposfull strides towards the tops that had me sweating in the noon heat that day.Nearing five o clock saw me approach my camp site. I was dismayed to see the creek there completely dried up. After a fruitless half hour search for a campsite with water, I finally chose my camping ground. There was barely enough room to pitch my one man tent and then at least a couple of minutes from the nearest creek.What were my chances of seeing deer high up on the tops now, i mused while scoffing my dinner sometime later.

A couple of hours before dark, I took my rifle and binos onto a lip overlooking what in the past has been a very successfull gully the water I could see in the creek was flowing strongly. I was on the bush line looking over a large expanse of tussock area. Within a few minutes however heavy ominous looking clouds began to drift over head. Not long after the first light pitter patter of rain splashed down, there was an increase in momentum and finishing in quite a strong downpour. I manfully endured the 30 minute onslaught, which left me shivering in a cool s.w. breeze that followed.

It was an uneventfull evening with no sign of an animal.The following morning was warm as i made haste in the half light in the opposite direction of the night before. The sky was clear and the promise of a fine day was carved in stone. An hours travel had me overlooking the huge watershed that I had chosen for my source of meat.I finally settled down to glass the huge area and it wasn't untill twenty minutes later that I finally spied three animal over a 1000 yds away. They appeared to be adults although no sign of any antlers. I was hoping one at least would be a yearling of some description.I kept a frequent check on the animals as I glassed more of the country thoroughly to make sure I didn't bump any as yet unseen animals on my stalk.

They seemed to be all that there was out in the open so I planned my stalk and set off.

No more than 50 yds into it a lone chamois appeared over a spur to my right, aware of me he was angling down and across my position and making for the bush edge. His bone looked to be around the 8 1/2 " height so was of no interest to me at all and so i watched his progess, noting the fact that a shot would have not been at all easy, for he was constantly moving, and when he paused it was for a second only. I watched him untill he moved out of sight over a spur and into the bush.

It was well over an hour before I was nearing the position I had picked out to which I hoped to identify the deer and make a shot. I peered over the ridge and eventually found the deer lower down and further out than I had imagined. There was no way to descend the ridge to stalk nearer. Range was 300yds or thereabouts and steeply downhill. The binos identified three spikers. I wriggled down into the tussock clad ridge until I had a clear and uninterupted view. With the rifle atop my day pack, I singled out a target. The four power reticle was aimed low on the chest of one of the broadsided deer. The light trigger was tripped and the thwock of a hit was distinct mingled with the report of the .308.The deer dropped like a stone.The remaining two stood together uncertain.I took another with a similar shot and the third deer just went to ground.

Sometime later ,I literally had to kick it up and shoo it away, before finally being able to butcher the two amimals. It was a long arduous and waterless tramp back to camp, with frequent stops to rest and seek shade from that relentless sun.

Back at my campsite the afternoon was slow in passing the day burned on and on and the flies were prolific.I broke camp early the next day and with heavy pack lumbered upwards toward the main ridge. I topped the ridge and sidled for a time before reaching a large tarn. Tawny coloured Tussock stretched for miles in three directions the sky was blue and clear. I dumped my pack and rumaged inside to find my enamel mug, I walked a few paces to the waters edge and drank my fill. After the second mugfull I glanced up to the ridgline above and there sillouhetted against the sky was a young chamois.We eyed each other for what seemed an age. Now I would like to say that I watched the animal untill it moved off, but I did not. Instead keeping firm eye contact I retreated to where my rifle lay, picked it up and slowly sat down, found the animal in the sight and knocked her over with a shot to the chest at well under 100yds.More meat to butcher but at least now It was down hill all the way.

Southerley wind /M.I.A.

Evening shadows began to lengthen as I emerged out of the bush and onto the river flats. Parts of which still had a tenacious covering of hoar frost. My Polyprop top was seemingly competing with the surrounding whiteness bearing witness to its exceptional wicking properties. The evening chill was starting to bite, but to stop now would be foolish as the hut was a mere hundred yards away.
Once in I set about the lighting of the fire. There was precious little in the way of firewood handy so it was back outside resulting in a mini forage in the surrounding bush. Sometime later and the Fire was lit and a brew started. Then I threw some warm clothing on and I was a different man.
The next day would be a full tramp into my destination. It passed uneventfully.
I awoke in the darkness and immediately switched on my Petzl headlamp. The beam revealed the walls in the hut streaming with condensation. The foot of my sleeping bag was also wet and clammy. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slipped my down jacket on, my breath expelling in great clouds of vapour. The gas was ignited on my stove and I completed my dressing whilst waiting for the water to boil.
Closing the hut door in the bleak light of the morning I stepped into the sombre bush. The wind had picked up over night and now there was a strong southerly buffeting the upper canopy. Great I thought if it is blowing this hard here it will be really uncomfortable up there. Up there as I looked I could see the clouds fair scudding across the sky and plumes of snow being whipped up and carried northwards at pace. The bush floor was carpeted in icy snow and it neither diminished nor did it increase with the higher altitude gained. Eventually I broke out onto tops. The day was long and fruitless. I did not feel the sun on my back until around two p.m. Not an animal was seen. My camelback froze and then when it eventually thawed it would not close. The residue of the bladder leaked onto the front of my coat and immediately turned to ice. There was one high though looking across the valley I spied an area that was lavishing in sunshine from early morning right through the day. It also was more sheltered from the prevailing winds and best of all there was a lot more feed showing through the snow.
It was to that spot that I was trudging towards at first light. Conditions were ditto yesterday i.e, fine but with strong Southerly winds. I was thankful to emerge out of the bush after an hour and a half climb. I could see the sun was just lighting up the peaks high above. The 360 degree views were breathtaking I was surrounded by lofty pinnacles of rock all attired in their white winter best. The gusts of wind would drive up plumes of snow and carry the spindrifts swirling into the clear sky. All this landscape was backdropped by a sky the colour of which was the most intense shade of royal blue.
Where I stood on the edge of the bushline the trees were subjected to the will of the wind. They creaked and groaned under the onslaught .The wind whistled through them like a banshee. It was at times enough to make a man feel a long way from home.
My watch told me 1400 meters of altitude had been ground out. I had put a fair amount of tussock clad gradients behind me when I arrived on the edge of a near vertical series of ridges and spurs. To look at them they would not be dissimilar to an inverted ladies fan. They were clad in the usual mixture of Tussock and Hebes,Speargrass and Flax and probably a whole lot more flora that my uneducated eyes could detect. Add to that, dollops of snow ice and rock. The invisible sign said “Chamois town” in big bold letters. Suddenly movement above me and it looked like the animal was onto me. My pack was off and I extended my body over it rifle pointing expectantly. There! Just a half animal to shoot at “boompha”- missed.” Easy with the empty Lapua case”! Jack in another round “boompha”- thud this time my ears called a hit as the chamois disappeared from view. There was more movement on the second ridge over another animal was blatting over it and finally slowed on the third spur along only to look back for some time until yet another animal joined up. They then mooched over to the furthest skyline ridge, before feeling safe enough to stand their ground. They stood their ground for an hour according to my ever right Pathfinder. Lighting out for pastures new was not on the agenda.
I was the first to tire of the silly game being played beside which I had been lying in a patch of snow all the while. I eased up into a crouching posture and felt every muscle and bone creak with the effort. This aging process is alright for cheese I thought. I started to move and let my arms mimmick a walking motion eventually moving out of sight of those twin sets of piercing eyeballs. I guessed they would have been all of 400yds away.
I climbed under and past the location of what I hoped was my downed beast eventually topping the ridge again much higher up. I inched up the last few yards on my belly and peered through the wind blasted tussock towards where the two sentries were seen last.
Sure enough nothing had changed. Though with altitude the distance between us had shrunk somewhat. 300yds was the considered separation of space now. I duly placed the Macmillan stocked rifle atop my pack and playfully took the shot. I then took the scenario a step further and thumbed in two Sierra match rounds. In recent outings these projectiles were letting me down too often and especially on chamois. However with the mixture of rounds I had on me these were the only ones I could rely on at this distance.
With surprise I was listening to the report and seeing the chamois fall. He looked to be hit too far back. I could see his upper torso struggle to regain its former balance. His mate lit off.
This is about the time when you rely on your former experience to carry the day. Instead I tried to finish the job from where I lay. I am left with rounds not properly sighted in, a 4x scope, only a 1/3 of an animal to shoot at- ask yourself?. Two shots later with snow that sprayed up in front of the chamois he decided enough is enough. He lurched to his feet and disappeared over the spur.
So now I have no choice but to don crampons and climb up and around the yawning gully and sidle across the steep ice clad slope and then climb down to where I had last seen the stricken one. I am now at the 1600 metre mark and climbing when I sight his mate zig zagging high above me. He looked reluctant to tread the road he was on and was constantly stopping and looking down at me. Eventually though he found a route through the high peaks and disappeared over into the next watershed.
Meanwhile I have reached the height I need and now it was all about putting all my faith into my crampons and ice axe to sidle my way across and down. I am now experiencing no wind whatsoever the sun is reflecting off the ice and there is a total silence about me just the crampons biting into ice. It is hot. I am sweating freely some of which is exertion and some I fancy is fear.
I eventually reached the spot. Straightaway blood was found stained onto the snow. The gradient leads down into a snow chute and I inch my way over. I was half expecting to see the form of the animal in that gulley somewhere. There was nothing no animal no blood and no tracks. I then casually looked upwards and there higher up the slope was a blood trail. The slope was on end and all ice I was front pointing and using my axe. This doesn’t look good I mused. I crested the incline and then all was revealed. I took out my binos for confirmation. The blood trail led in exactly the same way as his mate had gone.
“Ring ring” It dawned on me the animal I had seen leaving this watershed was the wounded one all along.
It left a sour taste in my mouth. I hadn’t lost an animal in over thirty years in fact I recollect I was in the employment of the Forest Service and shooting every day when it occurred last. On reflection I didn’t need the animal it was more a case of a bit of target shooting to see if I could. Hunting is not about target shooting !
It certainly took the edge off the day and indeed the trip.
I found my initial kill on the way down and took its smallish head and some meat. I passed two hinds under separate circumstances on the way out I took their photos and felt better for it.

1000 ft. Slide

4.30 A.M. I am awake, well at least my eyeballs are uncovered. Another three quarters of an hour and the happy alarm will sound. Well at least I’m saved that soul jarring experience, I reflected , as I wrenched myself free of the warm duvet. The cold air was like a knife against my bare skin whilst I groped for my clothes. My pack was ready to go and propped against the back door. Included this time was my trusty ice axe, for there was much snow in the region I was heading for. Bodily functions and cereal breakfast later, and in that order, I brace myself against the severe overnight frost. The engine coughs and splutters into life and the headlights illuminate the whiteness down the drive.
I have a long day ahead of me, and it will be daylight by the time I reach the road end. From there I am looking at eight hours of burning “Makalu” Boot rubber before I will reach the hut of my choice.
I hoist my pack onto my shoulders with a grunt and melt into the encompassing green void. Immediately obvious is that DOC had been nowhere near the route since the snows of last August. Windfalls were a constant source of irritation, to be skirted round or clambered over with monotonous regularity. The creeks needed all of my attention too, for the rocks were coated in ice lying in wait for the unwary.
It is the middle of May a magic time for the chamois hunter. For the next couple of months high up in the alpine meadows these animals will come together in various small units and complete the age old cycle of procreation. The hills with their white mantle of snow about their shoulders take on an extra allure at this time seducing the hunter into their embrace. For me there is no better place to be than in the backcountry when the wintry winds blow. Gone are the tourists and summer visitors the crowded huts and busy tracks. I guess I am just an unsociable old git and getting set in my ways, but again I was always the solitary type when shooting for the forest service some thirty years ago. Mind you it positively helped you to have those credentials in that work environment.
It‘s after two in the afternoon and I am beginning to wonder where this hut is and how much longer I’ll have to plod this never ending track. Plod being the operative word. Must have been the early rise, I console myself. It doesn’t happen often in my experience, but at precisely 3.30 p.m. the hut was in my face. I say doesn’t happen often when I say I thought at least another 30 minutes to go , and like this time it is sooner rather than later! Anyway my grin nearly cut my face in half.
I had taken a “wet” in the last creek. I had slipped on an icy rock and ended up knee deep in the cold waters. I was annoyed, for up till then I had kept a dry slate for the whole of the trip and I hate wet boots freezing overnight that have all the give of a steel bar in the morning.
The first thing on the agenda is a fire. The wood box is full, so in no time there is a sterling blaze afoot. The steam rising from my mini kettle tells me the next treat is ready. A couple of rounds of bread topped with vintage cheese and you can call me Steve, king of joy.
It is Tuesday, and according to our man on the weather last night Wednesday is bearable, Thursday deteriorating with rain in the evening and Friday positively crap. I’ll have to make the best of tomorrow by the sounds of that. The boots are lined up with the inners pointing towards the bonfire in the hearth, and socks draped dutifully alongside. With the logs crackling and sparking and the flames rearing up the chimney, I dive headlong into the scratcher. The other thing I failed to mention about winter is the long nights, and I am looking forward to that part.
Just on daylight, the blinds under my eyebrows part. I have no real plan for the day, only to head upstream and at a likely spot strike upwards for the tops. The snow is ankle deep and a lot softer this morning. Jim Hickey mentioned a frost. Strike one against the weatherman! I notice the sky too is clouding over. The ubiquitous windfalls didn’t disappoint however. I plod around three hundred yards up stream and the going is not getting any easier, when I come upon a creek. The decision is made. I am to head to the tops using this artery. It is a hard slog upwards. The slushy snow under foot, also the branches full of the stuff falling down on me at every opportunity. It takes the better part of two hours before the tops materialise. What a brilliant feeling breaking through the last of the scrub to see a series of gullies, with feed showing through, despite the heavy snow in places.
I labour up the ridge I am on, to a point I reckon will give me a good vantage point to glass the surrounding country. I have covered maybe half of this distance when a chamois buck materialises on a spur across from me but slightly higher in elevation. My eyes are drawn to his head, and I instantly register disappointment. I am looking for nine inch or better. The chamois up till now was looking directly at me, but then he turns his head back in the direction he has just travelled. It was at this time I reassess his head, and decide he is close to the nine inch minimum I am looking for. I lie down into the snow and support the rifle on a handy rock and squeeze off a 150grn. Sierra match bullet in the direction of the buck. I register the hit, within the four power “Leupold”. The chamois flinches diving headlong towards me, He’s temporarily out of my line of sight in the intervening gut only to reappear on a spur no more than sixty yards distant. My next round is a sierra 110 grn hollow point varmint round, which I had sighted in and was printing around two inches to the left of the 150’s. I had wanted to replace the 150’s on chamois after a series of poor results. This was now my opportunity to test the new round. Applying pressure to the light trigger the 110 was airborne and looking for trouble. Taking the buck in the chest he drops without ceremony on the spot and didn’t even twitch.
I make my way over to the animal, negotiating drifts up to my waist at times. Upon arrival I reach for my tape and measured a neat nine inch on his hooks. I remove his head and back steaks and push them deep into my day pack.
I then decide to head for the ridge the buck was on when I first engaged him, and look into the gut and beyond. The going is hard and slow there is no need for the axe in these conditions. The gut is wide at the top and narrows at the bottom before disappearing into the bush edge some four hundred meters below. Judging by the bush damage there obviously were huge avalanches ripping through here in the winter months. I climb until I am level with the top of the gut and pause to scan across the four hundred yards of country. There are rocky out crops, some scree , tussock and scrub.... and two chamois! Now how the hell hadn’t I seen these characters before now? They are Approximately two hundred yards away, blending in with the rock and snow patches. The forms bounced into focus in my 8x20 Leica compacts. Now one of these guys is sporting a decent set of hooks, I thought. Was that another buck? I couldn’t be sure. I have my pack off and Sako was across it pointing at the bigger of the two. There was another 110 in the breach. Let’s see how you perform now Sierra. I then gently close the bolt. Fifty grains of 2208 powder is ignited the instant I caress the trigger. The 110 grn. round is sent arcing to its target. The animal visibly shook on impact. Nevertheless the two take off together at the sound of the shot. Then after ten or more yards the stricken one collapses in a heap and go’s headlong into the snow chute. The animal’s velocity increases as it speeds across the top of the snow. It leaves red smudges in its wake at intervals of around the 30 or 40 yard mark. It continues plummeting down in this fashion for some six or seven hundred feet before coming to rest still seemingly on steep ground. I watch for some time as the uncertain survivor picks its way slowly away from my position.
I re shoulder my pack and continue upward, deciding I would retrieve the chamois on my return to the bush. Some minutes later there is movement at the far end of the gut. I go to ground and confirm the movement as two chamois heading in my direction. They are in no rush, but even so are making quick progress. 200,,.. 150..., 100..., 50.., the yards were being eaten up at an impressive rate. Out of sight now they would gain my spur any minute. My camera was out and waiting. A young animal materialised in front of me, followed by an older male some seconds later. They look unsure at me from a range of twenty yards. Realisation quickly forms on their features that perhaps I am not their mother after all. The camera is recording it all.
‘We’re outta here” was their combined opinion translated in a flurry of movement. Snow was kicked up in their wake as the forms continued past me and out of sight over the next ridge.
I continue my climb to better the picture of the surrounding mountains. The mist and low cloud though is hampering my vision. Eventually in very low visibility I am forced to backtrack, and make my way to the point of my last shot. I scan the long snow chute with the 8x20’s but cannot locate the chamois. Further inspection reveals more red stains on the snow, disappearing out of sight. I descend diagonally into the gut, using a zigzag approach in the deep snow. I eventually come upon the initial resting place for the animal. I then begin to follow the sliding marks downwards. No footprints at least I register, he/she has at least not miraculously recovered from the shot and is not likely to be engaging in escape and evasion tactics. I am concerned though for the narrow chute was heading for an unseen drop.
A few yards more and the animal was espied, sprawled amongst some rocks on the edge of the huge drop off. The chamois had slid the better part of a 1000ft.
It turned out to be a she...I am gutted upon inspecting her. I take her meagre 8.5 inch hooks, her skin and back steaks.
With my daypack full, I then melt into the alpine scrub, and seek
a safe route down to the valley floor.

Decisions !

“Let’s get out of here” I silently screamed as the forecast predicted a four day fine spell. Mmm, well, err, yeah ok, I muttered as I poured over the map. An hour later my destination was resolved. It was a brave decision. A phone call to the local DOC office and the good oil on my eta to my hut was in effect a full day’s travel . That left me with two days hunting and a full day travel out.
According to DOC, the track had not been maintained for awhile, and what, with last years snow damage and all, it just might turn into an eventful trip.
I was ruthless with my pack, but still had to include my bivvy bag and sleeping mat, in case I didn’t make the hut, in the time allotted.
I was motoring along the gravel road, no more than 300 yards from my main gates when, without any warning, I was confronted with a white apparition. It stood gawking at me as I rounded the bend. Too big for a goat, was my first impression. Ye gods, I exclaimed it’s a deer. It then performed a graceful 180 and bounded down the road in front of me. My stubby barrelled Sako was propped up in the passenger footwell and two spare rounds of .308 cal. were slotted in my chest pocket. I made no move to grab either. I narrowed the gap between us to twenty yards and sat on his tail. He jumped a few imaginary fences as he bored along. It gave me plenty of time to properly assess this gift from the gods. He was a fallow and judging by the small protrusions on his head, was a spiker. He was pure white, and as I followed him down the road, I wondered at his longevity. Not even into his teens, I mused, if he carries on like this. He was lean and fit, and seemed to find no effort in pacing the Nissan down the gravel road. There was plenty of opportunity for him to jump sideways at anytime and be gone. Maybe he was training for some Olympic event, who knows. This course of events continued for around two to three clicks before he decided enough was enough and swerved to the right, taking a low strung fence in his stride. The last I saw of him was of his mouth agape, keeping abreast of the car and swerving amongst some pines and at last on a route away from the roadside.
The things you see, I thought to myself. Here am I planning to take myself off on a four day hunt, covering untold miles of wilderness in the search of a deer or chamois. I have just snubbed up the chance of taking the most, tender of meats, all on my doorstep.... Alfie!.....what’s it all about? ....But I made the decision.
I thought a lot about that deer in the days that followed [fallowed].
The stream was gentle, in regard of its contours, but long. The crossings were numerous, the orange triangles less so. I called a halt at one p.m. and took a lunch break. I picked a sunny, tree dappled spot on the true right of the stream. I saw my opportunity in the form of a windfall for a cosy seat. I then took out of my pack and ate the best part of a pork roast, some bread and two freshly picked apples. The sound of the stream toiling its way seawards was all the company I needed.
The inner man had stopped grumbling so the pack was hoisted and the trail was again engaged. A couple of hours travel and I was at the base of the long climb to the tops, glimpses of which I would at times, tantalisingly see. I bent my body into the hill and toiled ever upwards. I think it was Keith Severinson who described the quest for height the best....putting one foot in front of the other as often as you can. The words bounced off the walls of my mind throughout the climb.
Eventually the bush gave way to scrub and tussock and visibility was extended to kilometres instead of metres. There now stretched in front of me a long and steep tussock clad ridge, dotted occasionally with waratah posts. A half hour later saw me complete a loop and reverse back into a stream filled gulley with a large tarn and the hut situated on its western shores.
I took off my soaked through boots and socks with some relief and viewed the wrinkled albino feet and curled toes with some sympathy. The now steaming mini kettle atop my stove completed the highlights of the day.
The insides of the hut were chilled. It was with little regret that I stepped out onto the frost carpeted ground the next morning. The air was still and the last of the stars twinkled valiantly. There was a yellow band of light that was ever expanding atop the distant eastern mountains. The shroud of night had already fallen. The new day was gaining muscle.
I made lengthy strides in order to warm the body and also gain altitude quickly. There was no particular plan for this day other than to have a good look around this new piece of country.
I suppose 20 minutes had passed when I spied the animal silhouetted against the now blue backdrop of sky. He was on a sharp ridge that was running in a westerly direction. I froze in mid step and we eyeballed each other for an eternity, which was in fact a couple of minutes. He seemed to turn his head a fraction. That was my cue to sink slowly to the ground and be out of sight. I took my pack off and rummaged inside. With Binos now in hand I slowly raised myself and focussed on the chamois. The range I estimated at close on 3oo yds. The Leica’s image confirmed a young animal. His hooks were around even in height with his ears.
Camp meat was the decision. The one serve dehys could do with a supplement.
I contoured further and used a long depression for concealment to close the distance between us. Just ahead was a rise. I carefully raised my head over the top. There were now two shammy on the thin bladed ridge. The range now was around 130 yds. They were both looking my way, and one of them appeared to stamp his foot. I slipped back and again took off my backpack, this time for a support for my rifle. I eased back to the top of the rise, pushing my pack in front of me.
The short barrel was pointing behind the left shoulder of the near side on shammy. The duplex reticule was cast in stone. Kaboomph...there was a definite flinch and the left leg lifted momentarily off the ground. They both dropped off the ridge...but on my side !! They closed the gap between us, although slightly higher and running across my front. The first sham slowed, but looked comfortable. So I again engaged with the Sako. The 4x scope found its mark and another 150 grainer sailed away. He took off again. Meanwhile sham 2 stood stock still. I carefully arranged my Lapua spent cases in front of me, then chambered another round. Kaboomph...his knees buckled and he hit the ground hard sliding down out of my immediate vision.
Redirecting my sights to sham 1, I saw him try to negotiate a spur, when suddenly and without warning he slumped to the ground, and slid out of sight behind some rocks. I took all the meat I needed and stashed it for my return.
Upon reaching the ridge where I initially saw the two animals, I looked further upwards and spied a third. He was standing proud on a rock outcrop around the 200 yard mark. I watched the animal for sometime, also capturing his image on film. Eventually, though, he dropped over the other side and was lost to view.
Higher up the ridge we crossed paths again before finally, and not before time, he lit out for pastures new. The rest of the day was spent sightseeing on the high tops before returning back for the meat and eventually back to the hut. That night, with half a dozen pieces of back steak cut a half inch thick sizzling in my pan, life was good.
The next morning I was labouring up a sheer face, by way of a diagonal fault line that I had observed through Leica the day previous. According to my map it would eventually see me on the main ridge heading south. Somewhat short of that ridge, daylight proper caught up with me. I can best describe it as when you switch on an energy saving bulb, and you have light, though it takes some minutes later for that light to intensify. So it was that, without feeling the sun on me, my next stride took me into that brilliant light.
A bit further on I breached a saddle and was able to look into a different watershed. I was now on the ridge proper. I was looking toward the headwaters of a creek. It was a sight that sent a slight shiver through my body. It was much darker down there, the sun would be a good few hours longer climbing in the sky before it chased away the heavy frost that lingered in that valley.
Just then a stag moaned, his anguished utterance resonated off the bluffs far below and reached my ears, high up to where I lay in the alpine meadows. He moaned continuously for ten to fifteen minutes. A decision was needed, either to pick my way downwards in search of the wily stag, or to continue my way southwards to the inviting basin shown on the map. I elected to keep my altitude and wander southwards. Although nothing in the way of animals was sighted on my sojourn, the day was enjoyed nonetheless.
I think the hunter is at his best when he reacts instinctively and decisions are made, without really being decisions.