ROD AND GUN Well-Meaning Friends

Press, Volume CVI, Issue 31081, 9 June 1966, Page 13

ROD AND GUN Well-Meaning Friends

(Specially written for "The Press" by JAMES SIERS)

Hunters and fishermen who go out regularly often have well-meaning friends who think there’s no higher honour or a better favour they can bestow when they arrange for an overseas visitor to be “taken out.”

If such a favour is bestowed on your hunting and fishing acquaintances, it's always good for a laugh. If it happens to you, well . . . generally you get a laugh too, but a good deal after the event.

What I most resent is the arrogance of some visitors. Hunters as a rule don’t seem to be as bad as fishermen. My father who lives in Taupo, has had some remarkable times. He has fished men

out of the Tongariro; has had one of his rods broken several times, waders ripped and hospitality abused all because someone has arranged for someone else to be “taken out.”

One of his recent and more amusing experiences was with a visiting oil tycoon. 1n this case, it was his own son who made the arrangements (under pressure). As usual the man arrived without gear (or a clue), They fished

together at a stream mouth in Taupo and my father alternatively cast his own line and then that of the visitor.

Story Retold Eventually, dad hooked a fish and gave the rod to the visitor, who, in spite of a good deal of ignorance, finally landed the fish, a beautiful 9J pounder. The story I heard later in Wellington was what a wonderful fisherman the tycoon was and what a terrific fish he had caught (which, of course, my father had given him). Hunting seems to follow a different pattern. One priceless story told by lan Wright, the national secretary of the Deerstalkers Association, concerns an Irishman who spent three wet days in the New Zealand bush. If Irishmen at home believe in leprechauns, imagine how they’d feel in New Zealand bush. Paddy, as we shall call him, was trudging back in 'the heavy rain. He was tired and plodding with the resignation of a man who too late has realised his own madness. There was no wind. The rain came down straight with big drops hitting hard against the parkas. Here and there patches of mist hung about the scrub.

Paddy came last in the line. He was looking down, lost sight of the man in front in the scrub and then stepped off the track, to fall some Bft to the terrace below. It was a small clearing; boggy from the rain. Paddy sank to his ankles in mud and fell to his hands and knees. ‘ Buffalo” seen

He looked up and saw black shapes in the mist at the other end. As his friends from above spotted him from a small bluff, they saw him assume a praying position and shriek, as he invoked the saints, “Cape Buffalo!” Fortunately, he was too dispirited to reach for his gun or the bill for those polled cattle would probably have had a more devastating effect than a herd of Cape Buffalo. My most recent amusing experience was a hunting trip. An American, Glen Cowles from Memphis, Tennessee, was in town for a day and a half and he wanted to go hunting. We left at two in the morning, and arrived at a farm, where the farmer made a utility vehicle and his pig dog available. Just before dawn we were at the back of the property, climbing the last lap of the ridge, when Glen became violently ill. That was the end of the dawn shoot for deer.

The trip progressed between innumerable stops at a leisurely pace, with little hope of a shot. The only hope was that the dog would score with a pig, but pigs are awfully scarce in this area. Bogged Down

When the dog did find a large boar, Glen who had told me about the hunting of “Russian” boar in his home State, was not fit enough for the chase; nor, when the pig was shot, up to carrying. We dumped the pig after a good walk and, before we could get back, the machine bogged down. This meant a walk of several miles to the homestead and another one back with a wire-strainer and the farmer, who wasn't particularly pleased. We got the vehicle out and Glen to the boat with half an hour to spare. It took him four days to recover and then, according to his note, it was the best hunt he had been on. Come to think of it, those stories he told me about ‘ Russian” boar in Tennessee weren’t so bad, after all.