Hunting: High and mighty

Slow but steady, the five-horsepower team heads for the hut. Photo / Geoff Thomas

Round Major, round Major," called Colin Drummond as he eased the long reins back with one hand. The three large horses sidestepped as the wagon swung wide on the track which cut back in a dog-leg down the bank above the riverbed.

The two horses harnessed between the long poles behind the leaders stepped directly to the side in short shuffles.

As the wagon squeaked around the sharp corner the team of five clydesdales took the weight and Drummond stepped hard on the brake to slow the heavy vehicle. It was masterfully done - just a regular part of the four-hour journey up the wide valley where the headwaters of the Rangitata River split into two valleys, the Clyde and Lawrence Rivers, in the Canterbury high country which forms part of the main divide between the east and west coasts.

The Clydeys, as he affectionately calls his team, have done this trek many times, for this farmer still prefers to cart supplies to the back of the 140,000ha Erewhon Station by wagon rather than 4WD vehicle. "If the river comes up when we are doing the spring and autumn musters, we would be stranded up there. But the five-horsepower wagon will always get through."

The clydesdales are majestic. Their "feathered" fetlocks surmount wide, heavy hooves which click across the slippery round river stones as if they were a sealed path. They were originally bred in the Clyde district of Scotland to carry and pull heavy loads.

Today, teams can be found in the South Island where aficionados gather for nostalgic treks, promotions or to compete at agricultural shows. Over the past 150 years these workhorses have contributed much to the development of our way of life on the land, pulling wagons and ploughs.

It takes an hour to prepare for the trek. Backing the horses into the harnesses is an intricate affair and he talks quietly to each animal, encouraging it as buckles and catches are secured.

The wagon is loaded with supplies - including bales of hay for the horses - for the stay at the musterers' hut high in the mountains.

Sparks fly as the iron shoes on 20 great feet knock against the river stones and the wagon rattles along at 1.8km/h, the tough rubber tyres bouncing up and over the occasional boulder. With a pair of reins in each hand, Drummond and young Mac guide the team across the valley which is split by dry river courses. Like jetboat drivers, they look ahead for the best route through this ever-changing landscape. But this river is dry because the streams running off the steep, rocky bluffs are all frozen.

Drummond points to a concrete fireplace sitting forlornly among some beech trees and says: "That is all that's left of the original homestead, going back to 1860. They were tough, those pioneers." Isolation and a harsh climate made it a hard life, and one woman who lived there did not see another woman for five years.

On arriving at the hut the horses are tethered to the wagon, wearing canvas covers for protection from the snow. Dinner is a pile of hay at their feet.

A bag of mutton chops is emptied into a camp oven hanging from a chain over the roaring fire which dominates the corrugated-iron hut. Spuds and carrots go into a large billy, and another is boiled for the tea which accompanies every conversation in the high country. The cooking pots are raised and lowered by an ingenious system of chains secured by nails in the lintel.

This is a hunting expedition, as the sheep do not need mustering in July. "The whethers are wintering on the tussock faces," says Drummond, nursing his teacup. The merinos had watched with seemingly vacant stares as the horses plodded up the valley.

There are no fences here. The snow stops the sheep from wandering too far and they stick to the low slopes, nibbling the wiry brown native grasses that cling to the rocky soil.

It is hard country, with 2.5ha needed for each sheep. The cheque from the wool clip barely covers costs and Drummond supplements the farm's income by breeding Clydesdales and offering tourists the back country experience - a wagon trek up the valley for the chance to hunt stags or stalk a trophy bull tahr.

In 1960s the property was operated by the Urquhart family, and became one of the country's first deer farms. The deer coming down from the hills to eat turnips were captured simply by closing the gate.

Today, for this farmer the opportunity to own and operate a high-country station entrenched in Canterbury history through the writings of Samuel Butler, is "a dream come true".

The name Erewhon is a play on the word "nowhere" spelled backwards. But this wide valley with jagged peaks soaring to the sky is far from nowhere.