Good, Keen Men

Loping ahead of the man, the lean dog tilted her nose up to better catch the wind. Snow tussocks billowed around the pair, as the hot wind raked through the valley. Rocks tumbled from the peaks, and dust blew up into a dry sky. The mountains creaked and roared, stone walls swayed. The man slung his .303 over his neck. The section ahead looked trickier. A mighty drop threatened to his left. The dog did not seem to mind, pacing ahead on a well-worn deer trail. Carefully the man darted around a sharp-edged corner. He was met with the sweet taste of water in the air. A massive waterfall greeted them. The dogs tail did not hit the ground but merely the wind. Washed away by the wind. The painted dog hurriedly went forward, lapping from the frantic pool before them. The man noticed his parched mouth. He threw his rifle into a snowberry bush and began to cup the water in his hands. The frozen water slid down his throat and splashed his face. He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice the stag standing on the other side of the pool. 

Tall velvet rose from his bony brows. His tawny red summer coat shone in the wet sunlight. The man began to notice something awry. His dog was locked, no longer drinking, just predatory focus. The stag and the man noticed each other at the same time. The great beast leapt sideways, galloping along the shoreline. The man was holding his rifle and aiming before he had time to even think. The lever of his bolt slammed down and he hammered the trigger. Gunpowder briefly enveloped his iron sights. The stag's legs flew up in the air. He then noticed another stag. The man took aim again. The hound re-crouched as if pointing the deer out. With another crack, the second stag piled face-first into the ground with a shower of gravel. The hillside was now alive, yearlings, hinds, spikers and stags all running to the man's left. Lead ripped out of the barrel one load after the other. Blood, dust and rock rained against the hillside. A hind rolled down the hill and crashed in a spiker. A yearling crawled hopelessly.  An antler hung from a strip of velvet. The dog bounced in the shallow water, more excited with every shot. The man ripped out his magazine and smashed in his second. Some forty deer were still galloping. The man rested on the steel of his pack and leaned into the stock. More carnage ensued. Blood ran and splattered on the shale. Deer dropped and slid and slammed into rock piles. They fell and flew, necks limp. Legs buckled, eyes rolled, bones shattered. The survivors, tongues lolling out of their mouths in exhaustion, disappeared over an iron ridge. The dust settled quickly, leaving only the howl of the wind. 18, perhaps 19 reds lay dead on the hillside, some more likely still dying. He shared a look with his hound in front of him. “A few more tails, hey girl? At least a couple days worth.” The dog panted happily, eager to get started.

The deer cullers of New Zealand were wild men. Men of the mountains, armed with .303 British Lee Enfield rifles left over from the Boer War and World War I. They spent weeks or even months in the backcountry. Living out of bush camps, primitive huts or rock bivs. Living off of deer, eels and the occasional airdrop of provisions. They chose lives lived by the judgment of the mountains. Everyone seeking fortune and glory in the clouds. Serrated steel and brass became their instruments. Even today, every Kiwi hunter knows their song.

Red deer were first released into the mountains of New Zealand in 1863. Many liberations and restricted takes quickly meant their numbers were exploding. Tags and game seasons went out the window to control this new threat to agriculture and the environment. Entire hillsides were grazed flat, and erosion was eating at the high country. By the early 1930s deer were declared a ‘noxious pest’ and bounties were made for deer tails. Professional deer hunters took up arms and trained in deer culler camps ran by the New Zealand Forest Service. They learned how to navigate, make fires, to survive in the bush. In one of my favorite books, Trappers Dogs 'n' Deer by Wayne Blake, he details how all the men showed up in jeans and pants. By the end of their first day of training, hiking up and down a series of mountains, those who stayed had all cut their pants short. The iconic ‘stubbies’ of Kiwi hunters. People from all walks of life gave deer culling a crack. It was a highly seasonal job, as the harsh winters of New Zealand mountains were too dangerous to have people chasing wild game. Businessmen and soldiers, farm boys and adventure seekers, all wanting to test their metal signed up for the job. Most didn’t get very far and quit. Those who persevered came to know the mountains better than anyone.

They primarily lived in small camps of 3-4 cullers. Deer skins and tails hung around canvas tents, bush camps or huts. In some camps, they may have had a pen and tack tent for their packhorses. Lean hunting dogs used for finding and bailing game chewed on discarded bones. I recall a story I heard of a deer culler, who got caught trapping possums and sowing the vertebra into strips of deer skin, effectively creating his own "Frankenstein tails", in an attempt to provide a more steady income for himself. Deer cullers were by no means earning great fortunes on the slopes and bush-clad hills. From camp, they might spike camp out to get to more remote areas to find additional tails. It wasn’t uncommon for them to come across massive herds of deer. Staying in groups was not only safer but made it easier to exist. There was no GPS and rarely even a mountain radio. On a rest day, one hunter might chop firewood or prepare meals. There were other things to tend to as well; camp maintenance, fleshing deer skins, and track cutting all became a part of a deer culler's job.

Though there was never any shortage of wild game, the men likely grew quite tired of venison. Goats and pigs were abundant as well. Trout were often slung out the rivers using great lancewood poles. New Zealand native eels are easy to catch and make for quite tasty bush tucker. Supplies of condensed milk, tea, flour and cigarettes were occasionally air-dropped by plane. This was typically an unceremonious affair, leading to cans smashed on rocks and scattered goods. 

Deer cullers were the toughest of the tough. Regularly sleeping in rock bivs bundled up in their wool Swanndri jackets. They became creatures of the mountains, lean and swarthy and formidable with a rifle. Most didn’t do it for longer than four years. Those that did, must have been mad. These days, as I walk through the bush holding my plastic stocked Tikka rifle, hunting the same places they did, I might see the bottom of a can, painted and nailed to a tree as a marker, or an old name etched in the wall of an ancient hut. Most of those worn faces are gone, the true legends who were there from the beginning no longer regale stories of thunder in the clouds. The only things left are worn books, old rifles and photos. When I take to the mountains, and feel the breeze, wrapping around stone peaks and ice, I know those good, keen men are watching.