Hey, does everyone know of my fondness for desserts? Of all the blocks for the Marlborough NZDA fly-in trip, I’ve received an email allocating me ‘Pudding’.
I must share Pudding with strangers, divvy it into quarters, but I’m sweet with that.
Some of the other block names are not nearly as enticing. Grey – visions of drab landscapes and dull skies flash before me. Horrible – well that sounds just, horrible. And Jack – I’m familiar with Jack, he can be moody and cold, so yeah nah
My essentials list grows ever-longer in the lead up to D Day. The resulting pile on the lounge floor becomes Must-Have Mountain.
I get permission to take Kip the kelpie, she needs her own DoC permit, as do I.
Winter solstice looms – the shortest day followed by the longest night. What does one do on an isolated mountain top on long cold nights. Four long colds nights in succession are a daunting prospect.
One could talk to three strangers around a shared campfire after dinner and a beer. That might get us to 7pm, but then it’s a long time till daybreak and a great escape.
The more I think about four boring nights confined to a tiny solo tent the more I fret about the decision to do the trip. I hang in there, just. But when the weather forecast goes all awry and the call is made to postpone the flights, I am delighted not disappointed.
Must-Have Mountain shrinks to Mainstay Molehill in no-time. Just the essentials for a day trip remain, and there they lay waiting for an opportunity to get busy and bushy. They wait, and they wait, but the adverse weather it takes its sweet time to disperse.
In all honesty I have cabin fever by day two and I’m at home, not stuck in a tiny tent. There is a real bed here, with Dearly Beloved in it. There is electricity, internet, artificial light. There’s an oven and stove-top, so there are dinners, desserts, and dishes. And still, I pace and frown and sigh.
Day three – I’m bitchin’ and itchin’ to go hunting.
Day four – Let. Me. Outta. Here.
The break comes that evening – a lengthening between showers and gaps in the cloud cover. I cannot wait till sparrow fart tomorrow. Instead, I dissemble Mainstay Molehill and rebuild it. I charge the thermal binoculars, head torch, and scope light. I rethink my clothing choices and my destination.
I log a route plan, then, after midnight I set-off on foot after parking at the toe of moody Mount Jack. The moon is waning. Just nights ago, it was something remarkable and gazed upon by astrologists the world over. At its peak it was a Micro-Blue Moon. There won’t be another like it till 2053.
The micro moon may appear smaller and dimmer than usual, but it is a magical balm for nocturnal me.
Lunar beams refract off droplets beaded on the vegetation; they twinkle now, like ground-stars. Puddles and fresh slips glisten. Shadows lurk like cat burglars.
My own lengthy shadow proceeds me. Unfortunately, so does the merest waft of westerly wind. No matter how far I walk, and walk I most certainly do, I cannot outrun it nor outwit it. Wind and dark clouds meander back and forward, up and down like puppets on strings.
The thermal lights up the mountain in a whole other dimension. Way up high, asleep on a grassy knoll is a lone deer. Lower, within rifle range, is another deer. A red hind. She has winded me and stands in heavy cover, skinny neck and ears erect. Her eyes reflect the scope-light but don’t enable a positive identification or kill-zone target. I let her walk, this time.
Way up, on a huge outcrop treed with gnarled old broadleaf’s I can see a mob of goats. They are agitated; their body language suggests that they too have caught a whiff of me and don’t like it. Don’t believe that goats spend all their nights sleeping – in moonlight they can and will travel.
On and on I go but to no avail.
On and on until the moon’s light begins to dull. Black shadows become gray. The sky stars seem to shrink, and the ground stars no longer twinkle. On until my options are culled, my willpower diminished and my body begins to hurt.
The thermal reckons there’s only me and the goats left out here. They have indeed shifted camp. They’ve climbed higher before settling down and waiting for dawn and the warming sun. After days of rain, they crave warmth and an opportunity to dry their bedraggled coats.
Dammit methinks, ‘I’m gonna climb up there. I’ll time my arrival so I’m on-site with sufficient light to shoot’.
I cast off my jacket and my woolly hat with its encircling head torch. I ditch the thermal, the scope-light, the backpack. I stash the lot, then, with a pocketful of ammo clips and a quiet determination I start to climb on the downwind side of the distant mob.
There’s matagouri thickets, loose rocks, shale slides and every manner of impediment. That’s all good as its still dark so I must go slow anyways. Puff and pant and sweat. Pull myself bodily up rock faces. Relish the challenge.
Gray turns to brown. A bellbird chimes. Outlines become defined and shadows disappear.
A contoured creep, quiet and catlike. Rifle loaded, a clip of bullets in either bra cup ready for quick collection. A sighting of goats yawning and stretching, peeing and shaking nighttime from their beings. An ambush so perfect I am surprised by it myself.
Eventually just two goats remain. The kid is suckered within range by my nanny calls. The billy hiding deep within a thicket eventually lifts his head and looks around.
Job done. I may have missed out on Pudding but I’ve had a cracker on the back of Jack!
