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Shot and Trapped
At the age of twenty-one, it seemed like a good idea.
Stuck in an office at the time, the root of my future nemesis was an advertisement seeking hunters for the Forest Service. The prospect of getting paid for hunting deer being more attractive than shuffling paper, a promising start to a business career promptly gurgled down the drain.
Several weeks later in the small coastal town of Opotiki, where hitching posts were still in the main street, (often with horses tied to them) I signed on as a second-grade hunter at forty dollars a week. The paperwork complete, my new employer, Ranger Bob Norton (a.k.a. "Rapid Ralph"), tossed a canvas first aid zip-pouch over the desk, and that was that, I was officially a government hunter.
In those days, political correctness and accident prevention were notions yet to be washed up amid the flotsam of future high tides, and green recruits were shipped off to the boondocks before the ink dried. Aside from the pouch and a more or less voluntary weekly radio call, not much in training or general assistance was provided. It was presumed new entrants had hunted before, owned a rifle and pack, and would sink or swim in the course of events. The turnover rate amongst new hunters was high enough for their prospects of lasting the distance to be viewed somewhat cynically.
A beginner’s education began on a strange road-end near a forest edge, where they received vague instructions concerning huts and tracks, and were told to report back in three or four weeks time.
Undaunted and like hundreds before me, I headed off into the wilderness with great expectations.
Stuck in an office at the time, the root of my future nemesis was an advertisement seeking hunters for the Forest Service. The prospect of getting paid for hunting deer being more attractive than shuffling paper, a promising start to a business career promptly gurgled down the drain.
Several weeks later in the small coastal town of Opotiki, where hitching posts were still in the main street, (often with horses tied to them) I signed on as a second-grade hunter at forty dollars a week. The paperwork complete, my new employer, Ranger Bob Norton (a.k.a. "Rapid Ralph"), tossed a canvas first aid zip-pouch over the desk, and that was that, I was officially a government hunter.
In those days, political correctness and accident prevention were notions yet to be washed up amid the flotsam of future high tides, and green recruits were shipped off to the boondocks before the ink dried. Aside from the pouch and a more or less voluntary weekly radio call, not much in training or general assistance was provided. It was presumed new entrants had hunted before, owned a rifle and pack, and would sink or swim in the course of events. The turnover rate amongst new hunters was high enough for their prospects of lasting the distance to be viewed somewhat cynically.
A beginner’s education began on a strange road-end near a forest edge, where they received vague instructions concerning huts and tracks, and were told to report back in three or four weeks time.
Undaunted and like hundreds before me, I headed off into the wilderness with great expectations.
118 pages, Kindle Edition
Published January 22, 2018
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November 16, 2018
Excellent read about a time and place not to be repeated (maybe) in New Zealand.
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