Log0005
Cole
Crossing from the east side of the Southern Alps to the west was something that I’d never done. As someone who grew up on the foot of these hills, and someone who loved to walk them, it was an obvious objective.
I figured I had just never grouped up with the right quartet of trampers. But as the summer began to fade, a few of us began to talk. Then as simple as that, four very different people headed out for four days in the bush.
Of that group, the young buck was by far the most ambitious. The brother of the guy who scouted the route, he’d only decided to join us that morning. So scrapping together his gear, and clearing the food from their mother’s pantry, he filled the 90-liter pack as if he were heading to Cape Reinga. Loaded down with binoculars, a pair of crocs, a rifle, and an ice axe, he was about as prepared as anyone could be. Chamois, tahr or apocalypse he had the tools for the job.
The ironic part was that to him, four days of walking sounded more or less, awful. But descending through the Arahura Valley, early on the final morning, was too enticing for him to turn down. So he’d rustled up his gear, checked his rifle, and was off.
Similarly ambitious and equally naïve was the girl from Texas. She’d no clue what she was in for. She didn’t know the two brothers and had instead opted for a small 20-liter day pack optimized for carrying just the essentials. The contrast between the two was immediately stark. Adding to that, and to round up the group was myself and my mate. Together this odd lot followed their way up the Waimak [ariri] riverbed and into the hills.
My mate’s brother, Cole, was the sort who at 21, had already burned through a variety of interesting jobs. He now worked down south as a Hunting Guide. The job sounded straight out of Hemingway’s Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber. That is, you drive some rich America up to a beautiful animal, you load the gun, you hand it to them. And hopefully, watch as they kill the magnificent beast. Otherwise, you’d be left to grab the fumbling gun from their hands and finish off the job yourself. These folk were often not the best shot, apparently their wealth was totally uncorrelated with commonsense or aim. Then after that, you’d go off and skin the carcass. The client would be happy with the head to mount on his wall, the fur for her floor and maybe a bite or two of steak. The rest was fair game and filled the family freezer.
Prior to this, Cole had worked as a trapper. He explained to me the paradoxical profession that sought to eradicate the invasive possums. One, at a time. Anyone who knew anything about the possum problem in New Zealand probably has a fair idea how that is going to go. The method was missing some mathematics. But as far as the trappers were concerned, they’d happily take the government check and continue to roam out in the ranges all day. The office views weren’t so bad and if anything, it beat getting another job.
Whether it was these or one of the other various jobs, be it; ski patrolling, rouging or kayak guiding. Old mate Cole had one recurring theme across his resume. It was all outside.
He carried with him a big hollow structure that hadn’t had the time to fill out. His shaggy hair was both beautiful and filthy, but it matched his wide-eyed ever-present grin. With such an honest and blindly optimistic character he would’ve been quite the catch if not for his total obliviousness to the other sex. Maybe that was just part of the play – if so, it seemed unlikely.
The naive 21-year-old out here with the kitchen sink was almost at full sprint at the start of each day. But come midafternoon the Texan carrying all but a few kilos had caught him up. His Crocs, while great for crossing rivers, only needed 30 minutes before they started creating blisters worse than if he just got his boots wet. This was all part of the show.
After a few days the group of us ascended our last pass, through thick fog and we came to Whakarewa [Lake Browning]. This massive alpine lake was magnificent. Supposedly. Though the fog was so thick that it was near on invisible to us. It did however, create an interesting illusion as Cole skipped across the rocks on its shore. The backdrop of nothingness and a murky reflection creating a scene that I wanted to try and capture. The contrasting edges seemed like a fitting challenge to illustrate in pen and ink.
That final morning, the ambitious Cole proved us all wrong. Lugging around that rifle for days, struggling with all the weight, he put the thing to good use. Cole had slipped out of the hut that morning before first light, he didn’t have to go far before he saw a target. The female deer was not as mighty as the product he sold to the Yanks, nor was it an easy drive up and shoot, but the hard-won prize of efforts like this, don’t hang taxidermied on your wall.
The rest of us heard the blast not far off. By the time we caught up with him he had a delirious grin on his face. “I got her right here, before she walked into the bush!” He pointed out a perfectly placed shot on the hind.
We didn’t have far to go that morning, and because he shot her, he carried her. The dead weight of a carcass rolling on his back, make those final Ks the most difficult. He was about as elated as he was exhausted by the time we reached the trailhead. Driving back through Hokitika, I made sure to shout the kid an ice block and pie.