Little orange Pip has an obsession for the rabbits which frisk on the centreline of our backcountry thoroughfare. I don’t have to gaze at a crystal ball to foresee her future. Eventually she will fall victim to a speeding logging truck and end her days as road pizza
Prevention is easier than cure. I seek a bunny-free rehome on her behalf and there’s offers aplenty to consider.
One of those offers is as a pro pig hunter’s work-dog on Chatham Island.
Hmmm, a cheeky person might suggest an escort to ensure their dog travels safely and that the new operator gets a demonstration before the test drive.
I can do cheeky.
A fortnight later, and after many a delay, Pip and I are boarding an Air Chathams flight out of Christchurch. We emerge from the plane into a cold, wet moonlit midnight.
Wild weather had lashed the mainland; the torrential rains and southerly gales followed us across the South Pacific Ocean to the outer isles too
My host utilises the resulting downtime to personalise an Island tour. History is so close here. I see it. I sense it.
The sheltered Kopi tree groves and rakau momori drag up strong emotions. The old Sunderland Flying Boat at Kaiwhata is a marvel. Occasional small gardens of heritage plants cling tenaciously, glimpses of colour are proof that a pioneer woman’s care was not in vain.
The landscape is vast, flat and constantly accosted by wind and weather. Huge peat swamps are drained by creeks which flow as dark and acidic as the strongest billy tea. It’s one of these bottomless bogs which puts paid to our first pig hunt. The SUV bellied – a long walk home. Such is island life.
Out west, where I stay, the coastline is fringed white with layered breakers. The coarse sand beaches are littered with seaweed and seashells, storm battered ropes and buoys – it’s a beachcomber’s paradise.
Beyond the shore the sea is rich with life – rockpools dotted with paua – cray pots and cod pots harvesting bounty – cruising sharks – and fine fat fish which readily take a baited hook.
Also out west, the coast-dwelling birds invite scrutiny – rare plant species are many and varied – rocks, bones and fossils are scattered through the dunes.
Many of the semi-feral cattle are snapshots of genetics from generations past – every size, type and colour on show. Young bulls proliferate and they too keep my shutter finger firmly atop my Lumix.
Wild pigs, like the cattle, are multi-hued and abundant. Pip is in her element here and in short time has joined her new teammates in finding more than one or two!
Time flies. As I must too.
One last beach walk with Pip. Her abode on the wild west coast has her approval and acceptance. Immune to my sadness she investigates the offshore breeze, nose busy. Given the word she’d be gone without a backwards glance, piggin’ her priority.
