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Crimpy Hunts The Coast: Part One

Crimpy Hunts The Coast

Ahaura Helicopters' R22 dipped slightly, slewed as some errant air current protested our progress, but the little Robbie snubbed the intrusion and darted on like a little dragonfly enjoying a warm summer's afternoon. The April temperatures were unseasonably warm, a fact that normally would have delighted me but on this occasion, cold frosty weather would have suited better. I'd heard that stags roar on frosty mornings and we needed something to get the amorous critters charged up because the valleys had been deathly quiet up until now.
Enormous beech trees slithered past the skids like a receding tide and my earphones crackled to life as the R22 began a wide arc that would end with the chopper nestled in a small clearing that supported a classic six-bunk Forest Service hut - one that had escaped the DoC cull.
"There's a good bench on that face across the river - be worth a look for a stag," nodded Simon Lawn as he flared the chopper for landing.

I'd come out of retirement, decided to hunt the roar and nearly 18 months preparation saw me now filling my lungs with the sweet mountain air of a tiny Westland valley. I'd done a HUNTS course with Bill O'Leary as a refresher a year before and had been working out at the gym to get my strength and fitness up.
"Hardly anyone ever comes in here," Simon muttered before departing. Turns out he was as good as his word because, apart from a sole hunter passing through the day before, the hut had sat empty since the previous roar and it now welcomed Tony and I like long lost friends.

There was little point hunting through the middle of the afternoon, but I couldn't resist a 'look-see' up river and with in a short space of time, was feeling thoroughly depressed. The bush was as thick as a 'greenie's' armpit and I had to wonder how anyone in their right mind could see, let alone shoot anything in such mongrel country.

The sound was like a low growl and instantly conjured an image of a restless lion. That's all it was, just the one moan, but it was enough to light the fire of hope and feed my imagination. On the trot back to tell Tony there was promise of a stag 10 minutes behind the hut, another red stretched his vocal chords across the river - excellent.

The bush looked worse in the black of morning - the beam of our headlamps only travelling a short distance before being repelled by the shiny faces of damp leaves. The moan came from the same direction as the day before, but there was no response from across the river. We waited until he gave voice again and it came just as the forest was taking on real form.

It wasn't a full-blooded roar so Tony nicknamed him 'Gravelguts' and we set off to put a face to the name. The forest did its level best to hinder us at every step and I never once felt confident we'd get close to the sod, but we did - tantalisingly close. Each sodden step promised to reveal at least a glimpse of him, but he must have been measuring his pace to ours, because we never got any closer to the sound. He kept us at arms length until he tired of the game and fell silent. This was to be his pattern for three days.

We sidled high, hoping for better travel, but every few metres were marred by windfall, rotting logs or scrubby guts, so angled back to the valley floor. A twig snapped just in front of us, but my impatience cost us a sight of the big hind as she took flight from less than five metres distance. Two steps more and another mocked me with the thunder of hooves.

Further up the valley a stag roared and we were just about to head off at a fast clip to close the distance, when an ear-splitting challenge rang out about 50m ahead. With prickles dancing upon the nape of my neck, I went into stalk mode and stepped into a dry watercourse, expecting to see the stag at any moment. I moved with slow and deliberate steps until a wall of pepperwood caused me to pause. The air seemed completely still, but there must have been some current, because in the space of a breath I was swamped by the most god-awful stench I'd ever been offended by - rutting stag. He was so close I could literally taste him.

Three steps. Three quick steps. Three quick silent steps and I was through the pepperwood and into a huge open patch of bush and - nothing! Fresh pellets, fresh tracks and a very wet patch on the churned earth - and STINK. The prints were enormous and I was left to wonder how such a huge beast could ghost away without a sound.
Next Month: One, two, three pick me!