Mad Men of the Mountains, page 1
‘Big Al’ Lester
MAD MEN OF THE MOUNTAINS
More bush lies and half truths from
Contents
Introduction
1 Oops
2 A Bad Case of Wind
3 Hidden Falls
4 A Far from Ordinary Man
5 Strange but True
6 The Old Chevy
7 Gold Fever
8 Son of a Gun
9 Beyond the Norm
10 All Tired Out
11 Don’t Shoot
12 A Year or Two Back
13 Maxed Out
Illustrations
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
MAD MEN OF THE MOUNTAINS
‘Big Al’ Lester was born in Nelson, the second youngest of four children. As a young man, he played rugby, golf, softball and basketball, all at representative level. Despite these achievements, Al got most pleasure from time spent in the mountains and valleys hunting deer and other wild game.
Starting out in the banking industry, Al later joined the New Zealand Police. Being a solid 6’4’ tall, perhaps he was better suited to the latter role. After doing the hard yards, Al was promoted to his current rank of Detective Sergeant.
At 53, Al is still an avid hunter with a love of the mountains and a liking for beer. He lives in Christchurch.
This book is dedicated to all those who have told me their
stories and allowed me to print them in this and my other
books. These individuals know who they are, and I am grateful
to each and every one of them. Thanks heaps.
OTHER YARNS BY ‘BIG AL’ LESTER
Hunting in the Raw (2003)
A Bum in the Bush (2004)
A Hard Shot in the Hills (2006)
Off the Track (2008)
Arse-up Creek (2010)
A Sting in the Tale (2011)
Introduction
Our country is full of rugged and hard-case hunters. These hardy men and women roam the mountains and forests armed with a rifle, a sense of humour and a desire to harvest wild game to fill their freezers. Amazingly, the feats that these characters get up to have, until now, rarely been recorded.
From the sea to the mountain tops, and everywhere in between, mischief often gets in the hunter’s way. Many find themselves in a spot of trouble, playing pranks on one another or ending up in situations that require a bit of lateral thinking to extricate themselves. The antics these characters get up to are often recalled over a beer at the pub or around a barbeque, but they’re rarely consigned to print for others to enjoy.
The hunt for deer (there are seven different species in New Zealand), tahr, chamois, pigs, goats, rabbits, hare and possums sees these characters roam the coast, river valleys, bush-covered slopes and rock- and tussock-covered mountain tops. It wouldn’t be considered out of the ordinary for a trout or a salmon to fall out of the river as the hunters make their way to their beloved mountains either.
Some hunter-gatherers find themselves confined to coastal areas where there is the added potential to harvest whitebait, paua, mussels, crayfish, scallops, oysters, a large variety of fish and all sorts of other sea treats. Unquestionably New Zealand’s hunter-gatherers live in the land of plenty.
Contained within the pages of this book is an assortment of yarns about the characters who roam our mountains and coastline, and the mischief they get up to. If I hadn’t made the effort to record their yarns, there’s a fair chance they would have been lost forever and that would have been a tragedy.
Some contributors have allowed me to use their real names, as they can laugh at themselves and recognise that they have made a blue or two that is worth recalling. Others have specifically asked that I change their names and the location where certain events occurred. You’ll understand why as you progress through the book.
Lastly, if you think you recognise yourself in this book, you are wrong; it’s someone else. That needed to be sorted out early, just in case someone wants to sue me or something silly like that.
For the record, everything in this book is true – that is, except for the bits that aren’t. Regardless, the yarns are told as best I can recall them, and that’s about as accurate as I can get.
Enjoy.
Big Al
1
Oops
The following yarn was told to me by Smithy, who resides somewhere in New Zealand. By necessity, his true identity and the location where the following events occurred must remain secret. The reason for this will become clear soon enough. It is sufficient to say that what follows happened somewhere in the South Island.
Smithy liked to hunt wherever he had the greatest chance of getting a deer. The problem with this was that, as regular as not, the deer were in places where he wasn’t authorised to be. Smithy was very unpopular with a few high-country farmers due to his habit of poaching deer from their properties when he shouldn’t even be there. Getting permission to hunt on their land was a step in the whole hunting process that had somehow eluded him.
Working on a killing chain at a freezing works, where the work is seasonal, Smithy had a lot of spare time for hunting in the offseason, when others were gainfully employed and hard at work.
Although a short man, Smithy made up for his lack of stature with his deep voice, self-confidence, raucous laugh and drunken antics. Whether at work or in the pub, Smithy always wore white gumboots. His work ones were sterile and clean, while his casual pairs were ruggedly grubby. Smithy had a thick mass of greying whiskers, a large nose, and a balding head which was nearly always topped with a dark-green woollen beanie.
‘No point in taking me hat off,’ he’d often say. ‘I’d only forget to put the bugger back on if I was going anywhere.’
I can best describe Smithy as a likeable rogue with a diminished sense of responsibility. This is Smithy’s yarn, so from here on he can tell it himself.
I’m a pretty keen hunter and take off into the bush as regularly as I can. A few years back I had to take a forced spell from hunting the local area. Over a period of weeks during the off-season at the freezing works I’d been hunting some local farms regularly. I tended to stay at home on weekends, as that’s when other hunters took to the hills and they got a bit crowded. Most weekdays I could be found sneaking around one farm or another, and I’d been doing really well. I was getting a deer or two most weeks, and had been enjoying a long spell of good weather.
I struck problems one Thursday evening as I was making my way back to my vehicle with a large hind draped across my shoulders. On the gravel road far below me I saw several farm trucks parked beside my old Terrano. I recognised the two farmers who were standing beside my vehicle and knew they wouldn’t be happy at finding it there.
I’d been making my way down a scrubby ridge when I spied the farmers. I immediately took cover out of sight under a bush from where I could keep an eye on them. Somehow I’d forgotten to ask for permission to hunt the property, so thought it best that I didn’t return to my truck until after the farmers had left. They must have been really keen to have a yarn with me, as one waited there for almost two hours before driving off. The other farmer had left a half-hour earlier.
I didn’t dare turn on my torch when coming down the hill, for fear that the farmers would see the light and return to my car. It was a nightmare slog down the hill-face, with the only light for visibility coming from the faint stars above. I tripped and fell often under the weight of the deer. On arriving at my truck I discovered that one of its tyres had been slashed. Two large cuts to the tyre’s side told the story, and it clearly hadn’t happened by accident.
Under the windscreen wiper was a note. It was written on the back of a delivery docket of some kind, and read: Next time it will be two and you will be walking home. Stay off this property.
I took the note and put it on the passenger seat right next to the trespass notice they’d served on me the week before. I was starting to feel I wasn’t welcome there anymore.
While changing the tyre I made the decision to give the area a rest for awhile and to search for some new territory to hunt. The roar was only a month away, so I’d need to sort out a new spot before then.
The answer to my problem was to present itself in a most unexpected way.
My niece has a daughter, Millie, who was four years old at the time and was attending a kindergarten just down the road from where I lived. My niece worked full-time, and on occasions would get me to pick up Millie at the end of the day. I’d take her home and make her a Milo and things like that while we waited for her mum to come and pick her up.
A few days following my close encounter with the farmers, my niece arranged for me to pick up Millie after kindergarten. Somehow I stuffed up the pick-up time and received a ‘You’re in deep shit’ phone call from my niece. I raced to the kindergarten in my Terrano, and in a shower of dust slewed into the car park out front.
An attractive young lady who was holding Millie’s hand walked her to my truck. Mooching along behind them was a gangly young man about 22 years old.
I received a lecture from the kindergarten teacher on being a responsible caregiver and how it was my duty to be there on time and that I was never to offend again. Millie giggled and thought it funny that an adult was getting told off like a child. I took my bollocking squarely on the chin. I’d earned it.
As I was receiving the lecture, the bloke seemed to be taking a keen interest i n my Terrano. He circled it and had a good gander in through the windows. When my lecture finished and after I’d buckled Millie into the front seat the male stuck his head through my window.
‘You been shooting some targets?’ he asked.
I’d spent the afternoon at the rifle range and my rifle and targets were in full view on the back seat.
‘That’s why I’m late. Forgot to keep an eye on the clock.’
‘What calibre is the rifle?’ he nodded toward the back seat where my rifle lay.
‘A .308’ I told him. ‘It’s the only rifle I own.’
‘Are you any good with it?’
‘Don’t miss often,’ I stated modestly.
‘What do you hunt?’
I wasn’t too enthused at being grilled by a skinny, spotty-faced kid who thought that the wispy fluff hanging from the end of his chin represented a beard. His clothes were a bit girly-looking, and his hair was glued in shape with hair gel. I had him tagged as a city-dweller type the moment I clapped my eyes on him. Not wanting to upset the kindergarten teacher any further, though, I answered her boyfriend’s questions.
‘Deer mainly, but if a pig gets in the road it’ll fit in the freezer just as good.’
‘I’ve just purchased a .270 Remington rifle. I haven’t had a chance to sight it in yet, and to be honest don’t really know how to either,’ the lad continued. ‘Got any tips that may help me?’
I must’ve been overcome by guilt at being late to pick up Millie, because by the end of the conversation I’d invited the bloke, Tom, to the range with me the following morning. He seemed keen enough, but clearly knew bugger-all about firearms.
That day I’d been at the range test-firing some bullets I’d reloaded myself. I’d changed to a new type of projectile and wasn’t happy with their performance. I intended trying a different powder load to see if that improved things, and was returning to the range the following morning to find out.
When I arrived at the range, Tom was already there waiting. Several hours later I had him and his rifle sorted and had given him a few pointers on ballistics. I’ll even concede that when we got his rifle sighted-in he was a reasonably good shot.
By morning’s end Tom had revealed that he and his mate, Macker, had recently decided to take up hunting but hadn’t been out to look for a deer yet. Given my current standing with the local farmers, I wasn’t in a position to offer them a guided hunt anywhere local. However, the situation changed somewhat when Tom mentioned that Macker had arranged a property for them to hunt during the upcoming roar. Needless to say, this made my ears prick up.
‘And where might that be?’ I enquired.
‘Up the top end of the Sprat River,’ Tom responded.
Lucky bastards, I thought. The area was renowned for the size and quality of the stags that roamed there. It was equally known that few people were given permission to hunt the area, as most of the land was privately owned.
Ten minutes of gentle cajoling later and I’d managed to get myself invited to join Tom and Macker on their roar hunt. The deal was sealed when I convinced Tom that I was the world’s best deerstalker and offered to be their hunting guide and tutor.
We had a planning meeting at a pub, and that’s where I first met Macker. I took a liking to him straight away. He was young, built like a brick shit-house and swallowed beer quicker than me. I really liked his quick wit and joke-telling ability. Everything about the guy was square, from the shape of his large head to his huge chest and solid legs. It came as no surprise to me that he was a front-row prop for a local rugby team.
Tom and Macker were opposites in every way. While Tom had just been accepted into the police and in a few months time was off to their training school, Macker had recently graduated from university with an accounting degree. It seemed to me that they’d got their careers mixed up and that they were better suited to the other’s job. Nothing about Macker fitted my preconceived idea of an accountant, and Tom seemed far too soft to be a copper.
Arrangements were made, and on the given date we departed in my trusty old Terrano. With three people on board, we struggled to fit the huge quantity of gear the blokes had into the rear. We had four days of hunting ahead of us, but even I thought that the mountain of beer Macker wanted to take could be considered excessive.
‘We might struggle to fit all that in the truck,’ I’d told him.
Without hesitation he’d replied, ‘If we run out of space we’ll have to leave some tucker behind.’ That comment just about summed up Macker’s personality. Nothing fazed him, and he loved his beer.
At about mid-afternoon we arrived at our destination and pulled up beside the farmhouse. A huge man emerged from inside.
‘Uncle Graham, how the hell are ya?’ opened Macker.
That instantly explained the similarity in appearance of Macker and Graham – and how we’d obtained permission to hunt the property.
After a round of introductions, to my great disappointment half the beer was unloaded and given to Graham. But, before we could decline the invitation, we found ourselves sitting at the kitchen table having a beer with our host.
Graham told us there were plenty of deer about and we wouldn’t have to go too far to get a stag or two. He also mentioned that a few years back someone had released fallow deer into the area. Graham was happy for us to shoot anything we encountered and to hunt wherever we fancied.
Several hours later and with far too many beers under our belts, we departed for the hut.
We drove a muddy farm track that headed uphill to the back of the farm. Macker drew the short straw, so it was his job to open and shut the many gates we had to go through.
The farm consisted of steep, broken country with deep gullies, clear streams and some sheer rock-faces. Many of the gullies were choked with scrub and patches of native bush. The slippery track we drove led us into a large area of native bush at the rear of property. The farm’s rear boundary sat against Department of Conservation land, but there were no fences to define the boundary line.
‘There’s one!’ Tom shouted as he pointed over my shoulder at a deer that was quickly making its way up a slope across a gully.
The truck slid to a halt and there ensued a flurry of activity to find and load a rifle to shoot the deer with. We needn’t have bothered: the deer had disappeared into the bush long before we got our hands on a gun. And yes, I hear you: firearms and alcohol should never be mixed, so perhaps this was the best outcome.
The road ended at a hut which sat at the rear of a large grass clearing. The clearing itself was surrounded by native bush.
The hut was a cracker. It was small, old and had a rusty, weathered corrugated-iron exterior. The creaky wooden door opened to reveal two sets of bunks, a small table, and a large open fireplace that took up most of one end. The wood shed that sat next to the hut was chocker-full of dry firewood. It doesn’t get any better than that.
That night in the hut I gave Tom and Macker lessons on deer’s habits, behaviour, their likes and dislikes, nocturnal nature, how they use the wind to their advantage, the need to be quiet because of deer’s excellent hearing and numerous other helpful stalking tips. Both soaked up the information and asked a lot of questions. We reached an agreement that I’d take them hunting together on the first day to enhance their knowledge and understanding of what I’d told them. On day two they were on their own, and I would hunt by myself.
Pinned to a wall was a map of the area. It was old and weathered and had some notes written on it in pencil. I took a good look at it to familiarise myself with the area in readiness for the morning’s hunt.
That night as I lay in my sleeping bag, I heard several stags roaring up the hill behind the hut. Life couldn’t get any better.
Come morning, the hut was engulfed in a misty rain and the stags had stopped roaring. Confident that the weather would clear soon enough, the three of us set off up the hill behind the hut. Tom and Macker were both dressed in brand-new bright orange hunting jackets that they’d purchased from a hunting store at hugely excessive prices. I thought they looked ridiculous. I was happy in my shorts, polypropylene singlet and polar-fleece top. To keep the rain out I wore a large plastic rubbish bag with arm-holes cut in the sides and a head outlet at the top. I can’t see the point in wasting good beer money on fancy clothing.
