I part the bushes and dive into the unknown. At 5'4" M moves down the 70% slope with the dexterity of a mountain goat, at 6'2" I crash down the mountain side like an Ox. M clears trees that seem to be constantly smacking me in the head, I slip and tumble trying to keep my agile nimble host in my sights. I shudder at thought of losing him in this no mans land. As I stumble into a branch at forehead level it knocks me flat on my butt. I manage to scramble to my feet just in time to see M slide down a treacherous section of slope like a kid on a playground slide. I do the same thing covering an astonishing distance in a very short period of time. Trees whiz past me, I am enjoying the ride when the thought strikes me, at some point I must stop. I watch M stab his bowie knife into the ground, heave himself to his feet continuing the scramble through dense undergrowth. After 20 metres of sliding a tree does the job for me. I hit a thick barked limb with my right shoulder and careen sideways smacking a second tree with my left hip and leg tumbling further into a thicket at the edge of a small bluff. M is way ahead of me, of course, at times I lose him completely and call out only to hear a reassuring voice from somewhere down the below.
I refuse to turn back and give up, my Canuck honour and male ego at stake. Aching arms clutch at trees for support as I hold on and pull myself up the other side of a small bluff. I have to be careful as some trees are dead and snap off at the base leaving nothing but a handful of dead wood. My lungs strain for air as I pant and struggle clamouring for the next tree. The camera is wrapped around my neck like a hangman's noose I don't dare try and move it for fear of losing my balance and falling to my death on the rocks below. Muscles ache and scream to stop this stupidity, suddenly a rotten tree snaps and I fall back 3 metres slamming into another tree. I have awaken an old injury, a stab of pain shoots across my right shoulder. All this time the pig is screaming like a baboon in heat it's cries echoing in the hills, the poor creature is somewhere over the next rise. I regroup and charge over the hill almost crashing into M who has taken a detour around the side of the cliff. He scrambles like a monkey up the face of the 15 metre cliff amidst blood curdling screams and rabid barking. There is no way I will make it up the cliff and envision myself tumbling to a horrible death, so I circumnavigate and attack the wet slippery cliff from a side angle crawling and clawing at anything to get a hold and pull myself up.
M is at the kill site as I arrive and madly fumble to get my camera gear ready. My half frozen fingers are almost useless, I am covered in mud feeling rather cold and miserable, but I made it. M stands over the pig with a knife drawn "Do you want to stick 'em Steve?" he offers. "Uh no thanks M I'll just grab picts and shoot some video" (note I will not post the video for fear of exposing M to a torrent of abuse over the boar hunt). As I slowly move toward the boar I have this sense that I am being sized up.
"He wants you mate" M astutely observes. I swallow hard and back up slowly, stumbling over a tree root mumbling a response " I had that feeling".
"No worries" M assures me "e would've had you by now mate, but e's 'ad a bad go, dogs got his balls he's not going anywhere". With that he sticks the poor sod with the bowie knife. Blood gurgles from the beasts throat as it shakes and contorts emitting a very human sounding spine tingling shriek. M sits on top of the Cooks boar as the life weeps from it's body. The animals eyes glaze over with the veil of death.
M turns the pig on it's back and guts it while his dogs assemble slumped around the carcass eager for a morsel. M feeds the pups the heart and penis telling me that the stomach and guts will make the dogs sick if they eat any of it. M explains how the wild pigs are vectors for TB, he shows me the glands which fortunately are clean.
The reality of where we are suddenly hits, I look to the top of the mountain and realize the climb back up is going to be 3 times as difficult as the ride down. I am cold, wet, my teeth chatter and my body aches. M has the carcass prepared by the time I have gathered my thoughts and voice concerns about the climb back up. M informs me we are going to haul the boar carcass back up!! My jaw drops, all I can manage is a stupefied "of course you're kidding" followed by a nervous laugh.
M looks up at me his hands covered in blood, his toque sitting askew on top of his head.
"No, me mate al'ays helps carry, we can manage together no worries mate".
I am stunned there is no way in hell I am going to be able to carry over a hundred pounds of dead pig back up the mountain. As a matter of fact I was fantasizing about a medivac chopper swooping down and lifting me gently back to our starting point when M floated the thought that we share hauling duties.
"No worries mate I need some string or rope" M replies looking around. My first thought is why didn't you bring some with you when we went on this mad escapade in the first place?
He spots the cord on my hood "that'll do". He draws his hunting knife an inch from my neck and slices through the cord pulling it away from my hood. M ties the front and hind hooves together on both sides, I help him pull the boar up on his back so it is riding (pardon the pun) piggy back style like a bizarre back pack.
We're off retracing our steps, I follow snapping pictures, because no one at home would believe me if I told them about this strange journey. I am carrying the Marlin .44 rifle slung over my shoulder. M's back is soaked a blood red as he huffs and plods through the bush. I follow behind helping push him up the steep incline. The boar looks almost child like flopping from side to side while perched on his back. This is a true NZ outback experience, however the moment is lost on me as I struggle to make it back up the mountainside.
A soaking wet shirt clings to my skin making me even more cold and miserable, my nylon track pants are caked with blood, shredded and torn from the numerous trees I bounced off on the trip down. Part way up I convince M to give up carrying the trophy. We stop and he deftly carves the lower jaw bone out of boar to give me a tusk.
We start back up the mountain, I struggle to hold my own. My lips are parched and I crawl on all fours for a large part of the climb physically exhausted, but determined to make it to the top. I promise myself a nice big tumbler of 12 yr old single malt scotch if I make it out alive. The muddy banks are slippery and slow our progress. I maintain a stoic silence in the interest of male pride. Finally I can see the clearing and we emerge from the jungle, we are at the Rino, I collapse in the front seat, even M is winded and needs time to recoup.
M's two kids have waited patiently for almost three hours looking after the gear while we were gone. They gleefully hoist the blood soaked, flesh caked jaw in celebration of the kill. There is something tribal and ancient in the ritual and I snap more pictures. We are sitting over 600 metres up in the mountains the view is stunning, a fringe of snow lines the pathway where we are parked. I take in the pure clean air and smile. It was an amazing experience I am glad I went the only question remaining is, will I be able to walk tomorrow! The Rino lurches away and we are off to check M's cattle, a day I will remember for the rest of my life, thanks to my new mate.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Falling Down the Mountain Part II
Bleary eyed I stumble out into the early morning light my glasses precariously perched on my nose. It is cold, damp and foggy, a typical NZ winter day, the temp hovers around 5 degrees as I follow the kids out to the various animal enclosures on the farm. The shed has several rotting deer antlers complete with flesh still attached parts of the skull, fur and disintegrating tissue hanging from the remains of what were once several proud bucks. The trophies are lined up along the roof. The stump of an old tree in the centre of the farm yard houses a rather large rusting meat cleaver wedged neatly in the heart of the wood. The yard is framed by a row of dog pens. I know where they are without looking as the wind is blowing in the right direction. The howling, yelping and smell are overpowering quickly clearing my sinuses. In my sleep dazed state I can't help but wonder if I am in a NZ version of the American movie Deliverance.
M, my host saunters out to load up the Rino, the infamous Rino from the stories of the night before, the same machine that he almost lost his leg too. It has two front seats and a small box in the back for the gear, the dogs and the kids. We are joined by Drew who is 5 and Cody who is 12. When I ask about the kids M reassures "It's all right mate the kids'll ride 'n the back no worries". The last addition to the load is the .44 Magnum Marlin Rifle. M has been pig hunting for over a decade it is his second favourite pastime right after bronc riding on the summer circuit. Our tour of duty will take us 40-50 kilometres up Mount Mabel to an altitude of about 700 metres. We are going after "Cooks Pigs" a lineage that can be traced back several centuries to the captain's arrival in NZ.
Drew and Cody look like miniature versions of M the skinning knife in their belt, wool caps, thick waterproof jackets and gum boots on. As we lurch out of the farm yard in the Rino the boys stand in the back with the three pig dogs; Jake, Patch and Digga'. The dogs are fitted with radio collars so M can track them in the rough mountainous terrain of Wyrangi Station. M has 2,300 sheep and about 300 cattle grazing in the surrounding hills. As we start climbing into the mountain M lets the dogs loose, they promptly disappear at break neck speed into the forest. The dogs are a John Lockey Breed specially bred animals that are used exclusively for pig hunting. A good pig dog can fetch a princely sum in these parts. We follow the dogs progress roaring up and down twisting dirt roads that quickly diminish to cow paths. Possum traps dot the trees as we zip past, the kids clinging to the Rino roll bar. Possum's are an environmental issue often acknowledged but not talked about, according to the locals the marsupials are chewing up the countryside at an alarming rate. M slams the Rino to a halt "Digger's on ta something". He jumps out following the dogs progress I quickly follow camera in hand ready for the moment, only to be disappointed when they turn up with nothing and return to the truck.
The false alarm doesn't dull M's enthusiasm "we'll get one today mate Digga's got a good nose fa pigs". I feel reassured as we jump back in the Rino and roar off, a routine that will be repeated numerous times today. We climb to the top of the mountain the view is stunning I can see the coast off in the distance. After posing for a few picts with the Marlin rifle (bragging rights don't ya know) we are off again the dogs have another scent.
We stop and listen, the dogs sound like they are a long way off deep in a valley "they must be on ta something" M assures me. Suddenly all is quiet, the silence is shattered by a high pitched squeal, then silence, we strain to hear, more barking, another squeal and then silence. "Must be a small pig down in the valley ah probably not worth goin' down nah" M looks disappointed. I look relieved, the pig is almost 350 metres down the side of the mountain the climb would be down and then back up a 70 degree slope in wet dense brush. I reassure M "yah it sounds like a small one". Suddenly the barking gains in intensity followed by a panicked screaming from the pig. It is too much for M "we'll have to go down mate somethings up". I shudder in horror at the thought of a trek down into the valley below it is cold miserable and damp, flakes of snow pepper the air.
M plunges into a thicket of brush and down the side of the mountain. He looks back "lets go mate are you up for it"? There are moments in life when we should stop and take stock of the situation and the possible liabilities and this was one of them. Tossing caution to the wind I foolishly follow, my pride preventing me from taking a pass at the impending adventure. After all I couldn't have M think Canucks are a bunch of wimps. It is a move I will barely live to regret. To be cont.
M, my host saunters out to load up the Rino, the infamous Rino from the stories of the night before, the same machine that he almost lost his leg too. It has two front seats and a small box in the back for the gear, the dogs and the kids. We are joined by Drew who is 5 and Cody who is 12. When I ask about the kids M reassures "It's all right mate the kids'll ride 'n the back no worries". The last addition to the load is the .44 Magnum Marlin Rifle. M has been pig hunting for over a decade it is his second favourite pastime right after bronc riding on the summer circuit. Our tour of duty will take us 40-50 kilometres up Mount Mabel to an altitude of about 700 metres. We are going after "Cooks Pigs" a lineage that can be traced back several centuries to the captain's arrival in NZ.
Drew and Cody look like miniature versions of M the skinning knife in their belt, wool caps, thick waterproof jackets and gum boots on. As we lurch out of the farm yard in the Rino the boys stand in the back with the three pig dogs; Jake, Patch and Digga'. The dogs are fitted with radio collars so M can track them in the rough mountainous terrain of Wyrangi Station. M has 2,300 sheep and about 300 cattle grazing in the surrounding hills. As we start climbing into the mountain M lets the dogs loose, they promptly disappear at break neck speed into the forest. The dogs are a John Lockey Breed specially bred animals that are used exclusively for pig hunting. A good pig dog can fetch a princely sum in these parts. We follow the dogs progress roaring up and down twisting dirt roads that quickly diminish to cow paths. Possum traps dot the trees as we zip past, the kids clinging to the Rino roll bar. Possum's are an environmental issue often acknowledged but not talked about, according to the locals the marsupials are chewing up the countryside at an alarming rate. M slams the Rino to a halt "Digger's on ta something". He jumps out following the dogs progress I quickly follow camera in hand ready for the moment, only to be disappointed when they turn up with nothing and return to the truck.
The false alarm doesn't dull M's enthusiasm "we'll get one today mate Digga's got a good nose fa pigs". I feel reassured as we jump back in the Rino and roar off, a routine that will be repeated numerous times today. We climb to the top of the mountain the view is stunning I can see the coast off in the distance. After posing for a few picts with the Marlin rifle (bragging rights don't ya know) we are off again the dogs have another scent.
We stop and listen, the dogs sound like they are a long way off deep in a valley "they must be on ta something" M assures me. Suddenly all is quiet, the silence is shattered by a high pitched squeal, then silence, we strain to hear, more barking, another squeal and then silence. "Must be a small pig down in the valley ah probably not worth goin' down nah" M looks disappointed. I look relieved, the pig is almost 350 metres down the side of the mountain the climb would be down and then back up a 70 degree slope in wet dense brush. I reassure M "yah it sounds like a small one". Suddenly the barking gains in intensity followed by a panicked screaming from the pig. It is too much for M "we'll have to go down mate somethings up". I shudder in horror at the thought of a trek down into the valley below it is cold miserable and damp, flakes of snow pepper the air.
M plunges into a thicket of brush and down the side of the mountain. He looks back "lets go mate are you up for it"? There are moments in life when we should stop and take stock of the situation and the possible liabilities and this was one of them. Tossing caution to the wind I foolishly follow, my pride preventing me from taking a pass at the impending adventure. After all I couldn't have M think Canucks are a bunch of wimps. It is a move I will barely live to regret. To be cont.
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