Tiny Cabins and Trophies

A night in the New Zealand bush

New Zealand — North Island

In April of 2006 I took my first hunting trip to New Zealand. I was hunting with gun writer John Haviland and his wife, and our host was master New Zealand outfitter Paul Bamber who operates Wanganui Safaris. It was our last day and we were pretty worn out, looking forward to a relaxing evening and a good night’s rest. While lounging around the lodge that afternoon another hunter and his wife showed up and joined us for drinks and hors d’oeuvres, or snacks, like we call ‘em in West Virginia.

Understand that a hunt like we were on is not what I would call affordable. John and I were there to write about two custom rifles custom builder Charlie Sisk had traded to Paul Bamber for the hunt. Instead of attending himself, Sisk sent Haviland and I on the hunt so we could write about his rifles. I could no more afford a hunt in New Zealand than I could pay for a night on the town with Britney Spears. Instead of gun writing hillbillies, most of Bamber’s clients were what I would call wealthy. Not only were the new clients who had just arrived, wealthy, they were doing their best to make sure we knew just how damned wealthy they were.

Hunting red stag on New Zealand’s North Island.

I’m generally an agreeable fellow in camp. I’m interested in meeting other hunters, learning about their lives, and sharing in their hunting experiences. Hell, for me, that’s a big part of what hunting is all about. However, regardless the setting — social or professional — I cannot tolerate a braggart or someone who thinks their shit does not stink. As we listened to the woman carrying on about their previous adventures, their beach house and the Bentley they leave there, her husband endlessly fiddled with his Rolex while calling out his hunting accomplishments like they were on the checklist that made him a real man. When the couple learned I was from West Virginia, they seemed insulted to be breaking bread with me, and somewhat startled to learn I actually wore shoes. I might live in the hills, but I’ve dealt with folks like this before.

When I worked for the Railroad Police, we would often do executive protection. One of our events was The Masters. Norfolk Southern would pull their fancy train down to Georgia and invite a bunch of highfalutin clients to stay and eat on the train, with protective escorts to watch the golf match. On my one and only assignment there I was working day shift, and as the guests arrived by car we would escort them to their room on the train. When one particularly wealthy man – with as much arrogance as money – arrived, I told him to follow me to his room. He gestured toward the trunk of the car and asked, “What about my bag? and I told him he ought to bring it with him.

I was reassigned to midnight shift.

I’m fine with wealthy folks if they don’t act like assholes or treat me with contempt. In fact, I have some friends who are damned well off. I enjoy their company, we sometimes hunt together, and we get along marvelously. I learned from my grandfather and my father that you treat the ditch digger just like you treat the banker, simply because both are human, with their own lives and challenges to deal with. So, if folks follow my grandfather’s and my father’s lead, and treat me like a ditch digger, I’m happy. But this man and his wife were brazenly treating me and my companions like dog shit they were trying to scrape off their boots.

I excused myself and went to the kitchen to talk with Paul and the cook. I did not envy their next week with the new hunters and I told Paul I’d rather stay in that old cabin across the mountain than spend the night listening to the collective bullshit of two braggarts. Paul said, “You’re in luck. Murray showed up today. I’ll take you down there.” I grabbed two pieces of fallow deer backstrap off the skillet, shoved them in my mouth, and Paul and I headed out the door.

Murray Cameron’s cabin in the New Zealand bush.

Down at the cabin, which was just four walls, a partial floor, and a tired metal roof, I met Murry Cameron and his friend. Murray was a very experienced hunter who had traveled the world and even worked as a guide in New Caledonia for a dozen years. He had authored a book about his hunting adventures. Murray and his friend were old. You could see all the miles they’d traveled in the road map of wrinkles on their face. I even thought I saw some moss growing on them both. I told Murray I wanted him to tell me about his life. They welcomed me with open arms when I asked if I could stay the night.

Paul left just at dark and the three of us went in the cabin, which contained a bunk bed, a cot, one chair, a cooler, and a car battery powering a single light bulb. Murray cooked some venison tidbits on a small gas stove, we ate, sipped some whiskey, and I listened. Murray told me about hunting in New Zealand, about the venison wars during the 1970s, and about Africa, New Caledonia, and about hunting grizzly bears. I sometimes had to dig a little for the details, but that’s often the case when it comes to extracting genuine — real — information. What Murray wanted to share was not the inches of the antlers and horns he'd collected, but the places, people, and adventures he’d experienced.

Finally, Murray said he was tired, told me to take the top bunk, and unhooked the light bulb from the car battery. Sleepless and in the dark, I listened to what appeared to be opossums taking a gymnastics class on the roof, and two old men having a snoring competition. My mind wondered. First about how John and his wife were faring with the new couple in camp. I figured after dinner the man and his wife changed into their silk pajamas and had a hot toddy as they reveled in the realization they did not have to share the lodge with a genuine hillbilly. Then I thought about how hunting can be so different for different people.

Murray Cameron’s book on trophy hunting.

Regardless, we all take trophies when we hunt. For some, the trophy is horn or antler measured in inches and for some those inches are indicators of hunting skill. For others, proof of money spent. I’ve known hunters who would not hunt alone, others who only cared about hunting with their dog, and some who did not want to share their hunting time or memories with anyone. There are those who only hunt for prestigious decorations in their home, or for recognition in the board room, at the golf course, or at a cigar bar. Some only hunt to have impressive and competitive conversation at dinner parties or during other social gatherings, and some are not really sure why they hunt, they just know it’s something they must do.

Hunting is a part of our DNA, and as humans we must learn to interpret what our DNA is trying to tell us. That interpretation can be difficult for some and different for everyone, especially for those who did not have a father or grandfather to teach them how to treat people or how to hunt. I often say I’m not a trophy hunter, but in the pitch dark of a New Zealand night, in a little ramshackle cabin built by a man who called himself a trophy hunter, I realized that I’m one too. My trophies — whatever I choose them to be — are mine alone, and they don’t require explanation or justification. I collect them to fuel my DNA that has made me who I am.

I’ve learned not to care why anyone hunts or what trophies they collect. That’s their business, not mine. Just don’t be an asshole.