By David

For a mountain, it isn’t all that spectacular. There is no obvious summit, it barely reaches 3000 feet and it is covered in dense native bush. It may be unimpressive, but it does play an important role in New Zealand’s cultural history. It’s rumoured to have been the home of the last and now extinct bird, the Moa. More importantly, it’s the spot where the legendary Maori fisherman Maui embedded his hook to pull New Zealand out of the sea. Today Whakapunake is made for hunting. Wild pigs, deer and thousands of goats make the mountain their home.

Kahui, Donald and I spent most weekends on Whakapunake. Twenty five miles away in the bright lights of Wairoa, a local butcher paid us ten cents (it was called a shilling back then) a pound for a pig or deer, gutted but with the skin and head still on. For three teenage boys it was good money. Dead pigs and deer paid for my first trip to Australia to swim with Don Talbot.

It was best to get onto the mountain on Friday night. As soon as the bus got us home from school, we set off on the three hour ride to the summit. My horse, Nehaw, was a sure footed beast. On the blackest of nights he offered a safe and stumble free journey. You had to be a bit careful with him though. When he was tired he’d try and bite your leg. Early on the journey, about a mile from our place, the New Zealand Government’s Ministry of Works used to park their road work machinery; tractors, graders, bulldozers, all that sort of thing. Every weekend, we siphoned off a pint of gas from one of their machines. We were no boy scouts: gas might be cheating but it was the best way to get a fire started at close to midnight on a wet night. With oil currently $US100 a barrel we probably owe the New Zealand Government a house mortgage in pints of gas.

We had some good spots to sleep. One was a veritable Hilton: under a ledge, almost a cave but not quite. It was dry – the back stone wall trapped the heat from the fire, and ample moss and ferns made for a soft and comfortable bed. Our worst night was out on the open track. All night, the rain lashed down. Even our pint of gas failed to get a fire started. There was no option but to huddle in misery and wait for the morning. It was worth it. We got three quick deer and set off for home, the deer over our legs and saddles providing some warmth from the rain that never let up.

Shooting for profit is a bit different from recreational hunting. Our Wairoa butcher would deduct a tidy sum from our pay if a bullet damaged any of the animal’s prime cuts. It put a premium on getting a head or neck shot. After an expensive first couple of years, we didn’t lose much in damaged meat.

Fortunately we had a couple of really good dogs. They found pigs and trapped wounded deer and held them waiting for us to arrive and finish the job. One of our best dogs, Juno, was killed by a mangy old boar just before I left to go to school in the United States. We tried to sew the wound in her neck with a nail and one of the laces from my boot but it didn’t work. Pity about that; she was a good dog.

Our best day’s tally – two deer and six pigs – caused a hell of a problem with transport. I’m not sure what time it was when we got home. Whenever it was, I’d fallen asleep on the horse. My mother looked out the window at around one in the morning and noticed Nehaw standing dutifully at the gate. Goes to show, when you need a horse to bite you on the leg they won’t bloody do it.

There is a swimming content to this story. At the top of Whakapunake there is a swampy lake that is tapu, or sacred. According to Kahui and Donald, it is the exact spot where Maui’s hook pierced New Zealand’s North Island. If it is, Maui is lucky he got New Zealand out of the water. I guess the lake covers about an acre but it’s not all that deep so even Maui’s hook could have easily fallen out. My mates said the tapu on the lake was further strengthened in the 1860s when one of the greatest Maori warriors, Te Kooti, created a golden calf out of the riches he had plundered from local European settlements. He had, they said, hidden the calf in the lake on the top of Whakapunake. It must have been an impressive sight, Te Kooti sitting on his trade mark white charger casting a further tapu spell on the Whakapunaki Lake.

Kahui and Donald were Maori and therefore could not look for the prize in a sacred lake, but conveniently, I was a Pakeha (European) and therefore would not be affected by the tapu. These days I’m not sure that distinction is allowed, but back then it seemed to be okay. For several days I swam around in that freezing cold, dirty water looking for Te Kooti’s damn calf. My two mates stood on the side issuing instructions and thanking their ancestor, Te Kooti, that they had been born part of the Maori race.

These days I have little sympathy for any of my lot who moan about the temperature of the Palm Beach County’s carefully heated pool. Any complaints and they too can go look for Te Kooti’s calf. Donald and Kahui still reckon it’s there somewhere.