The mouth of Te Whanga Lagoon is in plain sight, and the tang of peat-infused waters is borne upon the gentle offshore breeze. Here aboard Flynny we rock gently just fourteen metres above the sea floor. It would be an idyllic scene if it weren’t for the constant flurry of human activity.
Four of us each have handlines overboard – rope lines, two traces, circle hooks and huge baits – and it’s rare to have a hefty sinker touch the bottom for longer than a moment before fishin’ action sees us hauling enormous blue cod towards the surface. With a limit of just five fish per person, we choose carefully which piscatorial prize stays, and which is returned to Neptune’s lair.
Strong strikes followed by a significant weight alert me to the possibility of a groper – they’ve been caught here before.
Hand over hand, looping line onto Flynny’s deck, my eyes search for the first flash of colour. What have I caught?
There! Groper! He’s hooked by the skin of his lip, a tiny silver sliver is all that connects he and I. Heart pounding, I pull the big fella nearer to the boat. He is expertly manhandled aboard, and I have my dream fish in hand. Done.
Day two on my bucket list location – Chatham Islands – and I am beyond happy. I’d always thought the Island was too far, too hard, beyond my organising skills and simply out of reach for the likes of me. But here I am, literally out here and doing it.
The following day I give my binoculars a workout from the deck of the spectacular Kopi Lodge while my host is busy elsewhere. Far across the plateau I see a small mob of wild cattle mooch from cover. My eye is drawn to a huge red bull with T-bar horns – now there’s another ‘chuck it in the bucket’ item, another dream species and a trophy too.
Host John returns and he needs no persuasion to shoulder his 300- mag rifle, strap on a knife and say, “come with me”.
A short while later I’m laying flat on my belly in the knee-high fern, John’s rifle tucked into my shoulder, waiting for a kill shot opportunity. It never comes, a sixth sense warns the old master that danger is near and he slides silently away.
We press on, quietly covering ground. Low-set ridges lead into green-grassed clearings drained by narrow creeks. Tarahina, manuka and ponga ferns provide cover for small mobs of cattle as wild as any deer back home on the mainland. The style of stalking is familiar to me, but the thick-skinned and heavy shouldered targets are vastly different.
There! Another master bull, without horns – and with an apprentice bull and a family group of cows and calves. We edge closer, the breeze in our favour. Adrenalin levels escalating until John gives the signal to shoot.
Despite the heavy calibre and well-placed chest shot the huge animal doesn’t go down without follow-up. The consequences of a wounding need no explanation.
The cows call their offspring to heel and bolt, but the young bull stands staunch. He has failed to sight or scent us, so he waits, undecided between flight or fight. John whispers to me to take him out of the population too. One good shot and he drops to the ground, motionless.
A seasoned cattle hunter, John sits tight and we wait for a full five minutes before giving away our position.
I’m well down the ridge and oblivious to the young bull’s change of status from presumed dead to alive and angry. Worse, he has seen me and he’s coming my way. I hear John’s shout, his voice crackling with panic – “shoot it!”.
A moment later the young bull comes charging into view, neck pumped, eyes bulging, mouth frothing and tail high. His intentions are very clear.
He’s just twenty metres off me when I get the rifle to my shoulder and send a heavy slug into his skull. Wow, what a buzz.
Day after day these outdoor adventure activities and outcomes come at me – and all in this amazing place and amongst these amazing people. Good, down-to-earth people who take me in and treat me like family. I share in their everyday and in their exceptional days. Full immersion, no exceptions.
All too soon its time to pack my bags and share one last phenomenal meal with the team at Kopi Bush Retreat. Leaving, just like arriving and everything in between, is all done for me. I thought coming to the Chathams was in the too hard basket, but this all-inclusive trip was about buckets not baskets – and, truly, my bucket runneth over.
