Stag doo, p.1
Stag Doo, page 1
‘Many times I have sat by a campfire with its coarse smoke etching into my eyes and tears streaming down my face. The tears not caused by the smoke, though, but by laughing so hard at the oddball, strange, hilarious or simply outright bizarre yarns told by my hunting mates. As the evenings pass and the tide-line in the whisky bottle drops, the stories get increasingly more hilarious. This book contains a number of yarns gleaned from these fireside sessions, and a few from other interesting characters I have had the good fortune to encounter.’
Once described as ‘Barry Crump meets Fred Dagg’, ‘Big Al’ Lester is the modern-day master of the hunting genre. His books are for those with a good keen sense of humour and a love for New Zealand’s wild outdoors. Plenty of off-the-wall adventure for the hunting mad and hard case!
Contents
Introduction
1 The Horticulturalist
2 Absolutely Knackered
3 Two Great Mates
4 Wilson’s Reward
5 The Bastard
6 Absolutely Quackers
7 Sea Legs
8 The String Thing
9 Three Guided Missiles
10 Chewing the Sock
11 A One-all Draw
12 She’s Not All Beer and Skittles, Mate
13 Phil’s Mishap
14 Chooks ‘n’ Boat
Epilogue
Illustrations
Glossary
Acknowledgements
Other Yarns by ‘Big Al’ Lester
Follow Penguin Random House
This book is dedicated to all of those who have told me their stories and allowed me to print them in this and my other books. These individuals know who they are, and I am grateful to each and every one of them. Thanks heaps.
Introduction
Many times I have sat by a campfire with its coarse smoke etching into my eyes and tears streaming down my face. The tears not caused by the smoke, though, but by laughing so hard at the oddball, strange, hilarious or simply outright bizarre yarns told by my hunting mates.
It never ceases to amaze me how readily my hunting colleagues and others dob in their mates to disclose their mishaps, balls-ups, cunning plans and frequent disasters. Each story is told with great relish, and often, I suspect, with liberal helpings of embellishment. For every story recounted, the often embarrassed subject gets a right of reply, and in turn dobs in his cobber with an equally or more embarrassing yarn, and so it goes. As the evenings pass and the tide-line in the whisky bottle drops, the yarns get increasingly more hilarious. This book contains a number of yarns gleaned from these fireside sessions, and a few from other interesting characters I have had the good fortune to encounter.
If you have a sense of humour and don’t take life too seriously, I reckon you’ll enjoy the contents of this book. If you don’t, it’s probably a good idea that you pop it back on the shelf and pick another.
For those who don’t know me, I can tell you that I am an average to poor hunter who has had more hunting stuff-ups than the rest of the country combined. For every deer I’ve shot, dozens have escaped only to hide in the bush peering back at me and laughing at my stupidity. Every time I’ve stuffed up, I’ve managed to see the funny side of the situation and have had a good old laugh at myself. Many of these mishaps have been recorded in my earlier books.
In my younger days, deer and other wild game numbers were extremely low, and it was very common to go for a hunt and see no animals at all. Helicopters had vacuumed up most of the wild deer as seeding stock for the then-fledgling deer-farming industry. Today, there are only a few helicopters hunting deer, and thus animal numbers have grown hugely. It is now rare to go for a day hunt and not see any deer or other wild game. Despite the current high deer population, I only take what I need to keep the freezer full and my wife happy. It’s getting easier to fill the freezer, but …
It is fair to say that I am at best an average shot with a rifle. Many of my missed ‘easy shots’ have been witnessed by unforgiving mates. One of them has often commented, ‘You couldn’t hit your own arse with a handful of toilet paper.’ Personally, I think he may be taking things a bit too far on that score.
Over time I began to wonder whether the stuff-ups of me, my mates and others, with a bit of humour and mayhem thrown in, might make for good reading, and I gave it a go. Nine books later, I am still giving it a go.
The funny thing is, the more I told people of my stuff-ups, the more they told me of theirs. It seems that very few people are great hunters and that I may not be quite as useless at hunting as I’d thought (but then again I may be). Regardless, I seem to have hit a chord with those with a sense of humour and a liking for the bush.
The yarns in this book will give you a pretty good idea of where I come from and what my mates and other bush-dwellers are all about. You’ll see that very few deer, tahr, pigs, chamois, goats or other animals get shot. This is basically due to our being pretty much bloody useless hunters who are simply out there having a great time and enjoying the mountains.
My old man was around in the halcyon days of hunting, when he could drive his old Model T to the pub, shoot six deer on the way there, sell them and have a great night out, before coming home with a profit in his pocket. Wild deer, pigs and goats were everywhere. Additionally, the rivers ran so thick with whitebait and trout that he would often cross the rivers by standing on their backs and without getting his feet wet. It was from listening to his hunting yarns that I first got inspired to head into the outdoors to take a look for myself.
Over the years I have found that the vast majority of people who venture into the outdoors have a grand sense of humour and a real love of life. There, I have chanced upon eccentric, weird, hermit-like or just plain interesting characters. Each had a story to tell, and many were so strange that they had to be true.
While I am in the mountains, things seem to be in balance. I am often overwhelmed by a sense of tranquillity, and merely being there seems to cleanse my soul. There, the only things that matter are food, warmth, shelter and great companions. Life becomes simple, and my mind is free from the frenetic activity that city living forces upon us. To truly understand what I am saying, you will have to venture into the wilds yourself.
For the record, everything in this book is true … that is, except the bits that aren’t. Anyway, I have recorded the stories as best I can recall them, and that’s about as accurate as I can get. The odd name or location has been changed at the request of the person who told me the yarn in the first place — they reckoned that it would be ‘bloody embarrassing’ if they were actually identified.
Finally, if you think you recognise yourself in this book, you are wrong: it’s someone else. I thought I’d better throw that in, just in case someone wants to sue me or something silly like that.
Enjoy!
1
The Horticulturalist
The following yarn is told by Squatch. His real name is Brian; however, by the time he turned 16 he’d acquired his nickname. Squatch is a shortened version of the word ‘Sasquatch’. For those of you who are not familiar with what a Sasquatch is, I can tell you that it is the name that Native Americans gave to a big, hairy, mythical, man-like beast that they believe roams the wilds and mountains of North America.
Squatch isn’t tall, standing at only 5 foot 7 inches; however, he is solid and muscular. His most dominant feature is that he is covered from head to toe in dense, curly red hair; other than on his face, where his eyes and nose are just visible above his unruly red beard. It was Brian’s hairiness that earned him the nickname Squatch.
Just to set the scene for the following yarn, you need to know that Squatch is an easy-going man who has a grand sense of humour.
Over to Squatch to tell his yarn.
School wasn’t my thing, and I was bloody pleased to escape from it the day I turned fifteen. Apparently, I have a good brain, and my teacher tried to convince me to stay on ‘to have a better chance of making something out of your life’, whatever that was supposed to mean.
I was physically fit, possessed boundless energy, and was keen to start work and to get some money in my pocket.
Living in Kawerau limited my options regarding local employment to working on a logging gang or in a sawmill. I got a job tailing-out timber at a sawmill, and soon came to realise that the work was far too monotonous for me. After six months or so I gave the job away and took a position with a logging gang. I was the youngest by a long shot, with the others all being married, with kids and mortgages. Logging work suited me far better, as we were in the bush every day and the work was more varied.
It was several years after I started that Smithy joined our logging crew. Smithy is a skinny, happy-go-lucky, very dark-skinned Maori from up north, and was then aged eighteen. To this day I have never met anyone who works as hard as Smithy. He simply never seems to run out of energy and can’t sit still for a moment. Smithy likes a beer, and every day after work would head to the local pub with the rest of our crew to wash the dust from their tonsils. It only seemed right that I tag along with them. The publican must have thought that Smithy’s and my money was as good as everyone else’s, as he didn’t seem to notice that we were under the then legal drinking age of twenty.
Smithy and I soon became great mates. We played rugby in the same team on Saturdays, and on Sundays Smithy buggered off into the bush deer hunting with his dog, Scruff. Smithy got a pig or a deer almost every time he went hunting. There weren’t any buyers for wild deer at this time (1985), so he gave a lot of the meat away or traded it for t hings he needed, such as car repairs at the local garage. Eventually, Smithy found a regular market for his meat when the local publican got into making venison pies and serving venison meals in his restaurant. Smithy and the publican came to an arrangement whereby Smithy was given a bar tab in exchange for supplying venison when required. I was very envious of this arrangement, as a large chunk of my wage was being spent at the bar every week. In keeping with his generous nature, Smithy often supplied me with beers from what was owed to him.
At almost 18 years of age I was still living at home with my parents; however, after I borrowed and crashed their car, I was told that it was time to leave and stand on my own two feet. Things may have turned out differently had I been sober at the time that I, in error, turned into the neighbour’s driveway and took out their letter-box. It was following this incident that Smithy and I went flatting together and rented an old three-bedroom house on the outskirts of town. The property was semi-rural and was surrounded by a dairy farm.
Regularly after our Saturday rugby games, the team would come to our place for after-match drinks. As often as not these parties would rage into the small hours of the morning. We quickly gained a reputation for holding the best parties and, to the delight of us single males, most of the local single girls would turn up to join in.
One night at rugby practice, a team member, Toby, told us that his cousin from up north was coming to live in our area, and asked if we would rent our spare room to him. Smithy and I enquired about the cousin and were told that he was a good bloke who was our age and that he was a horticulturalist. That sounded pretty impressive to us, so, without even meeting the chap, we agreed. The following week Toby arrived with his cousin, Malcolm (Mal), in tow.
He was a skinny, undernourished chap who looked more like a hippie than a horticulturalist. His pale facial features were hawk-like, and his ears were hidden beneath a scraggy clump of long, brown hair that protruded from beneath a denim cap. We were to learn that this cap rarely, if ever, left his head. Perhaps Mal’s most distinguishing feature was his large and very dense handlebar moustache. Brown leather boots, faded denim jeans, a checked flannel shirt and a black leather vest clothed Mal’s skinny frame.
Mal drove an old, beaten-up Ford Cortina. From it he removed most of his worldly possessions, most of which were contained in a large mountain-mule backpack. It was fortunate for him that we had a spare single bed in his room, otherwise he’d have had to sleep on the floor. Next, Mal removed a large stereo from the boot of his vehicle and set it up in the lounge, before returning and retrieving two full crates of Waitemata beer. These he placed on the lounge floor before knocking the tops off of four bottles and handing one to each of us. Before long the stereo was blaring and the beers were being knocked back like oysters on opening day. When Mal’s beer ran out, he produced a bottle of bourbon and we lowered that as well. By night’s end we’d established that Mal was a really laidback, humorous bloke who told jokes all night long and without repeating himself. It was pretty obvious that he would be the ideal flatmate.
The following morning, Smithy and I carted a couple of hangovers to work with us. Given these, our day wasn’t exactly destined to be a bundle of fun. When we got home we found Mal in the lounge drinking beer and playing music. He said that he hadn’t been able to muster enough enthusiasm to get himself off to work that day, so he’d taken it off. We noticed that Mal wasn’t motivated enough to go to work for any of the next three weeks either. This didn’t worry us, though, as he always paid his rent on time and in cash when it fell due. It turned out that Mal also knew a lot of locals, including many of the players from our rugby team, and even better most of the girls from the local netball club. Every day he had visitors, and he seemed to have a never-ending supply of beer and spirits to share with them. I’d be deceiving you if I didn’t acknowledge that on more than one occasion when I got home from work Mal appeared to be absolutely stoned on cannabis.
Mal was a keen bourbon drinker and, after a few beers to get himself started, he would generally move onto drinking his favourite spirit. He had a strong preference for Jack Daniel’s bourbon, but would drink almost any spirit that was put in front of him.
Eventually, Mal started going to work daily. He’d usually leave for work after us, and would often be home before we returned. By the time Mal started working, the rugby season was finished and spring had arrived.
One Monday, Smithy and I knocked off work early due to there being a major equipment breakdown. We couldn’t carry on until the gear was fixed, so the boss sent us home early. Instead of going to the pub, we elected to head home where we had a crate of beers that needed our attention. We were about to turn into our drive when two Harley Davidson motorbikes pulled out of it and headed off in the direction from which we’d just come. The riders both wore steel-capped boots, filthy jeans and weathered, black leather vests that had large gang patches attached to their backs.
‘What the hell are those bastards doing at our place?’ voiced Smithy, as he slewed the car into a sliding U-turn before slamming his foot down on the accelerator to give chase.
‘Buggered if I know,’ I replied. ‘We don’t own anything worth flogging, do we?’
‘The bastards will be up to no good, that’s for bloody sure,’ continued Smithy. ‘We’ll stop them and see what they’ve got to say for themselves.’
‘Stuff that. What will we do if we catch them?’ I challenged. ‘Politely ask what the hell they were doing at our place and maybe get stabbed or shot for our efforts?’
‘I have my rifle in the boot. That’ll let the bastards know that we won’t be taking any shit from their kind.’
We were travelling at 140 kph and were fast catching up with the Harleys, which we could see some distance ahead of us, before I was finally able to convince Smithy that we should let them go. Clearly confronting them was a bad idea that could well prove to be detrimental to our health. Rather begrudgingly, Smithy turned for home. On our arrival we found that Mal was there and not at work.
‘Are those your bloody mates that just took off from here?’ a still wound-up Smithy challenged Mal.
‘What mates?’ Mal responded indignantly.
‘The two patched gang members who just pulled out of here riding Harley Davidsons,’ I stated.
At this, Mal burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ Smithy asked.
‘Those two came in and asked for directions, that’s all. I nearly shat myself when they arrived, but they were friendly enough and just wanted to know how to get to Fern Hill Farm. I told them and they left. I was bloody pleased to see them go, I may add.’
It seems that Smithy and I had missed the mark in thinking that gang members were at our place burgling the joint or even visiting Mal. With the matter sorted, we settled in and had a few beers to calm our nerves.
Smithy often talked of his deer hunts, but despite being asked along I had never been motivated enough to go with him. Still, that Smithy supplied a steady stream of venison and wild pork to our household definitely eased the financial pressure from my wallet and allowed me to carry on with the partying lifestyle that we were enjoying.
In late January, I finally took Smithy up on his offer. Well before dawn one Sunday, we set off in Smithy’s Holden. Scruff, Smithy’s Weimaraner dog, came with us, but travelled in the boot due to his pungent odour. It was his habit to roll in cow dung every time he was let off his lead for a run, thus having him inside the ute wasn’t an option. Scruff knew that he was going hunting, and could be heard whimpering with excitement as we travelled. On our arrival Smithy opened the boot. Scruff leapt from the vehicle and ran about wildly, stopping from time to time to sniff a scent that had attracted his interest.
We had driven through a large tract of pine forest and had come to the road’s end where the pine plantation had stopped and native bush commenced. Throughout the pine forest there were fire breaks and many poorly formed side roads. Many of these were edged with grass and regenerating bush and scrub.
‘I always do pretty good around here,’ Smithy stated. ‘The deer commute between the native bush and the pine forests, where they feed on the grass verges. Often I get an easy one and can drive right to it. It saves me a lot of effort when I don’t have to carry the deer.’
