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.
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