As I finished up in the bathroom, I heard Kathy and Marcus talking in the kitchen. I downed my half-cup of instant coffee and headed out to meet my guide for my first night of possum hunting.
It had been raining off and on all day, so I wore my rain jacket. The farm needs the rain, Marcus told me, but it means there’ll be less possums out. He wore a camo jacket, knee-high gumboots and basketball shorts.
Our posse: Myself, a fourteen year old named Sean, Marcus, and an old beat-up golden retriever named Sammy. Our equipment: a quad bike [Sean and I sitting shotgun on the back-rack], a black .22 caliber rifle with scope, and a high-powered spotlight.
We drove up a race to the highest paddocks on the farm. This was the edge of the property, and just past the electrified fence were acres of bush, prime for possum. As Marcus gunned it toward the bush, Sammy broke off to our left and Sean swung the spotlight around to find him. Sammy’s eyes reflected the beam, as did the eyes of a possum in a tree fifty yards beyond. Right there! Sean yelled.
I leaned into the turn and gripped the rail tightly as Marcus maneuvered the bike towards the tree. Despite the turbulence, young Sean kept the spotlight trained on the possum, which did not move an inch as we accelerated toward it. When we were within twenty yards, Marcus killed the quad and grabbed the spotlight from Sean, who had yanked the .22 from the front box and was clicking off the safety as he advanced on the critter. It didn’t move, even when Sean was aiming from within ten feet.
This isn’t your typical American possum, or opossum. They are from Australia, have soft fur that is excellent for making sweaters, and are, in fact, quite cute. Earlier that day, I had hiked down to a waterfall on the farm and halfway down the ravine I sent one of these creatures skittering up a tree. I took lots of pictures, very excited to have run into some wildlife that wasn’t a cow. They are actually a major pest in New Zealand, so “spotlighting” is a popular and well-regarded past time in NZ.
Using our bare hands, we pulled the animal’s fur off in tufts and stuffed it into a plastic bag Marcus had brought along. It was already half full from previous outings. Prices have gone up actually, you can get a hundred for one kilo, Marcus said. You want to pull the fur off right away, before the body goes cold and it gets too tough.
Your turn, Marcus told me. I hadn’t shot a rifle since I was fifteen, and I told Marcus as much but he just chuckled and said it didn’t matter, handing me the gun. Sean had already spotted our next possie, so I moved around to get a better angle.
I raised the rifle and tried to remember all the things I’d learned from watching movies about guns. Aim small, miss small! Mel Gibson intoned in my ear. You don’t pull a trigger, you squeeze a trigger, whispered a chorus of Army commandos. Despite their help, the scope was blurry and I was not completely sure I was zeroed in on the possum. I figured what the hell, exhaled, and squeeeeezed the trigger.
I had placed my eye too close to the scope, so the recoil hit me sharply in the brow, but my shot was good. The possum plummeted to the bush floor from thirty feet up.
After a couple hours, the spotlight battery waned and the possums began to evade us more successfully. We loaded up the quad, whistled for Sammy to come, and headed down the hill, away from the bush.
