The valley of a thousand waterfalls.
Craig Carey
I didn't want to be anywhere else at this moment as I made my satisfied, at peace way back to camp. My boots were filled with water and would not dry quickly as the water slowly filtered down my legs from my wet clothes. The still evening air was crisp, not just from the late autumn timing, but also from the total lack of noise. A silence you nowday’s seldom find even in agricultural NZ. I'd had a great day on the hill, explored some new country, had a great chance at putting an arrow through a rolly fat red hind who fed, never knowing I was standing 25 meters from her deciding her fate. She was lucky. Though I had never shot a red with the longbow, I had no way to utilise the meat and so she would live this day because of that fact only. Well thats what I tell myself.Those who know traditional archery will know in reality there is many a slip between cup and lip. Much could have happened in the time it would have taken to close within 20 meters, my safe shooting distance.
Following that, I had found my way through a Kilometre of dense south island scrub and swamp to the base of a large bluff which stretched half a kilometre up its mountain. I'd climbed steadily for 300 meters through rock jumble and fallen, smashed timber before playing cat and mouse with a couple of Tahr amongst the rocks and ongaonga for 40 minutes. The Tahr would win, but by crikey it was a close run thing. Then with an hour of true daylight left, I spied a bull on another face a kilometre away across the river. A mad dash down and through the scrub. A new fording spot for the river, and decisions. It was a river not to be messed with. I felt confident of the run out downstream. My feet lost the bottom and for a brief while I was out of control but soon touching rock again and out the other side in a moment. Like most hunts with the longbow, the animal won the day and fading light had me returning downstream to the little hut we were making home for the night before heading back to civilisation the next day. While always happy to be heading home after a long period in the bush; Walking alone and happy towards the smell of fire and glow of candle through a distant little window, the company of good mates, in that moment of satisfaction I would not have chosen to be anywhere else.
The satisfaction came not just from that day, but from those preceding it. I was in these mountains with good friend and longtime hunting companion Rex and new friend Florian who had travelled all the way from Romania to hunt a bull Tahr. I had chosen a spot that I thought would offer a great chance for him, as well as adding some adventure. We had flown nearly two weeks earlier to the head of the valley close to the main divide. The aim was to walk and hunt and explore where time permitted and our legs would take us. With a bad forecast on drop off, but having only this time to hunt we quickly made our way west and down to the first hut of our stay just as the first front hit. Don't worry I told Florian, it wont last forever. It nearly did!
The second day came with torrential rain and fast rising water. We cut wood and settled in thinking it would be a day or so. The rivers rose and new ones appeared. Gushing torrents where none existed on arrival sprang from the hills. The roar of water was all around us. A mind numbing rage of sound as water falls appeared seemingly in the thousands. You could imagine the whole valley succumbing to water. There was nothing we could do but sit and wait. We could not move on now had we wanted too. During the breaks in the rain we started to see the Tahr. Teasing us from across the river. In some of the longer periods without rain we got out and explored and pushed close to them. Returning to dry our clothes ready for next day. We were relying on shooting something for meat, but it wasn't happening so cut our food ration in half. An afternoon hunt saw us climb into a beautiful hanging basin. Waterfalls all the way up as we climbed, then a hidden flat and meandering stream with open edges and larger beech forest along one sheltered edge. As we neared the final waterfall Rex looked up and suddenly got serious. Knowing he had seen something I ducked without bothering to waste time searching for it myself and moved into cover beckoning Florian to follow. Rex whispered that there was a bull up on the left side of a waterfall 250 meters away. I couldn't see him, but I could see his girls as they walked across the lip of the bluff and into the scrub on the right. Then there he was, following the girls, puffed up and impressive as they always are. We had little time as we struggled to get Florian a suitable shooting position. I whistled my best imitation of a tahr warning and he paused side on and looked our way. The rifle roared and to our dismay a puff of white powder erupted from a protrusion of rock that covered the low part of his chest. None of us had picked it sticking up. The rifle in question was my brothers faithful old Brno .270. it looks a little beat up now after 20 odd years of great service, but it still shoots under an inch and nearly every one who try’s it, shoots well with it and chooses it. This had been the case when we set a few guns, most bigger and fancier in front of Florian on my 400 meter range before the trip. Looks don’t come into it, shoot-ability does when faced with a once in a lifetime opportunity like this. Ammo choice was easy too, it shoots Hornady superformance and norma 130s to the same point of impact and as well as anything I can reload, so don’t bother with anything else
We explored a bit and then sat under the cover of the beech trees having a brew and some salami and cheese while watching the bluffs for more movement. The rain re started though, and soon we were trudging our way back to the hut and the kindling we had left ready for a match to dry our clothes.
The days went on like this with little break in the weather. A couple of hours clear had us al going in different directions looking for a meat animal. I headed upstream to case out a large slip. There was nothing there but across the damn river there were two good bulls making their way up out of the scrub for the evening. I marked their location and cut down to the river looking for a place to safely cross. A bit of exploring soon found a good dry crossing over a jumble of large rocks. Not to many leaps needed. It was too late to chase them tonight, but i hoped to get Florian over there next day. Of course next day it poured down but the day after that was an improvement so we set off in light drizzle and climbed up to be in position a few hours early to set an ambush. We found a neat little overhang and got the billy going and stripped off our wet clothes to replace them with dry and get a hot brew in us. The magic hour came when the tahr should start moving. We set ourselves up in positions of good visibility and waited. A young bull appeared in front of us. We needed meat, but now wasn't the time. It was good to be close to game though. Unfortunately the bulls never showed. Just a few nannies and kids.
With dark approaching fast and rain starting to increase, we made our way down. The rule of the mountains is you take the route home you know under these circumstances. However the route up had been difficult. Another stream that would bring us out a k further up the valley looked far easier and so we broke the rule and followed it down to the river. It proved to be, as we thought, a cinch. However we were not prepared to find it brought us out above a raging, shear sided gorge. Hmmm. Dumbarses! We knowingly had broken good mountain protocol, and would pay for it.
It was dark now and the rain was pelting down. I worried what must be going through Florian’s mind as we headed up 50 meters and sidled across the top through scrub, climbed huge rocks, slid down steep faces and wound our way back and forth through, up, and over this gorge, sometimes taking to the easier water where no other option presented itself. Then a roar of water ahead, Rex and I both feared the worst. we were knackered and wet and my torch indicated it's batteries were about to expire. We pressed on and dropped down onto a small beach. Amazing! Thankfully the roar was a waterfall/ chute the river cut through, and we could avoid it. Then the whole river passed under a huge slab of rock/cave, wide and plenty of room. We travelled through and came out the other side to country we recognised. Our crossing point was just a hundred meters away. We could relax. Florian was certainly getting a Kiwi adventure. He would later state this was beyond anything he could ever imagine.
The rain turned to snow up high, and with it some finer weather was forecast, but alas we now had not the time to take advantage, one further day of rain then sun, was described, and as we had 3 days before we had to be back at our car, we elected to make for the next hut down valley and spend the good day hunting from there. I think it is fair to say I could see Florian’s disappointment at the prospect of leaving. He had understandably come to the conclusion that his chance of taking a bull was fading. We had lost 8 days to rain. The river at times risen too within a meter and a half of the hut. It had ruled our lives in that period as every decision had to factor in wether we could recross it should it start raining while we were hunting. Side creeks of a few centimetres had become 2.5 meter deep torrents cutting us off from the road end. We had to leave while we could. I felt for Florian. its a long way to come to experience something like this. Rex and I had one last special spot up our sleeves though and hadn’t given up. We elected not to get his hopes up by telling him, as doing so at that time would not be of any advantage, but could only bring further despair should our spot not shine through.
In steady rain we set off and trudged the next 3 hours around and down our valley through that soaked, steep west coast forest. We saw a couple of sodden deer down trying to feed on the river bank, but nothing worth chasing. Finally we reached the turnoff to the spot we had in mind and dropped our packs. Florian, not knowing what was going on just wanted to keep going to the hut and the promise of dry clothes. Thought the rain had stopped for an hour, our packs weighed heavier with water and you could see it was wearing on us, the days of continual soaking. It must have been so much worse for him, coming all this way to a kind of hunting that you can’t imagine even when its reality and possibility’s are explained to you but its something you have never seen. The wildness and unpredictability of New Zealand hunting is now a rarity in much of the rest of the world.
Rex and I climbed to a vantage point that overlooked another small creek and open bluff system. Immediately we picked up a bull down by the creek 600 meters up stream. I raced back and gestured to Florian to come. We set up to show him and work out a stalking route when Rex says, ‘’Shit! Look!” Turning to where he points and there, not 200 meters away another bull, a good one too, walks out of some scrub. Such a feeling of delight washes over me. We have done it, Florian will get his bull after all this. It will be something he can look at and remember for his lifetime. But the cold and wet, the sudden adrenalin, excitement and hope, all have taken their toll and I am devastated when the shot is clearly a miss over his back and the bull takes off. I look around and the look on Florian and Rex’s faces are the same, I feel I have the same look of shock. Open mouthed shock and despair. No words.
The bull reappears and we quickly gather ourselves. Florian settles in behind the rifle. I start talking him through the process, trying to calm the situation. Rex reads out numbers from the range finder. Three hundred and forty. Three hundred and fifty, Three fifty seven. The bull pauses and a shot rings out. The spray of mist from his chest and the shocked jump says it all. Florian reloads and fires again. Another good impact and the bull turns down hill then sits down. We fill the rifle with cartridges, just in case. Its not needed, the bull is next seen tumbling through the air to land on flatter ground 60 meters lower. Now we have words! Good ones come with the relief and success. We congratulate Florian and then work out our recovery plans and route to the bull. He is close and low, but it still will take some time and effort as everything does in this country, but its so much different doing something from the position of success. We photograph and cape out the bull and make our way to our nights accommodation, arriving four hours late and as the sun is setting.
The next day is the one I describe at the start, and Florian decides to stay at camp and prepare his hard won trophy while Rex and I go our separate ways to explore and look for something for ourselves. We both arrive back empty handed that night and next day we make the last tramp to the road and civilisation where fish and chips and a cold beer await us that evening.
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