This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
This incident took place on a tramp I did recently. L ate one afternoon I arrived atahut. One bunk area was already occupied by six men from Auckland who “get away” once a year. They plan a 10 day trip to a hut somewhere in NZ, and this is-used-as-a base for-fishing and hunting.
They slowly turned up - some had been fishing - no luck, and the others deer stalking - no luck either. All they talked about was the possum hunting to be done that night. They were determined to shoot some possums due to the fact that the critters
had disturbed their sleep the previous night, and they just had to EQUALISE things a bit. All you readers know about this. Mind you, the amount of food and drink that they had stocked up would—make.any-thing -deter-— mined to get into the hut. A German guy and I were the guests that night, and by the sound of it, would enjoy the entertainment. Fast forward to 2100 hours.
A nice raspberry bun (bait) was put on the track outside and an hard on me but the worst was yet to come. Only the laughter was audible as they discussed comedy, from the Second World War to the present day; Howard's knowledge of the subject turned out to be extensive.
Sunday morning the boys gave me breakfast and walked me back to Otaki Forks. Some of the slips were a bit beyond me, but Prakash took me in his strong arms and lifted me to safety. The track was a little slippery and most of us spent time on all fours at some stage.
Back at the Forks, the smell of home was even more alluring than the possum I’d disembowelled the night before, so I headed off without so much as a goodbye.
Party: Daniel, Prak, John, Rob, Howard, and me (the Ranger's dog).
By John Collier
observer stood by. The backup team and guests stayed inside playing cards and sipping port, courtesy of the entertainers. Standard operation number one, as per the military manual. Suddenly KABOOM!!! Poor possum, I thought, as my knees hit the table and port spilt over my shirt - what a waste, and stain just about in two places! A 12 bore had gone off right outside the open window behind my back. What is a 12 bore doing in a National Park? The reinforcements raced outside. All that was seen was an indentation in the path and the lingering smell of cordite.
was happy because the possum had escaped. Nine lives, I suppose. The shooter had missed from a range of 4 metres!
From that miss I wondered what they were really doing in the Park. But then deer are much bigger targets. Whilst the platoon were talking about the gun being inaccurate, the bait disappeared. The hunters were flummoxed and even more adrenalin was flowing now. A nice raspberry bun was being devoured gleefully by the enemy.
This scenario was repeated twice. Enemy 2, Good Guys 0. What else to do but take offensive action.
A spotlight appeared on cue. The surrounding trees were scanned, then two .303s went off simultaneously. ‘Ti not one for gossip but...”