This classic South Island valley runs parallel to Rotoiti and Rotoroa at Nelson Lakes. Tony, Simon and I spent a week there this early August. First up was two nights at Mole hut, on the bushline just above the road end. As we arrived, the snow started falling and we spent a pleasant morning reading in the pit, appreciating our down jackets whenever we ventured up for cooking or other duties. Snow built up on the roof, slowly extruded out over the eaves, half covering the window, and finally avalanched off, leaving the roof clear. Tony did a wee bush hunt in the blizzard and later a short walk onto the tops with me in light easy walking snow when the weather cleared but no animals were about.
In the morning, Tony and Simon made their way down the stream route, while I took the ridge. Almost as soon as they had left the hut they came across a heap of chamois prints on the track and Simon followed two sets up to the ridge where I met him on the track. He returned down to Tony and I took on the prints, following them down the other side off the ridge for quite a long way. However, they weren’t getting any fresher and eventually I climbed back up to my pack and followed the ridge track out to the vehicle. Only one other set of hoof prints crossed the track above the snowline but tiny prints and holes burrowed between the bushes were presumably made by rats bustling about.
When Tony and Simon emerged from the high bush valley onto open streambeds, they spotted a spiker making his way across the rocks and proceeded to investigate. However, the deer melted away and seemed to find a concealed route to parts unknown.
Back at the landrover, we had a quarter hour of warm sunshine before the sun set below the hills and down jackets were again de rigeur. Fortunately, Simon had a 3 room camping tent and once the gas lantern and heater were set up inside, all was comfy and warm, wet boots were stuffed with newspaper and a great heavy sausage stew was produced and eaten from the luxury of folding deck chairs.
Simon was a bit under the weather with a cold but Tony and I went up the main valley to put in a hunt overlooking an expanse of good flats. Tony’s boots were wet and mine were dry so he piggy backed me over the Watson and McKellar streams. I checked out Downies hut and a handful of cold, hungry looking cattle beasts left behind on the flat.
Tuesday was wet again and we made short forays to look over the flats up and down river but it was nothing doing in the deer department and we didn’t see even a hare. I went out in the middle of the day, planning to hunt the big bush fan up to McKellar creek. A few rays of sunshine were poking down through the wet bush and there were marks in the forest floor that could have been prints. I wiped off the raindrops from my scope and could see again. I checked out a flaxy coloured patch among the mossy trees, winding the scope up to 6x. This time there was the distinctive crook of a deer’s hind leg below it and then a neck and head on the other side of a tree. The chest itself was hidden behind some ferns. As I lined up, I could hear Don Thompson telling me, “Never shoot for the neck, Chris.” Bang ! Too late. The yearling was kicking on the ground. I was in no hurry to do the skinning out and while I did, a pair of tui arrived to whirr in the trees around me. A large bird dropped lumps of vegetation from the canopy and a flash of red made me think it could have been a kaka. After a wee rest and the resumption of further rain showers, I hefted the small hindquarters onto my back and wandered down the half hour back to camp. Soon Simon turned up, with frankfurters for tea this time, and we got another early night.
Wednesday was, if anything, colder and wetter and we were again glad to have our down jackets in camp. It was pretty grim getting out for our dawn and dusk excursions to the nearby flats and I checked out the track beyond Downies hut, finding quite a bit of cat scat but no deer or hares. It was the sort of weather where the longer you stay out, the colder you get so we only did a couple of hours of actual stalking. We made a good bush dinner with the fillet steaks and dehy and turned in for yet another early night.
It was time to walk out and I broached the subject of venison carrying with Simon and Tony with: “How much of this meat do you guys want ?”. “Well Chris, haven’t you heard of the law of the jungle ? He Who Shoots, Carries !” (It was 5 hours of level, grim walking along a quad bike track to the road end.) “Ah, but its also: He Who Carries, Eats !” I countered. However, it was soon sorted out, with the others taking the wet tents and leftover food and Simon taking a pile of the lesser quality foreleg and shank meat. Since Simon’s partner is a vegetarian veterinary nurse and Tony’s freezer is always full anyway, they actually didn’t want much of the meat and I got plenty of help with the load. The road was long and wet and hard underfoot and it was not an hour too soon when we could swing off our packs and warm up in the vehicle on the good drive back to Christchurch. - Chris.