Deer Hunter - The Experiences Of A New Zealand Stalker

By Joff A. Thomson

Many of the earliest books, particularly those dating back to the 1900s and before, are now extremely scarce and increasingly expensive. We are republishing many of these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mellon Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528763417

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Cullers to Killers

IT ALL began more than a hundred years ago when the pioneer settlers, wishing to transplant as much of England as possible to their new home, decided to introduce some deer to New Zealand from English parks. Only 111 deer were imported, but the decision to import any, in the light of later events, was a deplorable one; in a few years they had spread over most of the Dominion’s high country and were multiplying rapidly. Sportsmen were gratified—for a time. It was not until a few years ago when agriculturalists began to take stock of New Zealand’s high country and its ability to carry sheep, that the seriousness of the position was realized. Deer were in a large measure responsible for the accelerated erosion of the high country. Their habit of stripping the foliage from the bush and scraping the bark from trees with their antlers was causing the bush to die off. In the heavy back-country, the soil was being swept off steep faces and down the big rivers. Where bush and tussock had grown before, bare and barren shingle slides began to fan out.

This had an immediate effect in the back-country. Big stations, carrying thousands of sheep, could no longer support anything like that number. Rivers, at times a trickle and at others a flood, were of no use in hydro-electric development. The threat to some of the country’s scenic wonderlands, such as Fiordland, was becoming more and more apparent. The amount of high-country soil going down the big rivers to the sea began to cause concern, and the high floods which occurred whenever there was heavy rain or a thaw in the high country, began to menace down country farms, homes, and even the towns. Visiting American soil scientists, who have been fighting an enormous erosion problem in the Middle West dustbowl, have been appalled at New Zealand’s back-country erosion. You have done in a hundred years what it has taken us several hundred to do, said Dr Ernest G. Holt, of the United States Soil Conservation Service, when he attended the Seventh Pacific Science Congress two years ago. He knew, of course, that deer were not entirely responsible for the problem; that there were rabbits and opossums; and that the burning-off of scrub and overstocking had played a big part. But the latter problems are being overcome. It is the eradication of the pests that must be completed if soil conservation in this country is to succeed.

The erosion problem gave birth to the Soil Conservation and Rivers Control Council and Catchment Boards, dealing with back-country erosion as a long-term problem, and with river control in the immediate future. It is hoped that if the back-country is sufficiently rehabilitated river control will become a lesser problem than it is today. Bush and tussock will retain soil and water on the slopes and, as a consequence, the run-off will be greatly reduced. Catchment boards have come to the conclusion that the complete elimination of New Zealand’s red deer will be an answer to the problem. Trees and grass can be resown in the back-country and will spread if left to grow naturally. Already they have found that experimental plots have been ruined by deer, while fenced plots are thriving, thus proving that regeneration is possible if plants are left alone.

The first deer to reach New Zealand were sent to Nelson from England late in 1850. They were a stag and hind presented by Lord Petre, of Thorndon Hall, Essex, and were landed early the next year, to be released in the Maitai Valley. Unfortunately for the future of the herd, the hind was shot. This information came to the knowledge of the Prince Consort who in 1853 presented a stag and a hind from the Royal Park at Richmond, which were shipped to Nelson. This time the hind failed to survive the arduous voyage to Wellington and died a few days before the ship berthed. The stag was kept tame for a time in a stable and was finally released near the mouth of the Waimea River. But two stags alone were not going to raise Nelson’s deer population, and in 1861 a stag and two hinds arrived from the Thorndon Hall stock. The herd which grew in the Nelson forests in subsequent years was not regarded as a good one, few of the heads being worth collecting. The quality improved later, due mainly to the enterprise of stags from the Rakaia herd. Incidentally, the head of the first stag introduced has been recovered. It was found on a skeleton near the Dun Mountains in 1874. The head is not spectacular—length 37 inches, spread 30 inches, span 23 1/2 inches, coronet 8 1/4 inches.

Two stags and two hinds from Windsor Park, intended for release in Canterbury, were shipped to Wellington from England, but one of the hinds died on the voyage, and the three, instead of going on to newly-established Christchurch, went to a farm near Carterton. From these three, deer have sprung in their thousands and their descendants are found in most North Island forests. Otago’s deer were completely Scottish in character, the first herd of seventeen calves being presented to the Otago Acclimatization Society from Invermark Forest, Scotland, by the Earl of Dalhousie, and liberated in the Hawea district. This herd soon established itself and twenty years later was numbered in thousands. The Rakaia herd, considered the best in New Zealand, from the sportsman’s point of view at any rate, sprang from three stags and six hinds sent to Lyttelton from Stoke Park, Buckinghamshire in 1896 at the request of the Canterbury Acclimatization Society. They were landed at Lyttelton in May the next year, the Lyttelton Times recording that one of the stags remained very wild, biting and kicking anyone attempting familiarity. They were placed on Quail Island, in Lyttelton Harbour, which was then the port’s quarantine station and were there for nearly five months before being taken down to the Wilberforce in waggons drawn by a traction engine. These deer readily adapted themselves to the wild conditions of the upper Rakaia, and now frequent some of the roughest and highest country in the district. Deer were also liberated in North Canterbury in 1908.

While the herds were establishing themselves, the deer were rigorously protected from what was called illegal shooting. But with very limited shooting and no natural enemies, the herds soon built up, and efforts were made to reduce their numbers by culling out those which sportsmen would not consider worth shooting. On one North Island station, it is recorded that the station owner made contracts for the culling out of a minimum of 3000 deer a year for several seasons. Sportsmen became concerned again, and in 1902 a reserve of 32,000 acres was set aside as a sanctuary; but it was only a few years before the regulations were again relaxed. Previously licences had been granted for the shooting of deer, a limit of six stags being imposed.

It is very different today. Though we are still graced with the name of cullers, culling out is no longer our job. Now we are killers, with orders to clean out every deer. Will all deer be cleaned out, or is the task an impossible one? Men I have shot with are divided on this question. My own opinion is that they can be eradicated if men are kept at the job for long enough, but if only a few deer are missed, big herds will soon be built up again. During the last few years, something like 35,000 to 40,000 deer have been shot each year by Government shooters alone, and the fact that this number can be taken each year gives an indication of the task ahead of us. For the year ended March 31, 1950, 37,404 deer were accounted for, compared with 33,906 in the previous year, and 40,946 ten years ago. The 1949-50 total was taken from the following areas: central North Island, 5838; southern North Island, 804; Nelson-Marlborough, 1213; Canterbury-North Westland, 13,632; Southern Lakes, 14,943; Stewart Island, 971; North Auckland, 3.

The deer of New Zealand have certainly not justified themselves. A few stalkers have gained good heads (though this gives satisfaction only to themselves) and some New Zealanders have been lucky enough to get a taste of venison. The average value of deerskins exported each year is in the region of £40,000, a mere drop in the bucket compared with the extra wool that could be grown if there were no deer. Open warfare on deer was introduced twenty years ago, and, since then, probably a million deer or more have been shot by stalkers and Government and commercial shooters. The number left is unknown, but there must be many of them. All these sprang from a hundred or so deer. If our campaign is to succeed, not even that number can be allowed to remain. We must exterminate every one.

CHAPTER 2

Mountain Mates

THERE’S A subtle difference between back-country men and those enslaved to industry and commerce. One doesn’t have to be long in the mountains to recognize this. Just where the difference lies is a little difficult to determine, but it’s got something to do with good humour, tolerance and comradeship. The blokes up here think with their hearts, said one of my mates one night after a session in a country pub with a crowd of cullers, musterers and shearers. Down country they only think with their heads. Maybe he had something, but it might only have been the beer talking.

Possibly it’s that indefinable something that makes back-country life so attractive. The life is hard, conditions are rough, the pay is not very wonderful when you consider what can be earned down in the city, and entertainments are few and far between. But up here life is far less complex. There is still room for skill and bushcraft which is acquired only after years of experience. There is the satisfaction and reward of a job well done. We feel that there is some purpose in our work and that we are not mere cogs in the wheel of State. For these reasons the life is attractive, and that is why men are content to live for months on end under primitive conditions, buried in New Zealand’s back-country. But probably more important still are the men of the back-country; for without good mates the life would be intolerable. Comradeship certainly counts for a lot. War, too, seems to build a similar bond, but in the back-country it’s not forged in the field of fire, but grows naturally throughout the ups and downs of our everyday life. If it were not so, we could never live together for long periods with no other company and no amusements. We know that in sickness or in danger our mate will do his utmost for us, and he knows that we will do the same. He will help our tally along if we have a bad spell; he will be cheery when we are down; he will take his full share of camp chores and cooking (and he will cook well) and he will share his last cigarette with us.

Of course there are failures. We usually find that a poor worker makes a poor mate; and if we find any that don’t pull their weight on the open range, there is no enthusiasm about being mates with them. Usually they are not long in going down the track. Then, again, I’ve heard young men cursing the day they left the city to come to the back-country, wondering why they didn’t work harder at school in their matric. year, or why they didn’t take up a trade. Some hankered for the bright lights and an easy living, some for more comfort away from this place that God forgot to finish. Most of them had been disillusioned about the romance of shooting, its high wages and its independent life. And though a few had stuck it out, gradually gaining experience and learning to love the life, others had decided out of hand that deer shooting was not for them and had tossed it in.

In a few cases some of my mates have spent their young years in the back-country and have subsequently settled down in some less arduous occupation. To all intents and purposes they seem happy with their wives and children, their 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. job, and their gardening at the week-ends. But when their tongues are loosened after a few reunion drinks, I find that the call of the back-country is still with them. They try to convince themselves that it is not by recalling only the worst features—the Rakaia Gorge in winter, for instance, with the ground always frozen hard, morning temperatures below zero, ears, nose, hands and feet frozen, and no warmth in the watery sun. Or Christmas in South Westland, where continual rain makes everything a misery, while he spends his holidays with the happy crowds along Canterbury’s sunny beaches. Or, again, he thinks of a hot north-west day with the sun glinting off the shingle and himself loaded down with a pack of skins and an eight-mile tramp back to camp. On such a day down here, he boasts, I can just nip into any of the pubs nearby and get a long beer, CO2 cooled.

But he forgets the long summer twilights, with the mountains rising all around and taking on a deeper shade of velvet as they roll back the last ray of sun lingering lovingly on their peaks. And the exhilarating early morning air way up above sea level; or lying cosily encased in a sleeping bag and seeing thrpugh the tent flap the snow falling over the silent bush. Or hearing the crack of branches in a hard frost with the moon casting an unreal light over the frozen landscape; or, when really hungry, he was just going to sink his teeth into an enormous venison steak cooked over an open fire; or summer dips in icy streams. . . .

We get men from all callings seeking that elusive something the back-country offers. One of my mates, I understood, was once a parson, though he never once referred to it and I never questioned him. Why he chose to give it up I do not know. But he was a solid mate, though one felt a mite uncomfortable when, even in the most far-flung fly-camp, he would produce the Bible each evening and read a verse. There was a sheep farmer who had lost his farm during the depression and had surrendered to the lure of deer shooting, and now had no urge to go back. We have tradesmen of all sorts, an accountant, clerical workers, shearers, miners, and farm labourers. In fact, over the years one could find men from practically every occupation tossing in what are generally considered good jobs, and spending the rest of their working lives in the mountains.

The Wild Life Division of the Department of Internal Affairs recognizes the need for good relations among members of the parties, for in its conditions for shooters it stipulates that the Department will dispense with the services of any employee . . . whose presence is inimical to the spirit of co-operation in camp life. A pretty broad interpretation is placed on this instruction by the headmen of the various parties; but it is most important that they should be armed with this power, for a slacker or a really aggressive type can make the life miserable. A headman must have character as well as ability above the rest of the party, for he is in charge and it is he who must knit the members together so that there are no divisions and no favourites. He must not be a dictator, but he must see that his orders are carried out, that camp duties are allocated fairly, and that camps are kept clean and in a sanitary condition. I have never had reason to be dissatisfied with any of the men I have worked under. They are respected for their experience and knowledge and all have been fine mates.

There is a certain amount of danger in our work, but what looms more important in our lives outback is boredom, or a shortage of tobacco. There are days of leisure, well-earned after some weeks’ hard work, which are thoroughly enjoyed lounging about in the sun, cooking meals that would please the most fastidious gourmet, writing letters, or mending clothes. But a long spell of wet weather is different. Soon all the literature about the camp has been read a dozen times and the markings have been worn off the pack of greasy cards. Then comes boredom—and it brings with it the danger of rows developing and the camp not running smoothly. It is on these occasions that the worth of the headman is tested.

Tobacco is the one luxury we allow ourselves in the mountains. Even if it were allowed, we could not carry much grog with us. But all of us have several pounds of fragrant weed stowed away in our packs when we leave civilization. Most of us are poor at husbanding it, and if we are delayed by wet weather or by other causes, the day arrives when there is none left. Good mates usually step in with some contributions, but soon the whole camp is bereft of tobacco. And it is then that little differences become magnified. This, too, can have serious consequences, and the headman, if it is at all possible, will send one of the men off for relief supplies.

My mate Charlie once had the laugh on me as the result of a tobacco shortage. We had been stuck up in the Rakaia Gorge by heavy rain, and I found to my dismay, one morning, that I had just finished my last packet of tobacco. Chas produced another ounce, but by the following morning that had gone too. He searched his pack and announced: Well, that’s the issue. Dismay was writ heavily on his countenance, and, I daresay, on mine. So the morning passed slowly with me longing for a smoke and seeing no possibility of getting one for at least three days. At lunch time Chas suggested trying tea. I had a go at rolling one from the tea tin, but couldn’t stop the stuff from running out of the ends. So Chas took over, and, after much manipulation, handed it over. The first puff was terrible. Keep at it, he said, his eyes twinkling. I did, for six more puffs. Then I threw it down in disgust. It burst open and out of it rolled tea, salt, sugar and a couple of wax matches. Charlie woke the echoes with his roar, while I threw the horrible mixture at him. When my outburst had quietened down, Chas slyly inquired if I would like a smoke. And thereupon he drew two pounds of tobacco from his pack. This ought to see us through, he chuckled.

CHAPTER 3

Rifle and Pack

EQUIPMENT AND clothing are of prime importance in our job. If they are faulty, efficiency is lost and, in turn, wages go down. A good deal of study has been given to equipment problems by the Department and, as a result, articles combining efficiency with minimum weight and low cost have been designed. The essentials are: carrying bag, rifle and sling, pullthrough, flannelette and oil for cleaning, two skinning knives and a steel, two pairs of boots, an oilskin (short), sleeping bag and cover, toilet requisites and eating utensils, ration bags, and a small first-aid kit. But don’t imagine that we are standardized automatons of the State. I don’t think I have come across two cullers with the same views on the subject of equipment. Some become prejudiced about frame packs for instance (and I don’t blame them), while others who have had a good run with them will try nothing else; some will argue the merits of a certain brand of knife, and there are others who claim that their boots are the only ones