Southern skies
It had been some time since I’d felt the cool touch of tussock on my legs, or seen the rise of rain on a southern horizon. Colorado was 11,000km to the north east. Pine and prairie were now stone and grassland. Northern Otago’s rolling slopes are stamped In my mind. A perfect approximation of the Scottish Highlands with characteristic New Zealand charms. I dodged matagauri gulleys as I stomped my way ahead. Although I had been in the mountains every day in Colorado, riding horses does little for locomotive stimulation. I was not as rough and ready as I used to be. No matter, I would be soon. Kim, my dog padded ahead of me, curling away from the onslaught of sleet and wind that was beginning to hit us. It came in bursts; ragged ice stung my face until finally it was too much. I took us onto the leeward face where we established some relief. I can count the number of times it rained in Colorado on ten fingers for the span of six months. This was what I missed; this is home.
Since I left school, four years ago, ive had the susceptibility to jobs where my metal would be tested in natural environments. Where involvement with wild critters was a staple. And professions in which wild places were traversed. I’ve climbed waterfalls and dug through supplejack gulleys on the Wairarapa coast. Shot fallow deer from motorbikes in the shadow of Ruapehu. Scanned for wallabies in Otago. Bush bashed circuits around Franz joseph. Bin in helicopters and on boats, It sounds like a lot for four years, but compared to some other gentlemen getting around these hills it’s nothing. The point is ive gotten around this fine old country of ours. And I’ve fallen in love with many areas and remote corners. Central Otago not being the least of them. From the Oteake range to Roxborough to Ranfurly. It’s big, dry and rocky country. The last couple years, when I haven’t been wrangling horses on snowy northern slopes. I have spent trapping in this mighty country. Great plains of tussock give way to rolling hill country. Rock monoliths and castles rise from the tops of these hills. Some areas hold deep canyons, gulleys and ravines I’m sure an Aoudad would feel well at home in. many a time I have found my self facing down some molithic looking sinkhole. Dark water, no doubt crawling with eels, raging through obscured cracks in the earth. Good places for one to find relief from the sun. One might initially think that this barren country couldn’t hold large sums of possums. But oh that person would be wrong. Broadleaf, willow, and tonnes of vertical habitat filled with dry nooks and crannies makes more than ideal living conditions for our marsupial friends. A day in central Otago might be described like so. You will be rock climbing at some point in the day, and you will more than likely have wet boots, and red skin.
My first foray into this great territory was a contract job on the Ranfurly flats. It was mid winter, the frost was thick and the ice on the willow choked rivers and water troughs was thicker. At times I even considered if I could walk across, the temperature of the water held beneath quickly changed my mind. Despite its wild temperature swings, exposed nature and at times monotonous scenery. It holds some special hold over me. The way it seemingly extends on forever. Folding and rolling like an undulating sea. Its seemingly dull exterior hiding fertile river valleys and shaded willow woods. So after melting my boots around resinous fires and stalking mule deer in aspen draws. Otago seemed like a pleasant and fitting change to come back to. Patches of light now filtering through dark clouds, I began my glassing routine. It took about three seconds before I spotted a hind and her fawn, munching away in a scrubby gulley a few hundred yards away. I wasn’t looking for anything special. Doubtless there were many large velvet adorned stags running around these hills, silver boars and chamois bucks. I just wanted to get into the hills with a rifle and a dog. A good meat animal would suffice, I had shot a red yearling and a coyote in the last 9 months. I knew I needed to get on the board again.
Kim began winding, above us this time. In a little basin 300 yards away from us I could see the unmistakable ears of two yearling reds. They’ll do I thought to myself, far better than hauling meat up and out of some matagauri and rose choked ravine. The stalk began, Kim crouched low healed to my side as I slid and crawled through damp tussock and shale. A nice flat tussock with my pack worked as a perfect shooting rest. And so my watch began, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, 20 minutes, 40 mins. They did not stand up or continue to feed. I let out a few coyote yowls and red roars which gained some attention. Obvious from the radar like movement of their ears (the only things I could see) but they did not move. I could wait here for hours I thought. Suddenly it dawned on me. I was not one of my Colorado clients. I didn’t need to wait for them to make the first move. I certainly have the skill to make a running shot a this distance if need be. Ill make the first move. The stalk began, suddenly I wished I was holding a bow rather than a rifle as I found myself within 50 yards. Out of nowhere there were two deer standing Infront of me. My heart was pounding for some reason. I lifted my rifle and flung a nervy shot. One bolted downhill, the other upwards, the young stag lurched up hill at surprising speed. From his mouth, a stream of blood was running. I took aim once more. Kim just about stood up on two legs as the deer collapsed above us and rolled down the hill. Sliding to a bloody halt at our feet. Not my best work. But it worked nonetheless. My rifle was slick and cold in my hand. It felt good.
In the distance. A wave of cobalt clouds loomed across a dry land. A haze of water descended on the hills in great showers, rays of sun persisted. Ice crystals clattered against my blade as my knife sawed through the back steaks and blacklegs of my quarry. The meat warmed my fingers as I shoved it in bags. Feeding Kim morsels here and there to reward a job well done. My hair was wet and clung to my face as I finished up. Kim looked forlorn to the mountains. What a place. What a marvellous portion of this country. I’m glad a chapter of my story has bin in this place. Every time I drive through Wedderburn or Dunback I’ll remember it. When I was a much younger boy I was shown photos of my grandfather’s paintings, water colour works of vast landscapes, Namibian horizons and deserts. Old windmills and farm infrastructure. I think those photos must have burned some kind of hole in my mind. Tattooed an inevitable destiny on my soul. Landscapes are a funny thing. They have an atavistic effect on a person’s psyche, that primal desire to learn, to explore. To touch that next ridge with leather boots. Most people can appreciate the plain kind of beauty in hills and mountains. But only a select few can tell you the real meaning. The animals, the history. The stories. My story, that’s what I see when I look at those pale gold hills, the coming of a storm, soaked days in the rain. Possums jingling in traps ferociously. Boulder filled glades of willow and poplar. Scorching hot summers and that freezing winter all those months ago. I’ve no doubt my grandfather could see something similar. A fascination, an obsession. It’s a painting I can’t describe in a single sentence nor a paragraph. I can’t see the whole thing at once, but it’s there. And sometimes, it looks like lightening, on a southern sky.
