Molesworth Station

Molesworth Station is one of those places that hunters dream about but very few visit. My interest was aroused while sitting in a NZDA meeting. Fellow board member, Richard Wells told me tales of roaming hordes of deer and monstrous blue pigs. One day, he casually asked if I’d be keen to tag along on a block he secured through the permit system, and from there, the hook was set.  

At 118,787ha, Molesworth is New Zealand’s largest farm. It is public land managed by DOC and farmed under a management plan by Pāmu (NZ’s largest farming company, owned by the government). The management plan, which has been in place since 2013, is up for consultation this year, and all recreational users, including us as hunters, will need to be consulted. Farming and hunting appear complementary, so hopefully, common sense will prevail and access to and management of game animals on the land will continue.  

Hunting in Molesworth is run by a ‘ballot’ system (really a ‘first-past-the-post’ permit application like for Stewart Island), administered by DOC. There are 38 hunting blocks; some are available all year round, while others are only available at specific times. The permit gives you access to a particular block for one week, and you’re allowed up to six ballot blocks in a year, plus a roar block. Each block is known for different characteristics – some are favoured for their big stags, others for chamois or pigs, and a couple simply because you can hunt them all year round. An interesting rule for all blocks is that none can be accessed by vehicles off the designated major public roads; the only exceptions being push bikes and horses, which require an activity permit and aren’t suitable for all blocks. This essentially restricts hunters to walking in from the road, and I’ll admit that it’s bloody frustrating because the distances are vast. It’s little wonder most hunters tend to concentrate on trophy hunting as opposed to meat hunting. But in a way, it means hunting is very traditional - with long walks, heavy packs, and in the more isolated blocks, animals that often rarely see humans.  

After months of back-and-forth emails, the day finally arrived to head south. We met at Forest Camp in Hanmer Springs. Cabins are $40 per night, and it’s only 30 minutes from our block, so we would use this as a base for the entire week. I was initially sceptical about the need for this accommodation, thinking I’d want to spend every second in the block. But after the first three days on the hill, I greatly appreciated returning for a shower, some fresh food and being able to stash some meat in the freezer.     

Our block rose from 700m at the creek to 1600m on each side, with numerous side creeks to explore. It’s not quite as steep as tahr country, but for this North Island bush hunter, it all looked vertical, and I soon learned we’d be right up the top. Day one, 20 minutes into our hike, Richard suddenly stops, “Bugger, I’ve left my binoculars in the ute.” On return, he proclaimed, “That’s the mandatory f*** up complete, we’re right now for the rest of the trip!”  With the monkey off our back, we shouldered our packs and continued towards our camp - two hours in the distance. The hike in was relatively straightforward, following cattle trails that zigzagged through armour-piercing matagouri and waist-high rose bushes (shorts were a bad idea). We were in no rush, so we stopped numerous times to glass for animals, and it wasn’t long before we started picking out the bright orange coats of red deer shimmering in the distance.  

We had two goals for this trip: the first was to secure my first chamois, and the second was to give Richard a good understanding of the block for future ballots. Richard had hunted this block previously, so he already had a grasp of where the chamois hung out, but he admitted that he’d only scratched the surface and was keen to learn more about it.     

Halfway up the valley, there’s a major unnamed side creek on the true right. The chamois hung out at the top, so we set up our base of operations next to the creek at the bottom. Conscious that we didn’t want to blow out on day one, we decided to climb up to the saddle for an afternoon glassing session… Nothing too serious, just to get an understanding of where the animals were at. Well, that was the plan. 

After a stout climb, we gained the saddle. The temperature had ratcheted up several notches, so we tucked in under some shady beech trees for our glassing session. That sweet smell of summer honeydew wafted through on the breeze while a chorus of bellbird song welcomed us to the South Island. 

“That’s one nasty-looking gully,” I proclaimed. This statement was soon followed by, “Hey mate, you know that nasty gully, two chamois are standing at the bottom of it.” “Told you that’s where they’d be,” Richard replied.  

As our eyes adjusted, the chamois started popping out all over the place. We were glassing a large basin, with numerous vertical faces that rose up from a nasty-looking creek bed. Shooting something would be the easy part; I wondered how we’d ever recover it. Half an hour later, I spotted a lone animal feeding on the scree face near us. This face was attached to the ridge we were sitting on, so it would be a relatively straightforward stalk and an easy recovery. We watched it for a while, and the animal appeared significantly larger than anything else we’d seen. Being in the open, we could see that it had no kid, so we decided it must be a lone buck.   

“I know it’s day one, but this seems like an opportunity we shouldn’t turn down,” I whispered to Richard. “I agree. Go get into a shooting position, and I’ll let you know via radio if things change,” he replied.  

I scuttled along the ridge and was cresting a knoll when I froze. 

Picking up the radio, I whispered to Richard, “Mate, there’s at least three chamois asleep on that face, and I’m in direct line of sight with them. I’ll take my time and creep into position.” 

My chamois was head down feeding in amongst the flax slightly below me, and I ranged it at 160m. As I settled the bipod, I felt the wind shift on the back of my neck. Up came the head, and it quickly trotted off across the scree. It was an open face, and I was confident it would present me with an opportunity, so I remained calm and tracked it with the scope. At 206m, the Chamois made the mistake I was waiting for. As the sound of the shot echoed around the hills, I expected to see it do a cartwheel, but instead it took off uphill at high speed. I also saw a puff of dust where the bullet impacted. My initial thought was, “Crap, I’ve pulled the shot.” Instinctively, I reloaded and tracked it as it ran upward. A moment later, it turned and finally cartwheeled out of sight. “It’s down, congratulations mate,” Richard said over the radio.  

Rolling the chamois over for a photo, Richard loudly proclaimed, “It's a bloody nanny! Must have been barren.” Smiles all round, we had completed our first goal within the first two hours of hunting. 

“Do you have a tape?” Richard asked. “Actually, I do, I scored it in a Christmas cracker!”  

She measured roughly 8.5”, so I was ecstatic. With an entry hole in one shoulder and a relatively small exit hole in the other, we speculated that the 7mm Rem mag 162 grain ELD X projectile simply wasn’t designed for such a small animal and hadn’t expanded, so it's little wonder it ran. On the bright side, it left the skin in good condition, so we set to work.     

Days two and three were a mixed bag. The weather had cleared to perfect blue skies, so the heat forced us to manage our hunting differently. The animals in the valley also appeared to have changed their habits, moving a lot higher, possibly due to the heat or perhaps from our scent wafting around. We both scored a blue pig on day two, but day three was a complete bust. It was time to head out to Hanmer to resupply and develop a new game plan. 

While demolishing a porterhouse steak, we agreed we’d seen enough of the main valley, so we settled on heading back in for a day hunt to explore an unnamed creek parallel to the main area. Standing next to the ute the following morning, I’ll admit I wasn’t stoked with this idea - Richard’s plan of climbing the ridge to glass appeared to be an absolute gut buster, and the thought of carrying out an animal in the heat wasn’t appealing. He managed to twist my arm, and later I had to eat my words as it was much more achievable than I’d initially thought. I’ll give you that one, mate, your experience shone through.  

Gaining the main ridge, the morning’s hunt became a series of short climbs to the next glassing spot. Yes, the climbs were a bit of a grunt, but in reality, they only took 20-30 minutes, and we were pleasantly surprised at how quickly we gained altitude. There was deer and pig sign everywhere, and the gully below just screamed animal habitat, but despite this, we only saw a couple of deer shimmering off in the distance. At 1592m, we decided to call it. I found it hard to describe what it was like at this point because I’m petrified of heights, so this isn’t the sort of country I’d usually find myself in. I’d been so caught up in the adventure that I found myself running on a massive adrenaline high. It was a great feeling. 

“Let’s grab a couple of photos before we head back down, this view is amazing,” I said. “Sounds good to me”, Richard replied. “Wait, is that a bloody deer?” 

Sure enough, approximately 200m below us, a lone hind was feeding amongst the tussocks, unaware of our presence. We’d been searching all morning for a meat animal and hadn’t seen anything that would have been within range, yet at the very last minute, she’d come along. It was meant to be. “You get into a shooting position, and I’ll be ready for a backup shot,” Richard whispered. The sound of the shot capped off what had been an amazing four days. Without saying it, both of us knew that our hunt had come to an end, and securing this hind amongst the golden tussock was a great way to finish. Weighed down with prime venison, a very contented couple of hunters made their way back down the ridge. Bring on the roar ballots!