Bugger, I’ve been caught napping quite literally. My body clock has failed to register the steady progress of spring. Winter solstice has long past, and dawn has arrived earlier every day – including today.
Those who dwell in nature 24/7, they know spring has sprung – the days ever longer, the temperatures ever warmer – their inbuilt clocks more attuned than mine. The cunning old red hinds are already leading their extended families back towards the native forests, too smart to be seen by hunters who appear along with the sun’s first rays.
Inexperienced younger hinds linger longer, desperate for one more mouthful. Their body condition is pitiful, and reserves drained. Their thick coats are dull, parasite burdens high. They crave greenery and minerals.
My body clock was faulty, but my intuition is not. A lifelong student of the wilds and wildlife, I go forth with binoculars and rifle, ammunition and intent, and I hunt the ravenous girls and their counterparts, the beasty boys.
First to catch my eye are four red yearlings gradually contouring away from me. They are both careless and carefree – taking their sweet time they pick at titbits and pause often to admire the view. I am almost within shooting range when they bolt, full gallop and with plumes of exhalation showing white in the frost.
What’s and whys rattle round in my skull. The breeze is in my favour. I am not seen, nor heard.
At a distant ridge the four pause, turn 180 degrees and bolt back. At a wee swamp they wheel to a halt, tongues out, ribcages heaving. They rear and front-foot each other, sparring then pronking before another mad dash. And then, like nothing ever happened, they resume their gradual contoured walk away.
I’ve not spooked them at all, they were cold, this was a warming exercise – unlike me, they don’t have a jacket to zip tighter or a beanie to pull on.
The foursome ghost into heavy cover so I focus my attention elsewhere. The sun’s early radiance highlights pale rump patches in various sheltered gullies. Almost all the visible deer are beasty boys, immature stags who delight in playfighting and vandalism. They thrash young trees with their puny antlers, stripping soft bark and beating branches into submission.
My job is to protect said trees from wild things large and small, things which chew and gark and ring-bark. Of grass they can eat their fill but trees in the establishment phase are taboo – a ‘shoo’ won’t do, nope, the forest investors who pay my wages want ‘bang’ for their buck.
Utilising shadows and tree-rows I skitch through the open face until I find a suitable rock. Its biggish and flattish and caters to my needs. I’ve positioned myself downhill of the scattered mob, and, to escape my unwanted attention, the only way is up. They are easy pickings as they canter in lurching strides up the steep gradient and rough underfoot conditions.
Later, and further towards the beech forest hideouts of the old hinds, I spy a small dark creature atop matagouri scrub. Despite the distance I know full well what it is. It’s position in relation to updrafts and sunlight; its rich chocolate colour and its perfect stillness indicate it’s a New Zealand falcon.
I have a love of falcons. We tend to gravitate towards each other, seeking out each other’s company in these big backcountry places. Truly wild and free, these aerial predators welcome me into their space, so I go the extra mile to say hello, snap a photo, then thank them for their generosity.
I scan the crazy-steep faces with my binoculars but see nothing of the cloven hooved variety. Perhaps all the physical expenditure to get here has been in vain. I pause in Nature’s absolute silence, letting the sun’s warmth evaporate the sweat which beads my forehead and dampens my torso. The falcon watches from afar, his speckled breast highlighted by the sun.
No sound. No rock is dislodged; no animal speaks its bleat or grunt. No unusual colour calls my attention. Oh, I can smell game – urine puddles and tufts of early-moulted hair, fresh dirt nosed by pigs, pooh pellets round and green and soft – but animals are not here just now.
I venture towards the motionless bird of prey. A youngster, he has fed this morning. He ignores the unwanted attention of a blackbird and the raucous calls of an aggressive tui, content to sit serenely digesting breakfast. He eyes me curiously, not afraid. I give him space, an option to leave by dropping into the headwind.
Suddenly, and without reason, the young bird lifts off, effortlessly looping about me, doing a side eye fly by before coming to rest on a rock 150 metres down the ridge. I had intended to go that way anyway, so I descend too.
Halfway there, hidden by a fold of the land, I see the spine of a goat above the tussock. I pause, take the Tikka .223 off my shoulder, silently load.
Quietly, slowly, I edge forward. There are several scruffy billy goats, and they are browsing the very trees I’m here to protect. Enough said.
The little rifle roars its disapproval. And, as luck would have it, billy after billy bounds up onto a rock to observe its recently deceased mates cartwheeling and somersaulting down the sheer face. As each one conveniently pops up it gets a third eye and promptly dies.
Not so lucky, nor clever, is the rapidly diminishing ammunition – the spare box tucked deep within my day-bag. Rookie mistake.
The falcon observes, unconcerned about the thunderous echoes rolling around the catchment. Then, after cocking his head and scratching his beak with a talon, he drops off his rock and vanishes.
I’d be a fool to think he’d intentionally led me to my prey, a load of codswallop and fanciful thinking for sure, but still, I’ve been called a fool before
