I came to New Zealand to learn sustainable land management strategies. This goal opens up a large host of possibilities; I was soon invited to go up into the "bush" to trap possums with a new friend, Cameron.
As we ride the quad bike up a narrow bulldozed tract to the edge of the bush, Cam makes a simple distinction, "farm"-meaning cleared land with sheep and cattle, and "bush," what once covered all of New Zealand. We bike up the track and the "farm" gets rougher and rougher, half burnt stumps of native timer surrounded by tightly nibbled grass paint the picture of how recently the land was slashed and burned and grazed. Like the deer, possums were tragically introduced and quickly overran the forest. They are like little nocturnal monkeys, with a long gripping tail, big claws, and thick warm amazing fur. Cam is the kind of guy who likes to self employ, and hates taking orders from anybody. Since he quit school he has been learning many skills and trades but his serious passion is hunting. Only recently has the price of possum fur gone high enough that Cam could make it his main income, "it just gets a little lonely in the bush."
"See that gully down there, that is crawling with coons," indeed the possums are everywhere, and they come out at night to feast on the tender tree tips and the farm pasture. The first day is spent setting the traps. Cam points out the tell-tale marks of a possum playground and cuts a level notch in a horizontal tree trunk. He sprinkles a "lure" made of white flour and powdered sugar, all enfused with just a few drops of eucalyptus oil. Since the coons are native to Australia, they can't resist the smell of eucalyptus. At night, we listen for their screams but fall fast asleep and in the morning, there is a sense of excitement. We look down on the coons as vermin, we know that they are bad for the forest, there are millions of possums in nz, too many for any trapper. Everyone in New Zealand knows that in many places the government dumps massive amounts of 1080 poison into the bush to kill such vermin.
As we tramp down the line, more than every other trap has caught a coon. Without waking them, Cam gives them a few strong whacks with the back of his machete, they squirm and we avoid their claws, "last kicks." While they are still warm their fur pulls out in huge wads. By the end of a possum mission, Cam will come out of the bush with some very big, and quite valuable bags of fur. Earning more than the standard wage, he is his own boss, enjoys the wild mountains and spending time hunting deer for food. Cam admits this lifestyle is a bit of an escape, we look down from the mountain ridge at the glow of Palmerston, he tells me of the mess of people down there, the punks on p who just want to fight, the system that wants to corral him into another worker bee. I tell him how I see it, that his role, the bush hunter, is a protector of an important part of nz, that it is not society vs. Cameron, but society with a need for his skill and passion, that making a living off the bush is respectable and inspiring indeed.