Opening Weekend
By Tom Tony
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Hunting has never been a gentlemanly pursuit for me. Deer hunting isn’t pretty a lot of the time and pig hunting isn’t far off barbarism. Duck shooting however, is supposedly for the classically trained gentleman; it has tradition, exclusivity, and certain expectations that must be upheld. Duck shooting in New Zealand almost only happens on the opening weekend of the season, the first weekend of May. It’s for this reason and lack of an in that I have never participated until this year.
My brother and I drove north after work on the Friday. After two hours on the road we arrived in the small seaside settlement of Riversdale with a feeling of apprehension. From my understanding, opening weekend was also very much a weekend long binge of all things debaucherous; including port, rum and cigars. I was exhausted from work and couldn’t fathom even boiling the jug, let alone a glass of liquor. We found the beach front bach we would be staying in and greeted the rest of our hunting party who waited inside. Almost everyone seemed to be in the same boat as me and so we rather lamely agreed to postpone the antics until tomorrow.
Up at five, we headed inland to a large farm we had permission to hunt on. We set the decoys on a large dam with thickets on one side and large willow trees on the other. We huddled in the maimai’s and waited for first light. It was a still morning; the sky had stayed open all night and a dew was left on the long grass. I had dressed in what I thought to be a happy equilibrium between gentlemanly and rural New Zealand attire, though I should have focused more on insulation. As the sky turned pink a flock of Mallards obliviously came into range. A chorus of shotguns broke the silence and I watched as the birds plummeted to the milky water. I remember thinking in that instance that perhaps this wasn’t real hunting, that perhaps it was labelled gentlemanly so fat, aging men had justification to sit on their ass getting drunk while shooting birds out of the sky with little to no game involved. But as the day progressed this notion proved far from the truth. After the initial spell of luck the morning became stagnant like the water we glanced at. It was then that boys who had grown up duck hunting demonstrated their calls and knowledge of the birds as they tried every trick in the book to woo this birds into our pond, though it seemed to little avail. As the day reached late morning we abandoned the pond in favor of fried bacon and black pudding.
Refueled, we spent the remaining day stalking ponds on another farm. I found myself ecstatic as we neared each new pond and revealed in the challenge of the hunt. We fell upon a stroke of luck and managed to bump our tally of ducks up immensely. That afternoon we hunted an evening pond as the spring sun abandoned us. We drove home on two quad bikes looking like a team of assholes, everyone in head to toe camouflage, shotguns on hip, bottle of port in hand. That night we ate duck spring rolls and put a sizable dint in our collection of liquor. I awoke with a pleasantly clear mind to which I was remained, “hangovers don’t exist in Riversdale.”
We spent the next day eating and stalking ponds on both farms. That afternoon we breasted most of the ducks and plucked and gutted five for roasting. It was dark by the time we left Riversdale bond for the city. I dreaded going home to the prospect of work. Life just seemed better in Riversdale, the hunting was of course enough fun and reason to stay, but there was something more, something intrinsic about the place that makes you feel a freedom very rarely felt. We drove over the Rimutaka rangers and dropped down into the city. The traffic lights irritated me and the noise of it all seemed criminal. I started to ponder how I could secure my slot in next year’s hunt.
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a stroke of luck for you, not
a stroke of luck for you, not the ducks. I just don't get it, the need to shoot defenceless animals or birds.
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