Hunting Adventures

CHAPTER ONE

Adventures in the gorge

It just seemed useless. All our efforts were getting us nowhere and the light was now running out. We’d tried a higher level, only to find we just kept getting higher and higher without finding a bench that we could start travelling along up the valley. That hadn’t worked, as still no ground was being made in the direction we wanted, so we dropped lower to the river below and drew another blank. The gorge just seemed to be ‘manky’ at every level.

Moir’s Guide South guidebook had talked about the true right and the need to get high once leaving the river junction, yet the ‘locals’ in Te Anau had reckoned the true left was best, having tried both sides. At first the going seemed pretty good on the true right so by default we’d been carried along on that side angling higher on Moir’s recommendation and in line with years of experience when travelling river gorges. But now we’d begun to think the locals were right!

We pushed on until a deep cataract barred further progress. Incessant rain and the weight of our packs were adding enough misery to our mission as it was without our having to climb high to pass this obstacle. Murray dumped his pack and headed high to ‘reccie’ while I did the same and dropped down the cataract to see if it was passable in the gorge itself. Meanwhile Big Chris just slumped into a ‘holding position’.

The news wasn’t good from on high and not much better from me. I could see it was possible to get down into the gorge proper and that it might even be crossable. We opted to try for that and gain the other bank and, we hoped, some better going. It was certainly looking doubtful that we’d make the first of the Lugar Burn clearings before dark.

As we got closer to the river, it sounded more ominous and threatening and we were now able to more fully gauge the drop-offs between massive, truck-sized rocks. This wasn’t going to be easy…at all.

We scouted up-river and down and I stood for ages looking at a gap between two great rocks in the river itself. It looked jumpable. The sheer volume of water compressing between these rocks was playing heavy on my mind, though. And yet I stood.

‘It’s possible,’ I yelled above the noise of the river; but I knew I was already psyched out. We yelled back and forth at each other while staring into the rushing water and contemplating the gap. That water looked fast but it was more just the sheer volume of water that grabbed our attention. We knew that if we missed or slipped and ended up in that powerful sluice, we’d be in for a dangerous epic just trying to regain any bank. Consequently, all our focus turned to what lay downstream.

No, it just wasn’t on. Fear got the better of us. (Or was it experience, loved ones at home or lack of courage?) There were eight days of hunting in the headwaters ahead of us and we weren’t going down on Day One!

‘We’re going to have to camp,’ was the final resignation. We’d been beaten by the upper Lugar Burn Gorge.

‘Camping in Fiordland is either vertical or soaking wet,’ was how one great wapiti hunter had summed things up, and this spot—hemmed in by the sheer walls of the gorge—was looking set to meet those descriptions in a classic way. We scouted up, down…everywhere, with the incessant booming of the river all around us.

My first and immediate suggestion had been written off by the others but it increasingly seemed the best option and with darkness upon us I started in on getting the tent off the pack. On our first night into this year’s wapiti hunting adventure, we were going to be perched on top of a massive flat rock jutting out above the roar of the McDougall Branch gorge of the Lugar Burn, in the awesome wilderness that is Fiordland.

Despite the incessant torrent of noise, we all slept deeply that night and awoke with some renewed vigour to lay siege on the gorge. We didn’t have a plan, but set out with no packs in two directions to reassess the situation in the light of a new day and having had a break from the wet and toil of the previous day.

While Chris went downstream as best he could to evaluate a crossing, Murray climbed back up the cataract to see if there was a route across and out. Once again, I went and stared at the chasm we’d contemplated jumping.

The short section of rope Murray carried would get the packs across but there wasn’t enough of it to string a handrail from some good anchors. In the light of day and without the pressure for making progress, the jump looked worse now and I quickly wrote that idea off as a bad choice.

Murray returned, having managed to climb out the side of the cataract on a short foray. With some positive news to bolster us, we hoisted our loads amidst complaints from sore shoulders and wondering how we’d carried them so far anyway.

With considerable effort we re-climbed the cataract and at the base of a cliff heaved ourselves up through roots and branches to gain access to a ledge Murray had discovered. By passing rifles and packs across the narrow sections, we gladly made the more solid ground of the bush beyond and with renewed energy struggled on through the heavily contorted undergrowth. We had spied clearing sky up ahead through the forest and knew we must be coming to the end of the gorge. Finally!

Within 20 minutes, though, we were instead confronted with an immense wall of granite in the form of a cliff falling away sheer to an even more tumultuous section of the gorge below. Unbelievably, it was over!

We’d have to backtrack.

Possibly we’d have to backtrack the whole distance we’d gained from the river forks yesterday. We were at the bottom of our low reserves of motivation. Frustration was taking its toll—it was not only sapping our energy, but also making us wonder about the ‘why’ for being here at all.

I believed another check of the river was in order at least, so we struggled despondently down the edge of the cliff towards the gorge below.

What a mighty noise rang in the bottom of that gorge as the water thundered between huge blocks below the cliff.

Just downstream, though, the river widened somewhat before dropping over some rapids and then plunging down another steep chute into the next series of contorted rockfall. We just might cross at this pool.

Hope sprang up. We thought it possible but overcoming the river crossing had distracted us from the task of getting up the other side after that. The opposite banks were sheer rock. I could, however, see an ancient overhanging tree where the roots had grown down some of that steep rock.

Boldly I put the case to my two mates. It was do-able and suddenly we were all energised again.

The river crossing was no mean feat and even linked together solidly, with Chris holding off the bulk of the flow upstream and the smaller Murray putting in a staunch effort on the downstream end of the unit, it required all our hard-won skills, strength and resolve.

Once across, some testing proved it wasn’t worth straining the tree root with our heavy packs on board as well, so it was off with my pack and a slightly scary but determined climb up the twisting root followed.

Some more problem solving was required as Murray’s rope was not long enough to reach top to bottom; but with a pack tied to one end and a resourceful solution provided by our Southland farmer, we were in business. Murray fed a loop of the rope on to a long stick Chris had salvaged from some overhangs, and with both men hoisting a pack above their heads and feeding me the stick, I was able to grasp enough of the light rope to begin the haul.

With all packs up, Murray scampered up the tree root in good fashion, while the larger Chris body-hauled himself with feet madly scrambling at the sheer rock and any branches or remaining moss. A mammoth effort saw Chris fully extended and lunging his large frame over the lip. He grabbed hold of as much of the undergrowth as possible with us lending a helping hand to haul him up.

A great grin (fuelled by adrenalin) was written all over our faces by the triumph and the ‘adventure’ of it all.

‘People pay thousands of dollars for an adventure like this,’ I yelled above the roar of the river below.

It just rang so true.

Is this not the essence of adventure? Pushing on and pitting oneself in some undertaking with an unknown outcome. There are the seemingly epic tasks of overcoming the things that play on our minds—as well as any of the very real dangers. These require calculated judgements, based on the situation, one’s fitness, courage and experience—which is accumulated knowledge from all the other ‘adventures’ in one’s life.

All the questions of why go out into the mountains and rivers come into play at moments like these (and we almost crave more of this when back at home in the workaday world). Adventures restore us, build our character and give us a sense of mastery of ourselves and to some extent of the world around us. Adventures out hunting give us a passion for life in general, not just for the mountains and rivers themselves. That sense of coping, because of our toughness, is in fact what we need. An adventurous spirit lies at the heart of people who make up a healthy society.

There is a ‘craving’ in this generation for a very real sense of adventure. We need tests for ourselves and memories to make, even though at the time they seem such a burden. The best hunting journeys are partly a break from the workaday world and partly ‘ordeals’—an unfolding story. There should be room for that vital ingredient of ‘adventure’, with enough uncertainty to cause anxious moments and yet to feel the exhilaration of success.

To engage in adventurous activity promotes and develops vital skills: self-confidence, reliance upon oneself, determination, initiative and calculated risk taking.

That moment, after a day of toil in the rough stuff of the gorge in the Lugar Burn and finally atop the tree root on the other side of the river…now that was our ‘adventure’.

Such adventures, spanning some 35 years out hunting, is what this book is all about.

Epilogue: Later on I was to read of almost identical experiences in Jack Henderson’s excellent book, The Eye of the Hunter. This, from a veteran of over 50 trips into the wapiti country and Fiordland: ‘Twice we had been forced to drop back down into the gorge after having forced our way almost to bushline only to find our way barred by overhanging bluffs…there was nothing for it but to turn back, and fight our way back to the lower end of the gorge.’

And later: ‘The track into the McDougall Branch of the Lugar Burn can be tricky, as many a stalker has found to his cost!’

CHAPTER TWO

Some lessons in tahr country

It had been raining in the headwaters of the Havelock now for several days. Peter Sinclair and I had pretty much had a gutsful of it and were planning a dash for home. We’d been waiting over a day now for the Havelock River to drop as it had been almost bank-to-bank from where we were on the Mesopotamia side, right across to Erewhon Station.

We should have made the trek down to Messie and hitched a ride east and then got someone to take us back up the other side to collect our car again. But no, we were young, indestructible and made of steel. We’d go for the river crossing!

Yes, we were very fit then—and toughened by days on the hill.

We’d come into the valley several days before, despite the weather forecast, and had trekked across the wide expanse of the Rangitata River from Erewhon Station. With the next day looking like the best we were going to get, we made haste the next morning towards Murphy’s Stream. You follow this stream upriver for some distance before having to climb around a steep pitch to gain access to the upper basin. The weather was already windy, with the odd lashings of rain being blown through from further up the valley due to the nor’wester.

Glassing was difficult but after sighting no tahr, we climbed through a side basin to gain the main ridge above a bluff system and overlook the main Havelock River again. It was extremely windy up there and we leaned fully forward, buffeted by the wind to gaze down as far as we could see into the crags below. No tahr.

Heading along the ridge a short distance to reach another viewing angle, Pete had looked back down the side we’d come up and there, plain as day, a huge bull tahr was striding up through the basin almost on the same path we’d taken!

Right in the middle of the basin. No bluffs…wide-open spaces. We couldn’t believe it. Was he following us?

Did we smell that much like tahr already?

He was going to make the ridge where we’d stood moments before if he kept his present line. What a gift horse!

Peter had shot tahr over 12 inches and knew this was a bigger fella, gauging by his great shaggy bulk. So it was to be my shot. We lay down out of sight on the ridge, got the pack set up as a rest, and I settled in with my sportarised .303. However, after a few moments I had concerns with the range and the wind and every other worry that seems to grip a novice when faced with a trophy bull tahr walking into range.

‘Perhaps I’d be better with your .243, Pete!’

What followed was a bit of a shambles as we swapped rifles and got settled again, but now with less time as the bull was approaching the ridge top. We both knew the habit of bulls and how they love to stand on ridge tops with the wind in their manes, and so I was following with the scope, easing my breathing and waiting for him to make the ridge top and stop. He climbed at a steady and slow pace and all the while I held the scope on him, admiring him as he came: 200 metres, 100 metres,…What a moment. I could have fired at any time, particularly as he drew ever closer to that ridge top. The build-up of anticipation was intense and my breathing was all over the place as I fought to bring it and the adrenalin under control.

On he came. Steady with the breathing. (‘This is a BIG bull, Greig.’) Wait. Wait.

The bull was just a few paces off the ridge top and the full significance of this great moment gripped me as I worked even harder to steady my breathing. Wait for him to stop in the wind, wait; steady on the chest.

The bull crested the ridge…and walked straight over!

We couldn’t believe it. But bull tahr just love standing on ridge tops, spying the land below with their big hairy manes blowing in the wind!

‘Why hadn’t he?’

(No time for why.)

We grabbed our gear and took off along the ridge to the point where the tahr had so purposefully wandered over and down the other side. We scouted left, then right, and then down and then split up and scouted further.

That massive trophy bull tahr was gone!

(Lesson and note to self: If you get a chance at 100 metres on a big bull tahr, take it. Assume nothing!)

Wet and dejected we bundled ourselves around the tops for the rest of the day and felt somewhat better when, very late in the afternoon, we spied a mob of deer out in the tussock. Never mind the lateness of the hour. We’d missed out on the prime goal of the day, so in an effort to redeem ourselves from something (we knew not what), we took off after these animals and after a very crafty stalk, tipped two of the better animals over for meat.

Well, that was silly, wasn’t it? Young, fit and silly; and a long way from camp in the main valley below—with not very pleasant weather beating in around us. We should have gutted them, left them and come back the next day, but instead we set about butchering and boning out the choicest meat and with packs fully laden set out for the valley floor in great haste.

With our night vision increasing as the twilight turned to dark, we made fairly good progress. Hunters throughout history have been in this position…and I might add I’ve repeated this feat several times since then…but it is nonetheless a mission getting off the tops in the dark. At least the lay of the land was relatively simple and it was just a downward grind. In Fiordland or South Westland these ventures can go sadly wrong if one doesn’t know the return spur very well. Getting ‘bluffed’ is an all too common occurrence on the hill for the unwise.

Well, we were a little unwise too, for at some point we left the spur and cut into the creek bed. Possibly we felt we were low enough that we would then just be able to boulder-hop our way on a clear route to the main valley below. I don’t know why we did it, but at first the going was good and lured us on. At first we were moving quite quickly because we just stepped down from one big rock to the next. But the inevitable happened and the creek just got tighter, steeper and rougher. Surprise, surprise.

On we pushed, with shoulders growling back at us and shins bearing the punishment of hard knocks in the now inky darkness. Drenched in sweat we toiled on and the mind game gnawed away at my resolve. Bugger this. Dump the packs; curl up here somewhere.

But no. We had somehow turned this into a ‘mission’ and tough men toughen up!

I wasn’t feeling very tough as time wore on though. The longer the punishment and toil went on, the less confident I became about my feet as well, and therefore the more I fell over or bashed into things.

Most outdoors people have come to appreciate that confident footing carries you along at a good pace. Once you’ve spent a few days ‘on the hoof’, your confidence increases and you walk with ease over uneven terrain and with increasing abandon. Because you’re moving confidently you don’t linger on uneasy footing, so tend to be off it before any problems arise. This is true even in the dark. But a fall or slip knocks this confidence and then you dwell uncertainly on some footholds and so naturally tend to have more slips because you’re sticking around on the poor footing or you’re too stiff and less ‘fluid’ in your footing.

We toiled on. Sheer ‘doggedness’ came and went and then came again as we kept at it for each other (and because a certain amount of ‘get-home-itis’ had set in).

Somehow, eventually, we burst out onto easier going and finally made the wide expanse of the main river-bed. The mental anguish and focus of the tough going in the creek-bed now turned to sheer dogged pushing forward with one foot after the other. Bent over double we trudged and trudged…and trudged some more across the stony riverbed. The journey had no highlights except for the Tricounis on our boots sparking periodically as we clipped a rock here and there.

After hours of being bent over double, we saw the hut get a little larger and slowly, ever so slowly, we got closer. We’d got so much into a rhythm of grinding it out that we virtually just walked into the side wall of the hut.

Some adventures offer exhilarating highlights and some will provide monotonous slog—and that dangerous virus, ‘get-home-itis’, as had occurred on this little jaunt!

(Lesson and note to self: Always think through the consequences of a shot, as often the shooting is the easy part. Be prepared to camp out, so make sure you’ve got some rudimentary gear to do so.)

Of course the learning here doesn’t take account