Barefoot brother

I’m not a person who typically hunts with other people. Infact I very rarely do. Of all the people in this world I’ve hunted with, in sheer frequency, my big brother Reinhard ranks highest on the list. Our first day began driving over a high mountain and down into the sun scorched valley below. Poplar and willow gulley’s whizzed by as we made our descent. Prepping our gear and starting up the hill, I was a little taken a back at my brother’s pace. Usually his slower, squatter and let’s be honest, slightly fatter physique gave me the cutting edge ability to watch has he dragged himself behind me. Not anymore. This man was a formidable powerhouse of locomotion. Low to the ground and unburdened with bino harness, he had been climbing mountains for weeks while I was trapped up north. The tables had turned. Either that, or there really was something to this barefoot style he was brandishing.

Yes, you read that correctly. My brother was barefoot, and not for the first time either. Just recently he had battled 40km of swampy Stewart Island track, clambered his way up Mt Earnslaw and trapsed a few mountain valleys. Despite my doubts and warnings, he had survived. His feet were callused, tough and really tan. Above this he didn’t have any fancy binoculars nor scoped rifle. A Jurassic period, brass butted, iron sight .303 was his weapon of choice. A couple sweaty hours of walking later and it was time to split up. Reinhard had second dibs and was given the large valley before us, while I would climb up into a large basin to look for chamois. Luck was swapped as we parted ways. I prayed he wouldn’t break a leg.

That evening and the next day proved quite uneventful. The basin was devoid of life, apart from a squad of mocking sea gulls that followed me as I glassed and sneaked my way through the boulders. My only option was to head further in. Reinhard and I had agreed to try and meet further up the valley anyway so I began sidling around. The further in I got, I knew the better my chances. Tracks and flats. Those are the places most hunters will branch out from. In hindsight the basin I had just come from was easily accessible from a private farm track. Likely spawning a few regular visitors to give the chamois and deer I was after a good education of ‘how not to die’. Merely an hour passed and not 300m Infront of me, popped a small mob of deer. As usual I was self-filming. I needed to fill the freezer while also getting some cool footage. Just as I began my stalk, shots rang out below me. Far down in the valley, reverberating off of the stones cliffs and crystal tarns. Instantly I knew who it was.

Reinhard

I scan the basin, looking for Jurgen. Either his camo is working or he’s made it up out of sight. Happy hunting, I think. I’m in a prickly situation, being barefoot and surrounded by spear grass. The lack of shoes is voluntary, as is my decision to use an archaic .303 Lee Enfield with a worn out barrel, impulse bought for $250, as my weapon of choice. But the Spaniard wasn’t part of the deal, and as I pick my way downhill, I have colourful words to say about this accursed native plant. River-bashing is a great relief, icy water soothing the holes poked into my battle-scarred feet. A few close calls on moss-covered rocks fails to dampen my spirits, and against the odds, I manage to keep my antique rifle dry. A hearty vegetarian lunch gives me time to reflect on the hunting tactics that have trickled in over the years: wind travels downstream so hunt upstream, stop to have a scan every now and then, stalk quietly but try not to sound like you’re stalking, don’t skyline yourself dummy. I hope the lack of meat in my belly will sharpen my eyes, after all, I didn’t bring any binos. Consulting a soviet-era topo map on my phone, I mentally re-affirm the plan: go along the river and up to that nice tarn with a waterfall, hope you see something. A flock of paradise ducks heralds my progress up the river valley, leaving me alone just as I start to consider using them to sight in my rifle. Not long after, a pair of itinerant seagulls take up the call, again leaving only moments before my trigger finger gets itchy. I make camp early, throwing my sheepskin rug and sleeping back into a crevice and boiling a cup of Earl Gray. I pray for the accuracy of the weather reports on account of my lack of a tent, then start singing to myself. After an enthusiastic rendition of Amazing Grace, or at least the verses I can remember, I move to water some tussock when I chance to spy a man in a green jersey next to a yellow tent a tad over 100 metres along the river. Sheepishly, I jog across the stream and waddle over to say hi, hoping they haven’t heard my attempts at singing. Hunters, as it turns out, just my luck. Had a stalk upstream and bagged a hind. We have a quick yarn as his mate returns, dressed exactly like my brother, which is to say, exactly like Steven Rinella. I stress my respect for their claim on the valley - they’ve got first dibs after all. They’re not sure of their plans for tomorrow, but they’ll let me know, the man says.

9.30 am the next day, I awake from my crevice and peer over to see the other hunters packing up. Jogging over once more, they confirm they’re heading out. We have another good yarn, then shake hands and part ways. The valley is mine. Snacking on snowberries and battling doubts about getting all the way out by 4pm the next day, I find the side-stream leading to the tarn. Lunging from rock to rock, scooping water into my mouth, I’m halfway up when I see him: a spread of antlers, a stag, fifty metres up the creek, looking straight at me. He trots over onto the bank, followed by his buddy, who I find in my iron sights as they stop to gawk at the strange primate below them. Where are his shoes? they must be thinking. My rifle coughs up a blast of smoke. Dust shoots up above the second stag. Damn! The stags are hustling uphill now and so am I, naked toes gripping rocks, sweaty hands working the bolt. “MEEP!” I shriek. “MEEP!” The stags slow down, coming to a stop as I squat with my back to a boulder. Another crack. The body of the second stag quivers. He tries to run off with his mate, but his back-half won’t go. Spine-shot. Too high and to the back, but he’s not getting away. Up close, he’s larger by half than any deer I’ve shot before. My first stag. Tongue lolling, he tries in vain to gore me with his nine-point antlers, the velvet hanging off in tatters. A momentary pause to his thrashing and I plant a mercy shot behind his ear. The handsome head drops. I have my meat.

              It didn’t take me long to spot Reinhard from high up on the mountain wall. Part of me wanted to continue, but I knew he likely needed help. Plus, I wanted to bask in his success. Many butt slides later we shared a bloody handshake. He told the wild story and honestly, I was just super happy for him. I’ve really adopted the hunting culture, media, and community as part of my identity. Me and Reinhard grew up with the same passion for wildlife and love of the outdoors, but hunting for him has always been something he’s done, rather than something that became a part of him. Because of this he always enlightens me to fresh perspectives. Most notably as of late, hunting barefoot. I wouldn’t say it’s something I’m eager to try, and I can certainly say that although being barefoot does make you light on your feet, you sacrifice speed and the ability to tackle certain terrain (i.e., scree and matagauri). Other than that, it’s pretty impressive and I’ve had to hold myself back from condemning this new found hunting style. Some of the deer cullers and meat shooters from back in the day would likely scoff at all the high tech gear we use today. Sometimes all you need is a .303 rifle, a sheepskin and a sheathe knife.

              Stag butchered, we started our descent and found an unused rock bivvy on the signed filled flats. Now my brother and I could easily be mistaken for modern day Neanderthals. Were stockily built with natural musculature and sloping foreheads. When the apocalypse happens, were not very worried. Finally, we were living up to our reputation.  Hunting has for the past few years become about filming, writing and propelling my personal goals, capturing the wild world as I see it, in camera lenses and words. This trip made me remember that I can’t forget the important stuff. My brother is my oldest adventure buddy. As kids we roughed each other up with wooden swords. We explored our surroundings with our knives and dogs, eeling, making fires and shooting bunnies. As we got older, we got bolder, tramping and exploring the mountains. I recall an early tramping trip where we shared a pack- in those days he had this unobtainable level of fitness and mental fortitude- he ended up carrying it the whole day.  As he went to Uni I discovered my independence, becoming proficient in my own area of hunting. Maybe I forgot how cool it was to have someone to share an experience with. Sleeping in a cave, eating wild meat, with a barefoot caveman. Or purely being in the mountains with your brother.