May 2015-
http://www.tradgang.com/tgsmf/index.php?topic=97068.0An addiction to adventure is incurable and can only ever, at best, be temporarily satisfied. New Zealand's Westland wilderness once more quenched the cravings for adventure.
Himalayan tahr never cease to amaze with their magnificence, nonchalant surefootedness, habitat and all round grandeur and the desire to hunt them the hard way has not diminished.
Mark, Paul and myself had assembled at the trail head, the mountains beckoning us to join them. Upon reaching the 1st hut along the trail to the hunting area, in uncanny circumstances, we met and shared the hut with a fellow traditional bowhunter whom I had previous only talked to via the internet. He and his hunting companions had just spent 10 days in the hut further along the trail, unable to go anywhere due to relentless and torrential rain, not uncommon in the Westland region of the south island. Meeting in such a place and sharing tales in a crowded hut added to the mystique of the New Zealand backcountry.
Days two and three were spent hiking up to the hunting area. At the end of day two we stayed in the next hut along the trail, the hut where the other group of hunters were stranded at for 10 days. Day three was time to cross the river again and climb up to the main hunt area. We made camp above the tree line on a south facing slope, which meant it didn't get much sun and was still covered in snow from the recent bad weather. The next day was our first day of hunting. Mark and I decided to head over towards where I shot a bull the previous year. Mark had not been to this valley, so I was going to show him the good hunting area we found. Paul decided to hunt the bush edges below camp. On the way Mark and I saw a few animals and Mark attempted a difficult stalk on a sentry nanny.
Mark and I eventually made it over to the area where I saw lots of bulls previously.
Mark could see some bulls below us near the bush line and decided to move down and attempt to stalk them, leaving me to go the other way to check out the gully where I shot a bull twelve months earlier. Thick fog was starting to form lower down in the valley and I knew in a short while that the mountains and I would be cloaked in thick moist air and visibility would be reduced to about thirty meters. Having settled into a vantage point from which to glass the gully, it would disappear and reappear as the fog came and went periodically. During a brief moment of visibility a solitary mature bull could be seen meandering up the slope below me, so I packed up my gear and headed straight down to see if could get within range of my bow. I was part way down when I saw him walk into a cluster of huge boulders and disappear. Dropping my pack I began moving down an open slope towards the boulders that were about sixty meters away.
Suddenly he appeared from out of the boulders and started walking up towards me. Being completely out in plain view I had no choice but to nock an arrow and lay down against the slope and perform my best impression of a rock. It worked and he didn't notice me and he dropped into a small drain and appeared to have a drink, although I have read that it's extremely rare to see a tahr drink for they apparently get most of their water requirements from the vegetation they eat.
Whether he was drinking or doing something else, I saw it as my queue to have a shot, since his head was obscured and he couldn't see me get up into a kneeling position. I released at the bull from about thirty meters with a steep downhill angle then cursed as the arrow flew and passed just under him and clattered into some rocks.
Startled a little, the bull jumped up out of the drain and ran a short distance behind some short monkey scrub bushes. Quickly I moved down to the bushes, nocking another arrow when he started to move up the other side of the gully. He stopped broadside and looked downhill at about twenty five meters and I remember intently focusing on his chest and drawing, consciously keeping my elbow high as I did so. This is my shot routine and it just seems to work for me if I focus on form and let the subconscious do the aiming. The flight of the arrow was perfect and the shot placement equally so, at least that was my immediate impression. The bull let out a bellow and ran downhill into the boulders, stood for a second then disappeared. I was confident that the placement was good and as he ran away I could see equal amounts of arrow protruding out of either side of his chest.
I retrieved my pack and by then it was time to take up the trail. The arrow had been broken, probably due to the shoulder blades acting like a guillotine and both the broadhead and nock ends fell out. Upon picking them up and piecing them together it became apparent that about six inches of the arrow must be still in his chest.
The blood was deep red with a few very tiny bubbles indicating at least some lung damage, however a blood trail was almost non-existent. Just a few small drops were the only evidence of a hit.
The last place that the bull was seen was 10 meters away from where I had recovered my bull the previous year. The bones were still there. There I was, starting the search for a bull right where the search for a bull ended one year ago. The circumstances evoking an incredible sense of déjà vu. The two places where each bull was standing when they were shot are about 30 meters apart. They are separated more by time than by distance.
It was getting late in the afternoon and I knew I couldn't spend too much time looking for him before I would have to meet Mark at our prearranged rendezvous point and head back to camp together. The bull had vanished into the bush and ferns and doubt started to rear its ugly head. He could be dead in there and I still might not find him and after a quick look in the vicinity I reluctantly left to go meet Mark.
I of course planned to go back in the morning and resume the search but the mountains had other ideas. It started to rain that night. It rained and rained and kept raining. Morning came around and it continued raining all that day only relenting that night. Thirty six hours of contemplation, alone in a tent.
Next morning Paul decided to come with me, hunting our way over to the search area hoping to find the mountain's prize. At around midday Paul began a stalk on a pair of bedded bulls. The situation was a good one, with ideal topography aiding the stalk. I sat back and had lunch while Paul did his thing. Then, on cue, the fog rolled in. Paul and the bulls were less than one hundred meters away in plain sight but I couldn't see them. Maybe half an hour later I heard some alarm whistles from a bull, signalling that something was happening but couldn't see a thing. Moments later Paul yelled out for me to come over, so that I did. When I got there he told me he crested a small ridge to find the bull less than 10 meters beyond but it had sensed movement and made good his escape.
The fog was set in now and hunting was near impossible in the low visibility conditions so we decided it was time to look for my bull, which wasn't far from where we were.
We started at the place of last sighting and began zig zagging through the small corridor of bush in the bottom of the steep sided gully, both sides of which has rock slabs sloping down to the bottom, seemingly creating a funnel into the bush.
There were so many holes and places that would guard the carcass of a dead animal and never allow it to be found. After looking for about 20 minutes I was starting to accept that I might have killed a bull only to have it swallowed up by the bush but when I stood on a boulder that jutted out above the ferns I happened to look to my right and as fate would dictate, there he was, belly up in a parted section of trees in plain view. Had I been standing anywhere else he would likely have remained unfound and forever a subject of doubt and wonder.
I was so relieved and happy to have confirmed my strong belief that the shot was a good one and that he had not suffered. Two bulls in two years in the exact same spot. I said to Paul, "I hereby name this place, 'Golden gully’ “. We both smiled.
That evening the weather closed in again and it began to rain once more. Another thirty six hour period in the tent had begun. It rained heavily that night and to my disbelief I awoke early the next morning to a flooded tent. There was five inches of water in the floor of my little shelter. The mattress and bottom half of my down sleeping bag were wet and my camera was underwater. I had been sleeping with the inner doors open to maximize ventilation in an effort to combat condensation and through the night must have rolled on the edge of the floor wall and pushed it down onto the ground allowing water from the small stream running under the floor to flow into my tent and flood it.
My Jetboil cup served a double purpose as a bail. For the rest of that day it rained but it cleared that night only to be followed by a severe frost. The foetal position and a chemical hand warmer gleaned from my first aid kit offered the only chance of staying warm in my sleeping bag as the bottom half of it was wet which made for a terrible night’s sleep. In the morning the bottom of my bag was frozen, my bootlaces resembling lengths of contorted fence wire.
I told Mark and Paul that I was going to go down to the hut since all my gear was wet and frozen and with these temperatures it would be folly for me not to go down to the hut and start drying out my gear. They decided to join me as their gear was in a state of partial saturation that was unavoidable considering the rain and favourable condensation conditions. By lunch time we had packed up our high camp and started the hike down off the range to the hut. That night we feasted ourselves on tahr meat, happy in the knowledge that it was hard won. The following day Mark and Paul went for a day hunt from the hut while I split some wood, salted the tahr cape and made a Paiute deadfall trap to catch the mice that were plaguing the hut. A mouse was registered as my second kill for the trip later that night. It was a day of solitude and quiet contemplation in a place where the mind is free to wander.
I have come to believe that I am cursed with never being fully content with where I am. While at home, the mountains and the wilderness are never far from my mind. They provide some of life’s simplest pleasures, as real as they are small. A moment of silence shattered by the resounding boom from the advance of a distant glacier, the warmth of the sun after not having seen it for days, the exhilaration of seeing one’s own breath when exhaling the cold mountain air, a feeling of insignificance when surrounded by mountains of unrivalled ruggedness and beauty, simply being in a wild place and the solitude to be gained there. What at home would be a dull unsweetened cup of tea, on the mountain becomes a hot mug of black nectar. The constant hardship and discomfort that Westland provides enhances the value of these things, just as the cold rain highlights by contrast the warmth and security of a backcountry hut. Yet while on the mountain I long for home and family. However the exhilaration of being in the wilderness cannot be equalled by any comfort of home.
That night I slept awkwardly and awoke with a stiff neck and the hike to the next hut only served to make it worse. The sleep that night was terrible and my neck was very painful and I wasn't able to move it much at all. Mark and Paul insisted that we more evenly share the weight in our packs to make it easier on my neck for the last leg out to the road end. At first I was reluctant, since with foolish pride I alone wanted to carry the burden of my own success but I soon realised that to do so would be to selfishly deny them their place in what has always been a team effort. Mark carried the cape while Paul carried some of my tent and my binoculars. This sharing of weight made a huge difference and made the hike out much more bearable.
At one point a helicopter flew over, provoking thoughts of the many long days of battling steep trails, scrambling over boulders and deadfall, swimming icy flooded rivers, forcing through unimaginably thick scrub on hands and knees, crossing countless side creeks and the monotony of long walks over river flats, often while enduring injuries and pains. It served as a reminder to myself of the reason for my choice of transport into and out of the backcountry. Without these hardships and challenges the satisfaction I would gain from accomplishing my goal would be diminished and that is something of great importance that I refuse to compromise. The integrity of the journey in pursuit of one’s goal is more meaningful than achieving the goal itself; for one defines the other. I looked up at the noisy machine and was glad I wasn't in it. It made me realise that it isn't solely the tahr and chamois that draws me to this place but rather, to a greater extent, it is the calling of the mountains themselves and all that being among them entails. The tahr and chamois just happen to be there and if any other game animal were to inhabit the same terrain as they do I would pursue them with equal enthusiasm.
In 1923, a year before his ill-fated expedition to be the first person to summit the world’s highest peak, the legendary mountaineer George Mallory was asked, “Why do you want to climb Mt Everest?” He famously replied, “Because it's there”; and so it is for myself and alpine game hunting, it's, “Because they're there”.
Topic: 'Because they're there'. (Read 1876 times)
