I have had little or no luck getting out this year. My little daughter was born and I got the call from the arms officer while I was in the delivery office. She was lovely as always and my renewed license arrived when my daughter was 1 month old. I admit I have been camping, racing bikes and women and not hunting for years. When I was a kid, my old man had cooled on hunting at the same age and I had to badger him endlessly, with mixed success, in order to get him to take me out. With a bairn on the way, I was determined not to follow his example. I was keen to get back into it but my gear was a total mess. My lovely wife performed one of her magic tricks and handed me a whacking great wad of cash from the IRD.
While I have a Sako waiting to be turned into the Sako I used to own, I picked up a very tidy Ruger stainless laminate in 7mm Rem Mag for the princely sum of $600. It shoots well and I robbed the Nikon 2-8 power off my 17HMR. What I ended up with was a nice light handy rifle with a low scope well aligned with the stock. It shoots well and gives me a 300m no hold rifle. I picked 175gr Winchester Power Point as it has always been reliable factory ammo for me and it is cheap. It is also the only 7mm Mag ammo available locally.
For the last month I have been off hunting every weekend and every weekend something on the farm broke and I ended up working. My mate the Wookie got two days off work to come with me, so I told the boss I was going no matter what. We planned to hunt some tops close to home and the forcast told me wind speeds of 60-100km/hr then a Southerly change. Not ideal. We changed plans and decided on a little more driving to a very tight little valley where the Nor-Wester would not peel us off and the snow would not freeze us.
We had access to a DOC block over farmland and headed off with our big packs on, well geared up for a bit of shit weather. The Wookie was without rifle, but he has shot a power of deer in his time and still loves to hunt. The last section of farmland involves walking across some scrubby flats at the base of the valley and we were greeted with the sight of a lone hind walking idly across the valley floor, calm as you like. We watched her saunter past and felt a little twinkle of excitement. If this place was getting shot, she would not be wandering around so care free.
Ten minutes later and we climbed over the boundary fence, but we knew from the map the DOC block did not start for a bit further. I guess the farmer just did not want that bit of land. I could see why. It was choked with matagouri and bush lawyer. After crossing the fence we headed in the direction of the river and were greeted by a one antlered stag who lifted his head lazily from the grass to stare at us. He was 70m away and I have a weakness for one antlered stags. There was a prolonged moment of confusion as we all looked at each other, as my rifle was not loaded and I was not sure where the boundary was. The stag solved this for us by wheeling about and vanishing into the riverbed. I heard him crash off downstream. We were headed upstream.
The riverbed was wooded and a fascinating place to hunt. The trees surround the river and directly above them are scrubby terraces and then sub vertical scrub and scree sloped hillsides. We noted that parts of the faces were not grazed, indicating even the wildlife could not penetrate the scrub. We were confined to the river bed. I was immediately reminded of Fiordland, due to the intense grazing, vast amounts of sign and the reality that without a deer trail, you were going nowhere.
The Westerly arrived and we began to sweat in the heat. Like all my early efforts at deer stalking, I was trapped in a tight valley with the wind behind me. We could find no exit to circle onto the tops and the sides of the hillsides were sheer. As if to emphasize this point, we noted rocks high up in the trees. Very Fiordlandesque, this was no place to be in the rain.
Despite the unfortunate wind we were mesmerized by the abundance of sign. The flat sides of the river were heavily grazed and the ground littered with deer shit of varying vintage. It was all a few days old. Large creatures lived here and they had a pathological hatred of saplings. Small trees, low branches and matagouri bushes lay shattered, torn ragged by itchy horn. I wanted to rush, hurrying to more favorable winds, but experience gave me pause. I had shot a deer with the wind behind me before. Sending my younger brother into the wind downstream to find his first deer, I had gone just a hundred meters downwind from camp and shot a fat spiker on a clearing. Maybe he had a blocked nose.
After four hours of this we climbed to a little point for lunch. Our arms were shredded and bloody to the elbow from fearsome argument with the lawyer of the bush. Tiger country, stripes and all. We had a choice between to valleys, one even tighter than our current path, or the larger river and far tops. We chose the latter, noting few game trails on the faces to our right. All the deer sign was heading the same way, up river. The last of the stragglers had left this valley days before us and we followed along behind. There was a great annual gathering of Deer, a deer Allthing somewhere ahead and we were keen to find it.
With lunch behind us we became to climb a little more. Flat river sections gave way to large round boulders and the little terraces were not doted with alpine shrubs. Our necks were stiff and hats bent from constantly scanning the faces above us, hoping our stench had driven game up and out in front of us. Climbing over a staircase of rock at the rivers edge I paused to look up and found a Chamois buck staring back at me.
Now I was unprepared for this. We were not that high yet and I wanted that buck very badly. Deer I could take or leave, Tahr I had shot and other game. Chamois I had only ever seen silhouetted on the skyline. Peering down on me from impossible heights, no more than an outline. He had the posture of a mature male, staunch and square. He was standing broadside and we were stuck without cover. I flopped down on a gravel bar with my pack, moving in a relaxed fashion, trying not to be furtive. I was too hasty. I should have backtracked and swapped places with the Wookie, who was resting his ever present spotting scope on the square rocks like a bench rest. You never quite know what to do in this position in my experience. How long do you wait when game is staring right at you? The Wookie whispered "nice head" or some such.
I had slipped the range finder from the little pouch I carry on my belt strap, but I had not closed it. GPS, compass and sundry items were scattered about me. I ranged him and got my first good look through the 7x Leica 1200. 330m. He looked cool, stretched out on his long strong legs. I had taken as much advantage of the contour of the gravel bar as possible, which amounted to very little gain. Hunkered down behind my pack I had a terrible rest, shooting awkwardly nearly straight up. In my experience there are few good rests shooting up off a flat surface. I could make this shot, with this rifle. I ran through what I needed to and chose a mark and squeezed the trigger.
I had zeroed this rifle with @Carlsen Highway and stated at the time "I need to do something about this trigger" to which he replied "just learn it". No one shoots a bad trigger better than CH. In the end I did neither and I pulled the shot. I had given little thought to recoil, I intended to let the rifle do its own thing. Recoil was the least of my worries. Missing should have been, and I did. Maybe I did. Not sure. He ran downhill towards us on a diagonal and as he reached the crest of the hill he stopped in front of a large rock and turned back to look at us again. 250m or there abouts. I had chastised myself in these few instances and the fearsome bark of the Rem Mag in that tight rocky space had cleared my head. I placed the cross hairs on his brisket and took up the heavy Ruger trigger and built weight as smoothly as I could, not familiar with the break. I was happier with the shot and got a hollow sound to the loud bang of the projectile struck the rock, and he was gone. The Wookie informed me I had missed gain and the projectile struck the rock beside him.
The air had cooled and I felt wetness on my forehead. "Blood" said the Wookie and I reached up to feel that familiar lump numb feeling of an open wound. Probably should have worried more about recoil on that first shot. I felt deflated. I was not confident in my shooting and felt a little light bodies Chamois would have been pole axed by the Rem Mag had I connected. As if matching my mood, the Southerly change arrived. Yellow leaves fluttered down from a stunted willow tree, as if more commanded by the season that shaken loose by the breeze. We picked up brass and gadgets and hoisted packs and hurried off, eager to be away from the scene as if the boom of the rifle was a physical thing, hanging in the air between us and our quarry.
As we walked I yabbered away in my head, not my usual mode of travel. I ran through the scene and my shooting and cursed American Lawyers. I don't generally talk to myself in my head when I walk or hunt, I wear light thin soled boots and with a pack on, every footfall counts. I find the light boots let me walk tall and look around while walking, ideal for hunting but you must concentrate. I accepted I was over excited and with the thought "well, I'm not one for excuses" I silenced my mind. They say that you talk to the old gods in a whisper, and we had been whispering all day. Perhaps these last thoughts were the right ones.
I felt eyes on me and looked to my left and there he was, standing broadside again, 180m away, still straight up. I fell into a better rest, sitting back, rifle across my pack on a rock above me, elbows resting on rock that was like the arms of a chair. I placed the cross hairs on him again and they danced. I shimmied my right elbow back and spread my weight and relaxed and the cross hairs settled. I was learning this trigger on the job. The Rem Mag boomed again and he folded up and rolled into little patch of matagouri. The Wookie marked the fall next to white rock as the brush went still and we relaxed and let him cool.
Alpine hunting I thought, and laughed to myself. I had shot him and now I had to get him. I only ever exaggerated on one CV. They wanted mountaineers to go to Fiordland for the Geological Survey. I had put "alpine hunting" in place of mountaineering. The first guy of three passed me over but the second hired me. I had lost my nerve the first week. I was scared of heights. He had backed out of an ascent up an exposed ridge with 1000m drops on two sides. I would have literally cried out there on that ridge, but had my eyes filled with tears I would have fallen. All he had said was "alpine hunting" with a wry smile. I was too broken even to feel shame. He trained me up over the next few weeks, working around my inability. Some time later we climbed some real peaks and free climbed out a 120m cirque wall with an overhanging crest, but that is another story. My fear of heights lies shattered at the base of a kilometer drop somewhere out there in the Shadow Land.
I had burst up the first section, racing across the stream and crashing through the scrub, I pushed as hard as I could. We were under pressure now. It had started to rain and we had seen few possible camps. I needed this recovery over. You are not blowing till you can feel it in your teeth and I felt each thump of my heart as a strange fat thump inside my teeth. I was climbing now. The adrenaline of the hunt had gone sour and I paused to compose myself. Pressure or none, you don't climb like this and I stopped and looked around. The slope was close to vertical and bounded by blocky scree I could make no progress on. What I was climbing was silt and crumbly rock, the smeared base of a slip. Too hard and sheer to kick into but crumbly and slippery if you lost your footing. I sucked air through my nose and picked a line and began to climb in earnest, piking my hand and footholds. I looked back to The Wookie routinely, but he always pointed up. I felt a tingle of apprehension as my exposure became a bit extreme and my holds two toes and a fingernail. I looked up and all that was above me was a slight overhang of loose blocks. I could not climb through that. I would have to go around it. I looked left and right and my eyes fell on a pile of fur 5m to my right.
I was slightly above the chamois. My lightweight boots, while good for almost everything are not edging boots. I made awkward progress sideways and dropped down beside him. He was on a ledge among some scrub and boulders. The horns looked big and sharp. I took a moment and said my words, then eyed my descent. As much fun as I had getting up, I would have to descend with a small animal to carry. I looked down and was thankful I hunt with such stout men. The Wookie was traversing the rocky riverbank with his pack on his front and mine on his back. We had heavy training packs, carrying a month worth of gear in preparation for winter trips. It was no mean feat, but he is called The Wookie because he is huge, ginger and inhumanly strong.
I took hold of the hooked horns and slung him out onto the slope with my right hand and began working downwards, foothold to foothold. This proved folly as his body twisted, catching my fingers again and again in the curve of his horns and threatening to hurl me off the face. A rope I thought. I need a rope. So many things I did not bring. Wookie was signalling from a little bare patch on a terrace. He had found a campsite, so I only needed to get down. I relaxed and took my time.
Twice I lost him, watching in horror as he slid down, fearing he would smash his head. Each time he fell only a short distance but caught in scrub. The face on descent became a series of narrow shoots separated by patches of scrub. As not all the shoots had a good run out, I had to climb down and carry him back up and over the adjacent scrub into a more favorable shoot. I fell twice. Both times I placed my weight on his body and held him in a bear hug, using his hide and my boot heels to self arrest. You can self arrest with a rock hammer and you can also self arrest with a chamois. I filed that one away. On the last stretch he twisted in my left hand and his horns caught my leggings and threatened to drag me off, but he ripped them and fell. I slid down after him and was delighted to see his head intact. I gutted and cleaned him and ate what was left of the heart as is my custom. He had lost the lower two heart chambers and the lungs were completely gone. I filled a bag with kidneys and a couple of kilos of abdominal fat, saving all I could. I had taken him with a low heart shot and one front leg. My preference and one I learned from the forum, when more experienced hunters posted photos with their kill zones marked. I wondered where Weathered was. I had learned so much from him.
The tent was up and I crawled into it and lay in a sweaty heap. I alternately bit chunks out of a stick of salami and a block of butter till I felt a bit more energy, then went to see what The Wookie was doing. Never one to sit still, or inside, he had built a bonfire in a cleft in the rock by the stream edge. We stood and ate quietly in the rain. It never seems as wet next to a fire. We had been doing this for 30 years now. The rain carried on till 2am, making me a tiny bit anxious. There was only one way out and it involved many river crossing. My wife and bub would be waiting for us at the road end the next day and I had a heavy carry in mind.
We woke early and lit another fire, working together with wet wood and precious little dry tinder. I waded across the river and carried the chamois back and began skinning. I would bone him out and carry out meat, skull and skin. I found a projectile under the skin, perfectly mushroomed. I had two exit wounds and a projectile. He had taken three rounds. Maybe two. I could not tell. Going over it in my head I could account for the shot through the heart and a glancing shot through the brisket that glanced the lung and excited behind the shoulder when he stood facing me at 250m. The 150m shot that broke his leg was obvious, he had been standing on four before that. Where did the projectile under the skin come from? It was just behind the ribs and the guts were untouched. Did I hit him all three times? Did he take three rounds of 7mm Rem Mag and simply choose his place of death? I am not sure. Needless to say the 7mm had saved me a bit of a carry. The wound channels were impressive. I don't know a lot about Chamois but this one had my respect.
We packed up slowly and trudged out, making good time with real weight onboard now. We seemed to find the game trails more readily, as well laden, our eyes fell more to the trail than to the hillsides. We bush bashed less and found a fairly continuous deer trail the length of the valley, thick with droppings. Before we left we peered around the last bed at the basins we did not get too. The valley opened out and split, showing rounder hills with terraces and false summits. Was that were the deer had gone? We would need to spend more time in here to find out. As we crossed out of DOC land we gave a final roar, The Wookie felt he heard a faint reply. We arrived at the road end 3 hours early and called my wife for a pick up as the weather packed up around us. Not much of a roar hunt but I had my Chamois. With a little help from @gimp on how to measure him, he was 10".
