![]() ![]() Now it’s up to the public whether they want to enter the drop zone. Notices were put in the papers, more than 180 signs erected on entry points and trailheads. Forty-eight hours ago, neighbours, schools, farms, hostels were each notified by more than 500 phone calls. He throws an XL vest to a huge Maori guy: “That’s not big enough,” some joker quips from the back.ĭOC won’t be closing the park for this drop. He hands out vivid safety vests, maps, safe-handling instructions, radios, GPS units, a list of call signs and earplugs for the helicopter ride that will take them to their start points. You read left to right, so your brain’s used to ignoring bits of information in that direction.” Hamon gives them a tip: “Search from right to left. They’ll walk the tracks twice, doing their first sweep within hours of the drop, then again the following day, because baits can get hung up in trees and only come to earth later, after a decent breeze. Grizzled pig hunters and deerstalkers in camo. They look hard: big Maori guys in sweats and gumboots. If anybody’s going to have trouble picking out the green of a 1080 bait – 12g, about the size of your thumb – they’re not about to admit it now. ![]() ![]() Hamon, a DOC ranger and operations manager is briefing 16 locals hired to walk the tracks and clear them of baits after the choppers have gone through. What happens on a 1080 poison bait operation? Dave Hansford goes inside a drop zone to find outīefore we start,” asks Nick Hamon, “is anybody colour-blind?” It’s six o’clock in the evening before a two-day aerial 1080 drop in Coromandel Forest Park. ![]()
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