During the height of the Christmas mayhem a few years back, I received an email from David Wightman. I had met David on my first trip to New Zealand in 2007, when for three days we tootled about the South Island looking at sheep. I returned home in awe not only of the South Island but also the fact that the annual flock roundups (on average, 5,000–10,000 sheep) were now done with helicopters and not on horseback, as had been the tradition for more than a century.
Sheep herding by helicopter? Really?
David’s email consisted of an invitation to come down (practically posthaste), as a helicopter pilot had spotted four sheep roaming about David’s 29,000 hectares (about 72,000 acres). Even from a distance, the pilot could tell they were alone and had clearly eluded their annual shearing for a number of years. If they weren’t captured and shorn, their cumbersome fleece would lead to certain death if allowed to freeze during a snowfall, thereby “cementing” the poor creatures to the ground.
“Would you like to rescue four sheep in a helicopter?” David wrote.
“Yes!” I replied. And a week later I was standing not far from the cook shed on David’s gigantic Merino farm, waiting for the helicopter to pick me up.
You won’t find “sheep rescues” listed on any tourist activity in New Zealand, and it’s too bad. They are quite thrilling, particularly when David yanks the passenger door off the helicopter and says, “You will get a better view this way,” and then tosses the annoying 4-foot shield to the side.
The author with one of the wandering Perendales.
The helicopter lifted off, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t momentarily think of all those dramatic shots from M*A*S*H, with bloodied bodies dangling from the edge and medics crouching under the spinning blades. This was clearly not life or death, but it was a bit out of my comfort zone nonetheless.
After ten minutes in the air, the pilot pointed west toward a vast landscape of hills and trees. “See them right there?” he said.
“No.” I replied. I could no more have seen four sheep than a fluorescent spaceship.
“Okay, I’ll go closer.”
And soon, this great “bug” with blades was buzzing four innocent sheep like a Black Hawk on patrol in Kandahar. Even from a distance, I could detect their giant fleeces as they hurriedly waddled from the helicopter with all the grace of a man running in a hoopskirt.
The actual capture was a task for two bulldoggers, men who typically earn their living jumping from helicopters to fight fires and the like, not rounding up seriously bulky sheep. As the saying goes, though, this wasn’t “their first rodeo.” In remarkably quick time, the four sheep were nabbed, hog-tied, and flown in a big net (dangling upside down beneath the helicopter) back to base camp where David was waiting.
The pilot gently deposited the bundle in the back of a pickup truck. As David removed the net, he looked at them closely and then announced, “They’re not my sheep!”
David raises Merinos, a breed noted for growing wool on nearly every part of their bodies. These sheep, even without having been shorn for several years, had clean, wool-free faces. They were not Merinos—they were Perendales!
I held my breath, because now I suspected that maybe the scenario had become life and death after all. But David, with great calm and gentlemanly dignity, said the sheep must belong to his neighbor (who raises Perendales), and since they were already in the back of the truck, it was time we went and delivered them.
And so we did.
Linda Cortright has traveled the globe in search of textile adventures as the editor and publisher of Wild Fibers magazine, guide on extraordinary fiber excursions, and author of the books Twisted Tales and The Eye of Fiber. Find her online at www.wildfibersmagazine.com.
This article initially appeared in Spin Off Summer 2016.