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Domesticated goats in New Zealand were first liberated to provide a ready food source for whalers and sealers when on extended trips or as insurance against the starvation of shipwrecked survivors, however, their spread throughout the country was assisted by explorers, gold miners and settlers who used goats as a source of milk, food and for bartering with the indigenous people. Goats being goats managed to escape to the wild and flourish in many areas of forest; plant communities which are inadequately adapted to cope with mammalian browsers.
Spin on 200 years and the humble goat has made rough scrub and forested lands his refuge and has modified whole tracts of forest and bush through his foraging and browsing. The goat’s favourite habitat is some nice thick tangled scrub bordering farmland so they can browse on grass in paddocks, sun themselves in the open and yet never be far from cover if man, their prinicipal predator, attacks.
Understandably many farmers view wild goats as competitors for pasture with their sheep and cattle and the threat of disease transmission from populations of wild animals makes many farmers more than willing to allow shooters on their property to help reduce the pesky goat numbers. Interestingly, most farmers don’t want goats eradicated (as if that were possible without extensive efforts) as they believe the goat is useful for weed management, however, weeds are low on a goats menu – why eat thistles when there is sweet pasture available?
We unloaded the quad bike from the trailer and checked our rifles and gear, chatted with the farmer and got the best information on latest goat movements and started our days hunt on an extensive piece of very steep Taranaki hill country farmland. Two-up the quad bike easily coped with the rough farm track up steep hills toward the back of the farm, but care had to be taken on the steeper portions of track. The land was marginal for farming – small scars indicating slips and erosion dotted each steep face. This erosion was caused by the loss of root structures from shrubs and trees, the passage of many hooves and the frequent and often heavy rainfall in the area. The annual profits of farming had to be weighed against the longer-term profits from retiring the land and planting it in pines, which would be ready for harvesting for timber in 30 years.
John stopped the bike on one of the highest ridges on the farm and we both got off and looked over the steep gullies and ridges before us. We sat down and started glassing the hillsides with binoculars for mobs of goats. It wasn’t long before we’d identified three separate groups of goats all feeding and loafing on the sunny upper slopes of the farmed pasture. We decided on a group of about 30 goats as our target as it was closest, easiest to get to and the largest group. A brief discussion and some tactical planning and we decided to set off on foot. We both loaded the magazines of our Sako .222 bolt action rifles, closed the bolts on empty chambers and set off at a steady trot.
Goats are very wary animals and there is always at least one animal on the lookout for danger. Just because they have few predators doesn’t mean they haven’t lost their instincts for survival. Goats have a liking for high places and most of their vigilant sentries concentrate on the land below them, as this is where danger is most likely to come from. If a hunter can climb high without being noticed he can often approach a group of goats from above with relative ease and stalk quite close before making his presence felt. We had planned on doing just that.
We dropped over the other side of the ridge we were on and kept below the skyline as we skirted the shaded and cold side of the ridge hoping to get as close to the goats as we could. After travelling the estimated 500 yards we cautiously wriggled on our bellies up to the ridgeline and popped our heads over to check on where we were in relation to our mob of goats. As I wriggled up to the fence on the ridgeline I pushed my rifle ahead of me and between the lowest wire and the next one up. I rested the barrel of the rifle on the lowest wire and immediately discovered that the fence was electrified. I successfully suppressed my natural reaction, which was to make some sort of expletive exclamation and drop the rifle, and I quietly removed the barrel from the fence wire and gritted my teeth hoping John hadn’t noticed. I looked across at him and it was immediately obvious from his silent chuckling that he’d realised what I’d done – I knew that story wouldn’t remain quiet for long.
We decided to move along another 50 yards or so to a small slip which would allow us to crawl under the fence rather than climb over the fence, which would have alerted the goats to our presence. The gentle breeze was coming up the gully into our faces as we wriggled under the fence – being especially cautious not to touch the electrified wires again - and we quietly stalked down a small depression to get closer to the goats.
With a few hand signals John indicated that we were close enough. From our earlier discussion I knew that I should concentrate on the goats on my side while John took care of his side of things. With a lot of experience gleaned from several years of professional goat culling John’s ideas were always worth taking into consideration. His knowledge of goat behaviour turned out to be spot on. From a prone position I was to work the left hand side of the mob while John took care of the right. We both quietly opened the bolts of our rifles and chambered a round …. John was to take first shot.
At the crack of the first shot all of the goats stopped what they were doing and tried to identify the sound and its source. By the time the second 55 grain projectile was hurtling into the mob they knew exactly what was going on and were looking for a way to get out of Dodge. My first shot was aimed at the chest of a decent sized billy and the little .222 dropped him like a sack of potatoes. John had warned me that once the shooting started the goats would mill about in confusion until one of them decided the best direction for escape and lead the others to safety. We had to concentrate on shooting any goat that looked like it was leading the mob anywhere. By doing so we managed to keep them milling longer while we picked off animals from the group. Eventually though they made a break for the scrub lead by a cunning old nanny. Although I drew a bead on her shoulder and dropped her with a good shot, the rest of the goats had realised which way safety lay and would not be stopped by the death of their leader. We both plugged away at them trying to drop as many animals as possible before they got through the fence to the safety of the scrub and the action was frantic as we emptied and reloaded our rifles at the goats.
As the last of the goats disappeared into the manuka scrub John leapt up and said “Come on, they’re getting away!†I didn’t understand what he meant at first but I soon realised that he wasn’t happy letting any of that mob escape. I guess his training from his culling days meant that a lost goat was a lost tally. John ran across the slope, leapt the fence and crashed into the chest high manuka thumbing more rounds into his rifle’s magazine on the move and I followed as closely as I could, after making my rifle safe, not quite understanding what was going on. Our briefing hadn’t covered this eventuality. We were about 15 yards into the scrub, which was now head high and above, and just coming to a small clearing when I saw John whip his rifle to his shoulder and snap off a shot that dropped a surprised young billy that thought he had reached safety. The other goats ran but not before John managed to work the bolt and drop a young nanny. John had a huge grin on his face and he whooped like a banshee as he raced off after the remaining goats. By now I had worked out what was happening and I ran after John, at times following the whoops and crashing sounds through the scrub, as he tried to run down the goats and kill every last one of them and they desperately tried to escape this relentless lunatic. This was more like slaughter than hunting, but damn if it wasn’t fun!
In the end only three escaped into the bush, lost in the thickest scrub. We retraced our steps to finish any animals not yet dead and sat down in the sun to take a well deserved rest. “John, you’re a mad bugger!â€, I told him. “I know!â€, he said with a huge smile on his face.
We started the task of butchering the goats, all 28 of them. Although goat meat is quite acceptable as a game meat (as long as you avoid the smelly old billys) we were only taking the hind and fore legs for dog food. The legs were easy to remove and we skinned them and took the hocks off and soon had quite a pile of meat to take home. John left me to finish the last few animals while he trotted back to the quad bike and brought it along the farm track as close as he could to where we’d been butchering.
Butchering the animals was an excellent opportunity to see the effects of the .222 on the chest and shoulder area of the lightly boned, thin-skinned goats from relatively close range. The pacey little 55 grain projectiles punched in to the lung area mincing vital organs and frequently shattered the off shoulder destroying some of the meat. The longest shot was around 85 paces, several shots were from less than 8 paces. Some of the forelegs weren’t worth removing as there was little left of the shoulder meat in some cases. I noted that John had taken some neck shots … obviously confident in his ability to make them while the goats had been milling aimlessly. I had concentrated on centre of chest shots, aiming for the off shoulder.
We dragged the carcasses into one pile, loaded the meat onto the quad bike and I walked behind carrying both unloaded rifles as John rode the bike slowly back down the track to the farmers house. The farmer was pleased when we told him about the number of goats we’d killed, he was happy when we gave him half the meat for his dogs and we helped him put it in plastic bags and load it into his freezer. Freezing the meat for two weeks takes care of any parasites and the free meat would save him money and give his dogs some variety in their diet as well. The farmer laughed when John told him how I'd managed to accidentally earth one of his electric fences through my rifle and me .... I knew he couldn't wait to tell someone that story! We told the farmer about the pile of carcasses and he said he’d jump on the tractor later and go and dig a hole and bury them with the back hoe. We offered to give him a hand but he reckoned he could cope.
We loaded the quad bike back onto the trailer and then threw the rest of the meat into the back of the truck and headed home to clean up our gear. We might be home in time to watch the game on the TV and maybe have a quiet snooze as well. Not a bad way to spend the day, not bad at all.
Spinner
Spin on 200 years and the humble goat has made rough scrub and forested lands his refuge and has modified whole tracts of forest and bush through his foraging and browsing. The goat’s favourite habitat is some nice thick tangled scrub bordering farmland so they can browse on grass in paddocks, sun themselves in the open and yet never be far from cover if man, their prinicipal predator, attacks.
Understandably many farmers view wild goats as competitors for pasture with their sheep and cattle and the threat of disease transmission from populations of wild animals makes many farmers more than willing to allow shooters on their property to help reduce the pesky goat numbers. Interestingly, most farmers don’t want goats eradicated (as if that were possible without extensive efforts) as they believe the goat is useful for weed management, however, weeds are low on a goats menu – why eat thistles when there is sweet pasture available?
We unloaded the quad bike from the trailer and checked our rifles and gear, chatted with the farmer and got the best information on latest goat movements and started our days hunt on an extensive piece of very steep Taranaki hill country farmland. Two-up the quad bike easily coped with the rough farm track up steep hills toward the back of the farm, but care had to be taken on the steeper portions of track. The land was marginal for farming – small scars indicating slips and erosion dotted each steep face. This erosion was caused by the loss of root structures from shrubs and trees, the passage of many hooves and the frequent and often heavy rainfall in the area. The annual profits of farming had to be weighed against the longer-term profits from retiring the land and planting it in pines, which would be ready for harvesting for timber in 30 years.
John stopped the bike on one of the highest ridges on the farm and we both got off and looked over the steep gullies and ridges before us. We sat down and started glassing the hillsides with binoculars for mobs of goats. It wasn’t long before we’d identified three separate groups of goats all feeding and loafing on the sunny upper slopes of the farmed pasture. We decided on a group of about 30 goats as our target as it was closest, easiest to get to and the largest group. A brief discussion and some tactical planning and we decided to set off on foot. We both loaded the magazines of our Sako .222 bolt action rifles, closed the bolts on empty chambers and set off at a steady trot.
Goats are very wary animals and there is always at least one animal on the lookout for danger. Just because they have few predators doesn’t mean they haven’t lost their instincts for survival. Goats have a liking for high places and most of their vigilant sentries concentrate on the land below them, as this is where danger is most likely to come from. If a hunter can climb high without being noticed he can often approach a group of goats from above with relative ease and stalk quite close before making his presence felt. We had planned on doing just that.
We dropped over the other side of the ridge we were on and kept below the skyline as we skirted the shaded and cold side of the ridge hoping to get as close to the goats as we could. After travelling the estimated 500 yards we cautiously wriggled on our bellies up to the ridgeline and popped our heads over to check on where we were in relation to our mob of goats. As I wriggled up to the fence on the ridgeline I pushed my rifle ahead of me and between the lowest wire and the next one up. I rested the barrel of the rifle on the lowest wire and immediately discovered that the fence was electrified. I successfully suppressed my natural reaction, which was to make some sort of expletive exclamation and drop the rifle, and I quietly removed the barrel from the fence wire and gritted my teeth hoping John hadn’t noticed. I looked across at him and it was immediately obvious from his silent chuckling that he’d realised what I’d done – I knew that story wouldn’t remain quiet for long.
We decided to move along another 50 yards or so to a small slip which would allow us to crawl under the fence rather than climb over the fence, which would have alerted the goats to our presence. The gentle breeze was coming up the gully into our faces as we wriggled under the fence – being especially cautious not to touch the electrified wires again - and we quietly stalked down a small depression to get closer to the goats.
With a few hand signals John indicated that we were close enough. From our earlier discussion I knew that I should concentrate on the goats on my side while John took care of his side of things. With a lot of experience gleaned from several years of professional goat culling John’s ideas were always worth taking into consideration. His knowledge of goat behaviour turned out to be spot on. From a prone position I was to work the left hand side of the mob while John took care of the right. We both quietly opened the bolts of our rifles and chambered a round …. John was to take first shot.
At the crack of the first shot all of the goats stopped what they were doing and tried to identify the sound and its source. By the time the second 55 grain projectile was hurtling into the mob they knew exactly what was going on and were looking for a way to get out of Dodge. My first shot was aimed at the chest of a decent sized billy and the little .222 dropped him like a sack of potatoes. John had warned me that once the shooting started the goats would mill about in confusion until one of them decided the best direction for escape and lead the others to safety. We had to concentrate on shooting any goat that looked like it was leading the mob anywhere. By doing so we managed to keep them milling longer while we picked off animals from the group. Eventually though they made a break for the scrub lead by a cunning old nanny. Although I drew a bead on her shoulder and dropped her with a good shot, the rest of the goats had realised which way safety lay and would not be stopped by the death of their leader. We both plugged away at them trying to drop as many animals as possible before they got through the fence to the safety of the scrub and the action was frantic as we emptied and reloaded our rifles at the goats.
As the last of the goats disappeared into the manuka scrub John leapt up and said “Come on, they’re getting away!†I didn’t understand what he meant at first but I soon realised that he wasn’t happy letting any of that mob escape. I guess his training from his culling days meant that a lost goat was a lost tally. John ran across the slope, leapt the fence and crashed into the chest high manuka thumbing more rounds into his rifle’s magazine on the move and I followed as closely as I could, after making my rifle safe, not quite understanding what was going on. Our briefing hadn’t covered this eventuality. We were about 15 yards into the scrub, which was now head high and above, and just coming to a small clearing when I saw John whip his rifle to his shoulder and snap off a shot that dropped a surprised young billy that thought he had reached safety. The other goats ran but not before John managed to work the bolt and drop a young nanny. John had a huge grin on his face and he whooped like a banshee as he raced off after the remaining goats. By now I had worked out what was happening and I ran after John, at times following the whoops and crashing sounds through the scrub, as he tried to run down the goats and kill every last one of them and they desperately tried to escape this relentless lunatic. This was more like slaughter than hunting, but damn if it wasn’t fun!
In the end only three escaped into the bush, lost in the thickest scrub. We retraced our steps to finish any animals not yet dead and sat down in the sun to take a well deserved rest. “John, you’re a mad bugger!â€, I told him. “I know!â€, he said with a huge smile on his face.
We started the task of butchering the goats, all 28 of them. Although goat meat is quite acceptable as a game meat (as long as you avoid the smelly old billys) we were only taking the hind and fore legs for dog food. The legs were easy to remove and we skinned them and took the hocks off and soon had quite a pile of meat to take home. John left me to finish the last few animals while he trotted back to the quad bike and brought it along the farm track as close as he could to where we’d been butchering.
Butchering the animals was an excellent opportunity to see the effects of the .222 on the chest and shoulder area of the lightly boned, thin-skinned goats from relatively close range. The pacey little 55 grain projectiles punched in to the lung area mincing vital organs and frequently shattered the off shoulder destroying some of the meat. The longest shot was around 85 paces, several shots were from less than 8 paces. Some of the forelegs weren’t worth removing as there was little left of the shoulder meat in some cases. I noted that John had taken some neck shots … obviously confident in his ability to make them while the goats had been milling aimlessly. I had concentrated on centre of chest shots, aiming for the off shoulder.
We dragged the carcasses into one pile, loaded the meat onto the quad bike and I walked behind carrying both unloaded rifles as John rode the bike slowly back down the track to the farmers house. The farmer was pleased when we told him about the number of goats we’d killed, he was happy when we gave him half the meat for his dogs and we helped him put it in plastic bags and load it into his freezer. Freezing the meat for two weeks takes care of any parasites and the free meat would save him money and give his dogs some variety in their diet as well. The farmer laughed when John told him how I'd managed to accidentally earth one of his electric fences through my rifle and me .... I knew he couldn't wait to tell someone that story! We told the farmer about the pile of carcasses and he said he’d jump on the tractor later and go and dig a hole and bury them with the back hoe. We offered to give him a hand but he reckoned he could cope.
We loaded the quad bike back onto the trailer and then threw the rest of the meat into the back of the truck and headed home to clean up our gear. We might be home in time to watch the game on the TV and maybe have a quiet snooze as well. Not a bad way to spend the day, not bad at all.
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