Pack and Rifle

By Philip Holden

A reprint of classic hunting adventures from Philip Holden, recounting his adventures as a deer culler with the New Zealand Government Forest Service.
PACK AND RIFLE is the book that has inspired generations of hunters to experience all that wild New Zealand has to offer. First published in 1971 the book was immediately recognised as a classic of its genre. It recounts Philip Holden's adventures as a deer culler and contains a wealth of knowledge and hunting lore ready now to be taken up by a new generation of hunting and outdoor enthusiasts. Some of the people named in the book have moved on and the dates are old, but some things never change. the hills today are just as they were when Philip first explored them and the adventure and thrill of the hunt still resonates from the page. the book can be enjoyed by the young and upcoming hunter as well as those who will read the stories with a fond smile of nostalgia - those who have been there on younger legs and who once lived the adventures of hunting in New Zealand's mighty back country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781775490203

Philip Holden

Born in Wales in 1937, Philip immigrated with his family to Australia in 1953, where he worked in the outback, before coming to New Zealand aged 23. By the time of his death in 2005, he had established himself as one of New Zealand's most prolific authors, with over 50 published works to his credit.

Book preview

Epigraph

‘My story is as accurate as I have been able to make it. The talk between the hunters is pretty much as is. When I describe a deer as doing a certain thing, you can be sure it did just that. And if I mention a stream — well, it’s still there, and the water will be clear and cool to the touch. Above all, though, I hope that those who know the life well will enjoy the book; for it’s their story as much as mine.’ — Philip Holden

Contents

Cover

Epigraph

Foreword

Introduction

1 The Greenhorn

2 Kaingaroa Capers

3 Two on a Poach

4 Pushbike Hunter

5 The Magnificent Breed

6 Keith Lane’s Goats

7 Big River — Running High

8 Headman on the Tuki Tuki

9 The Way It Is

10 Hunting is the Unexpected

11 Walkabout with Herb

12 Time of the Roar

13 Snow on the Manson

14 A Time Remembered

15 In the Shadow of Maungapohatu

16 To Stalk a Rare One

17 Up the Oreiti

18 The Full Circle

19 Where the Wapiti Are

20 Mangaohane: The First Month

21 The Last Season

Picture Section

About the Author

Copyright

Foreword

A friend of mine once told me that the first book he ever read was one by Philip Holden. This did two things. Firstly, it introduced him to a lifelong enjoyment of reading, and secondly, inspired by the adventurous tales in this book, he was encouraged to experience for himself the great thrill of the hunt. He remains now, 20-odd years later, a keen hunter.

Holden left a legacy that is a wealth of knowledge and hunting lore, ready now to be taken up by a new generation of hunting and outdoor enthusiasts. However, this book isn’t just for the young and upcoming hunter. It will also be enjoyed with a fond smile of nostalgia by those who have already been there, those who with younger legs once lived the adventures of hunting in New Zealand’s mighty back-country.

Pack and Rifle, the book that started it all, has inspired and entertained many, like my friend, and will continue to do so, I hope, for years to come. Sure, some of the people named within these pages have since moved on and the dates are old, but some things never change. The hills are today just as they were then, as is the adventure and thrill of the hunt to be had, all so clearly laid down within these following pages.

As Holden wrote all those years ago: ‘And if I mention a stream — well, it’s still there, and the water will be clear and cool to the touch.’

See you in the hills!

Myles White

Introduction

Born in North Wales in 1937, Philip Holden immigrated with his family to Australia in 1953.

After leaving school at the age of 15, he worked in the Australian outback. It was here that he discovered within himself a lasting love of hunting, rifles, horses and the wild country.

As a young adult, it was almost with disbelief that he read of paid positions available as full-time deer cullers within the New Zealand forestry service. They needed tough men who were self-reliant and, of course, crack shots. And so at the age of 23, he made the move to New Zealand where, apart from some short breaks, he spent seven years as a full-time deer culler. It was at the end of this period that he discovered his passion for writing.

Holden, now with a young wife, felt the need to make a change and tried returning to town life, finally settling in Wellington. Here he worked as a postman, running his daily route in order to free his afternoons, which he now devoted to writing.

After 20 months away from the hills, and with the alluring upturn in the price of venison, Holden moved to Hawke’s Bay where he spent a year in the incredibly demanding vocation as a full-time meat shooter.

It was with great success in 1971 that he published his first work, the New Zealand classic, Pack and Rifle.

Encouraged by his initial success, he produced another two popular works, Hunter by Profession (1973) and Backblocks (1974).

Over the next three decades, Holden gained a dedicated following and reputation among the rural and outdoor/hunting community of New Zealand and Australia — not just as a narrator of hunting adventures but also as a talented photographer, historian and fiction writer. Works such as The Golden Years of Hunting in New Zealand (1983), The Hunting Experience (1988), Along the Dingo Fence (1991), the Station Country series (1993, 1995 and 1997) and his young adult fiction, Fawn (1976), Stag (1980) and Razorback (1984), are testament to the range of his ability.

By the end of his life in 2005 he had firmly established himself as one of New Zealand’s most prolific authors, with 54 published volumes of work to his credit.

1

The Greenhorn

There were red deer in New Zealand, the article stated, so many in fact that the government had classed them as noxious. And not recently either. No — way back in 1930. And even now — 1960 — they were still as grave a problem as ever: causing endless damage to the native and exotic pine forests, to crops and pastures, and, worst of all, serious erosion in the high country.

To control the deer and other introduced animals, such as thar, chamois and wild goats, the Forest Service were employing hunters in an all-out drive to decrease their numbers. These men, known as deer cullers, lived for months on end in the remote parts of the land. They were tough — crack shots and self-reliant.

Hell, I thought; that must be the life!

And then I read that the Forest Service actually ‘trained men to become hunters’. I quickly read that line again: ‘trained men to become hunters’. It seemed too good to be true. But there it was, in bold black and white. Carrying on, I found out that the hunter trainees attended a two-month course in the province of Nelson, which was in the South Island, and in that period they were put through a very rugged time indeed.

In those days I was working on a sheep and cattle property in northern New South Wales, and although enjoying the life for the main part, I was getting restless. For quite a while I’d been contemplating heading for the far north of Australia, because up there men could still make a good living hunting. But this sounded so much better. A deer hunter. A professional deer hunter. So I handed in my notice — collected my pay and headed for home. I’d made up my mind what I wanted to be.

Back in Melbourne a mate asked me, ‘What’s in New Zealand for you?’

‘Deer!’ I’d replied. ‘Deer, and plenty of new country to see.’

Not understanding, he shook his head rather sadly.

Two days after reaching New Zealand I had an interview with ranger Harry Vipond at the Rotorua Forest Service headquarters. It was late January, 1961. He gave me a good rundown on the life of a hunter, plus several long forms to fill in. And if he was bored with interviewing prospective new hunters, it was not in the least apparent. The forms, along with a word from Harry no doubt, would be sent to head office in Wellington, and according to Harry they would let me know what the story was in due course. He mentioned that, as a rule, only half of each intake completed their course.

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ said Harry with the slightest of smiles, ‘we can’t all be hunters, can we?’

So I had some time to fill in — perhaps six weeks Harry had said, or it could even stretch to a few months before they could fit me in — if I was selected, that is. But I did feel confident after my interview. When I’d left Australia, the work problem had not been so good, but here there were plenty of jobs available. I decided on Wellington. And on Lambton Quay I took a live-in position in a hotel.

I’d been there around three months when a telegram came for me. It said: YOU ARE ACCEPTED FOR HUNTER TRAINING COURSE COMMENCING 3RD MAY 2PM PLEASE TELEGRAPH URGENTLY IF AVAILABLE = FORESTRY ++

I read this with a feeling of excitement, but underlying it was a question: would I be good enough? For I had been hearing tales of the men called deer cullers. Yes — I was available all right. It’s funny — but in a way I was sorry to leave that hotel. I’d had a great time there really. The only young man among quite a few housemaids and waitresses … and I sort of liked Wellington too. But when I reached the airport and climbed aboard the Nelson-bound plane, all that was forgotten. Ahead lay a brand-new adventure and I was good and ready for it.

At the designated time I rolled up to the Forestry office, where an assortment of young men was standing round, either smoking or talking nervously. Pretty much like a mob of lost sheep really, so I joined the mob. Eventually a white collar and dark tie came out, and said we’d be catching a bus for St Arnaud later in the afternoon. Then once there, he went on, we’d be transported to Dip Flat hunter training school.

Bang on time the coach pulled out of the town terminal with twelve trainees aboard: one Aussie, a Canuck, nine Kiwis and myself, a Welshman of mixed ancestry — via eight years in Australia. I sat next to the long and lean Aussie, who was dressed as if he’d come into some outback town from an out-flung cattle station. He’d been hunting in the Northern Territory for a crust and while up there had applied to become a hunter trainee. As our bus sped past the autumn landscape, he shot many crocs for me — plus numerous buffaloes and countless ’roos.

It was dark and it was cold when the bus stopped at St Arnaud. Outside the post-office-cum-general-store stood a yellow and very dusty Bedford truck.

Two bushy characters suddenly appeared. ‘All right you jokers for Dip Flat,’ one of them barked out. ‘Hurry up and get yourselves and your gear in that quad over there.’

And no sooner had the last man clambered in, than with a grating crash of gears the truck roared away. Soon the tarsealed highway was behind us and we now bounced wildly along a corrugated track, dust and escaping petrol fumes filling the canopy-enclosed back. After a little while of this, one by one the boys leaned over the tailboard to splatter the road. Then just when I was beginning to feel it was my turn, the truck came to a sudden halt. The eighty-mile journey from Nelson was over.

‘Righto,’ snapped out one of the bushy ones officiously. ‘That’s the cookhouse over there. If you’re lucky — real lucky — there might be a feed ready.’

And so there was. Before we turned in, an instructor came looking for volunteers (the You! You! and You! type of volunteers) to cook breakfast at some ridiculous hour. Ever since I did my National Service in Australia I can recognise the lance-corporal type from way back, so I was out of the door smartly, just two steps ahead of Aussie. He and I moved into an unoccupied hut, the single man’s type that you find in any Forestry camp. Here an extra bunk had been slammed in. Sleep came slow that night for I was wondering just what the morning would bring, and I expect these thoughts were not mine alone.

At a very early hour a bell rang out. Six foot two or so Aussie swung easily down from the top bunk and dressed in a hurry and so did I, then we went outside and had our first good look at Dip Flat: a heavy white frost lay around the camp and the rays of the sun were just touching the highest parts of the mountain ranges on both sides of the valley. We took it all in with a feeling of awe.

‘Just look at that!’ I said.

‘The bloody Territory was never like this,’ remarked Aussie, as we briskly angled towards the cookhouse.

Eight a.m. and we all gathered in the cookhouse, which also served as a lecture room. A tall, lean and with-it type of bloke stood up and introduced himself as Harry Ferris. This big chief’s tight and minimum-worded lecture consisted of what we should and shouldn’t do. For the first few weeks, he said, we’d be working in the area close to Dip Flat and during this period we’d be instructed in rifle shooting, rifle safety, first aid, camp cooking, river crossings, plus various bits and pieces that would stand us in good stead for the rigorous life that we’d let ourselves in for. And Harry finished by saying flatly that anyone not toeing the line was out. But out. And damn quickly too. It was very obvious that he meant it.

The first few days were quite easy, lectures mostly — but we nailed our boots, for until this was done they wouldn’t allow us into the mountains. Only a few of the boys had rifles. The wide-awake Forestry was prepared for this and sold number 4 action .303 rifles for just under twenty quid apiece. Most bought one of these. I ended up buying a .303 sporting rifle from one of the instructors. He must have seen me coming.

One evening while we were having dinner, the previous intake to us marched boisterously into the cookhouse. All of them were wearing shorts and all sported beards — at any rate a little scrubby growth. The majority of this hard-looking bunch topped the six-foot mark with inches to spare. They were just finishing their course, and about one-third of the number that had started now remained.

Those shorts were a real eye-opener and the following morning I edged up to one of the giants as he nailed his boots. ‘Isn’t it cold wearing shorts?’ I asked.

From at least a six-inch height advantage he gave me the once-over and, by his expression, he was obviously wondering just what the hell he’d struck. ‘Hell no!’ he rumbled, then from behind a luxurious black beard: ‘You’ll get used to them. Why, all the hunters wear them and so will you, boy.’

A few of us trainees had shorts already, being somewhat clued-up, but the rest of us hacked off the legs of our jeans. Better look the part at least.

Not too far from the main camp were a dozen tent-camps. Tents have long been the hunter’s standby, for before the advent of huts these were all the old-time shooters had (and they don’t let you forget it either). But I do sympathise, though, for they are usually damp and cold in the bad weather and a happy hunting ground for friend possum too. They are still in use on the majority of Forestry hunting blocks. Anyway, after a few days in the huts, we were told to take up residence at the tent-camps. No doubt the intention was psychological: even if we weren’t hunters as yet, at the very least we could pretend.

By now we had all come to know each other a little better and that first strangeness had worn off. Two of the boys had a flying start over the rest of us. Hank Christensen was a good six feet, with a lean and rangy build. Before attending Dip Flat he’d been cutting tracks in the Kaweka mountains, which would be the perfect way to prepare for the rugged days at Dip Flat. Hank, who wasn’t too much on the talk in those days, usually had a smoke in his gate that was about the size of a small cigar. Later on I was to find out that he was able to keep on smoking when climbing the steepest hill, and this with a heavy pack on too: they breed them mighty hard in the King Country. John Chittuck was a studious type — also around six feet. He came from Wellington but had spent much of his spare time bush walking, and he had even ventured into Fiordland. He too was very fit.

Now you can be fit for various things, but at Dip Flat the idea was to be fit for walking and that didn’t mean pleasant strolls along country lanes with your bird either, no, they meant up into the mountains at a fast clip behind an instructor keen on showing you just how good he is.

Work started at eight sharp, at which time an instructor appeared. This particular morning a honed-down character put in an appearance at the tent camp.

‘Feel like a walk, boys?’ he said, rubbing his hands together and jogging briskly up and down on the spot.

‘Too right,’ cried one keen clot.

‘Love one,’ said a joker who lasted only a few more days.

‘Stupid bastard,’ muttered someone.

‘Let’s go then,’ said the instructor.

So off we set, with our leader in front at a trot and the trainees strung out in a long, long line. First obstacle — the freezing Wairau River. Now no real hunter minds icy water up to his knees, or even his thighs come to that. But while crossing the waist-deep water, two of the boys fell head over heels or, in hunter jargon, if you prefer it — arse over tit. It was hard not to laugh, and no one refrained.

Off again and this time through the damp and dark and dripping beech forest, the Canadian and I bringing up the rear.

‘Do hunters always trot like this?’ I asked him.

‘I goddam hope not,’ wheezed Canuck.

Eventually Peter Snell came to a halt, and he wasn’t blowing hard either. ‘I reckon we’ll take a spell,’ he said cheerfully. So all flopped down. We were at the head of a creek and the foot of a long steep slip. I figured this was as far as we’d be going, and a bit of gentle exercise before lunch was quite pleasant, I thought. Then in a spurt of action our instructor leapt up and without speaking or looking back took off vertically up the slip. The message was plain. One by one we reluctantly followed. I looked up — our instructor was moving at a pace that would have done credit to a slow chamois.

An hour or so later found us all on a high ridge, from where a truly magnificent panorama of mountain scenery was spread out before us. But most of us were far too flaked out even to look at it. Canuck lay gasping like a trout that had just been landed, Aussie was just about out and Bill Puriri had made hard work of it too. Only Hank and John had managed the climb without undue effort.

That afternoon we had the first of many sessions at the rifle range. Surprisingly no one got shot. That first walk had really flattened Aussie. ‘Struth,’ he groaned miserably in camp that night, ‘if it’s going to be like this for the next two months, they can shove their deer hunting. Me, I’m heading back to the Territory.’ And the following morning he did just that.

No great distance from Dip Flat there’s a steep ridge which angles up towards the main St Arnaud range. In Dip Flat idiom it’s called the Gut Buster. Harry, with far too much energy for a married man, trotted us trainees across the valley bottom towards this early one morning, but when the foot of the actual ridge was reached he changed down to a walk. Soon Harry, with Hank and John hanging tenaciously to his tail, left the rest of us far behind. And it was a damn hard slog all the way up that track as it wound a tortuous path through the beech forest and then a wide belt of scrub before finishing up on the open tops. When I finally staggered out into the open, the three of them were resting and yarning in the sun. Harry permitted himself a slight grin as I sagged down; from behind his smoke Hank gave me a smile and John contributed a ‘Well done, Phil.’

One by one and in various stages of collapse we all made it. Bill Puriri had hurt his leg a few days back and around his knee it was heavily bandaged, but with the aid of a staff he beat the Gut Buster and that, I reckon, was the best effort of all.

Then we pressed on towards the tops and as they came close the weather changed, a blanket of swirling fog rolled in and it began to drizzle. And it was suddenly much colder. From our position, just a little below the jagged ridge-top, a piece of very eroded country fell abruptly away. The topsoil had long since vanished and now only loose rocks remained. These, Harry told us, are called shingle slips or slides and then, without hesitation and in great style, he leapt on to this slide and in perfect balance proceeded to travel down very quickly. He reminded me of a skier cutting down a steep slope. Here goes, and doing my best to imitate Harry, I jumped forward. It was quite exciting and definitely the right way if you wanted to go down in a hurry. We had many more walks — or, to be more accurate, climbs — but none quite as bad as the first two.

After the first two weeks we had a day off in Nelson. Then field training was next on the list. Bill and John and myself were to be with Don Rush, who had the enviable job of teaching us the right way to hunt. One fine morning we left Dip Flat and drove to our designated hunting territory. Don flogged the vehicle as far as it could go, then climbed out and swung on his ultra-light pack, picked up his rifle and set off up the Branch riverbed. That walk was a real easy one by earlier standards and the low-running river presented no problems. But packing for the first time was tough, and even Bill, who still sported his beer-barrel paunch, did better than I could. At least thirty minutes after the others had reached the hut, I arrived. Don’s look plainly said, ‘About time, too.’ Bill gave me an understanding smile but, best of all, though, John handed me a mug of steaming hot tea that was thick with condensed milk.

The