The Hakataramea Valley

(To my Mom and sister and other non-hunters out there, apologies for the killing of animals described in the next few paragraphs)

After some aimless wandering and rainy days in the Southern tip of New Zealand, we headed for the Hakataramea valley. With snowy mountains, flat farm land, and braided rivers, we suddenly felt like we were in a familiar place: Montana. Dan’s fly fishing boss back home connected him with Gerald Hayman, a man who owns a Sheep station in the valley and plays host to fly-fisherman and hunters who come to stay on his farm and experience the gorgeous mountains and rivers abound in the area. We arrived at the Hayman family home and piled out of the van trying to look as respectable as possible. This was Easter Weekend after all and we were not exactly family.

After a few firm handshakes from the farm-grown rugby-playing sons, introductions to the girlfriends, and the mom, Bridget, the self-proclaimed cook (certainly perked us up), and we were off with Gerald touring the farm. Another few hours and the boys took us on a speedy jet boat ride up and down the Waitaki river. Then it was a sit-down dinner with wine I wouldn’t know a thing about, a gourmet main course, and dessert. This little side trip was starting to seem like one of our better ideas.

The next day we went hunting for Wallaby which is pretty much a smaller version of a kangaroo. New Zealanders view nearly all mammals as pests so a lot of times, the only hunting rule is to not have rules. Shoot away. The only native mammals were bats so the introduced animals usually wreak havoc on the native ecosystem and wallabies are a huge detriment to sheep grazing land. What I’m trying to say is, there was a reason we were out there crawling up mountainous farmland in a flatbed, us Americans in the back armed with a .22 magnum, a shotgun, 7mm-.08. The buggers are speedy though and Jonathan was got one early on, but that was our only luck.
That night the grandparents arrived and we were still apparently in good graces with our hosts, so we ate another delicious dinner with the family.

We planned a day of fishing on the small river next to our cottage for the next day, but Gerald, always a planner, came barging into our rooms early next morning with grand plans of driving to a river 11/2 hours away and getting dropped off by jetboat for some fishing. There were no objections. We spent an unsuccessful day fly fishing in the strong wind in which I only succeeded in hooking myself. And just for reference, both these days out, we were given homemade picnic lunches consisting of mutton sandwiches, a sort of flaky pie with bacon and egg, and cookies or cake. We were just getting spoiled at this point.

On Easter Sunday, Dan and I did some more fishing and at one point I was musing about Jonathan being bored back in the cottage. Dan replied, “Oh he probably weaseled his way into some turkey hunt or something.” Sure enough, we got back to an empty house and before long, Gerald and Jonathan pulled up with two turkeys in the back of the truck. We had another dinner with the family and as we sat there digesting the meal, Gerald decided that he would take us on a night shoot. This once again had us driving around on the back of a truck, armed with spotlight and gun, this time shooting hares and rabbits that jampacked the fields, trying to put a detriment in the quickly-reproducing “pests.” (I remind you that this was Easter and we were shooting rabbits)

We left the farm the next day with full bellies, two turkeys in tow, and grateful for another experience of kiwi hospitality. For Jonathan and Dan, hunting had been checked off the New Zealand checklist. And for me, a non-hunter, in these two days I got quite an introduction to hunting and in many ways that would be highly illegal in the states. When in New Zealand, do like the Kiwis do, I guess.