Philip Holden wrote about it comprehensively. Barry Crump romanticised it, building a cosy world of vocab-and-commitment-lite males. The late Shaun Barnett evoked it splendidly.

It's the Aotearoa New Zealand back country, subject of these 33 narratives from trapper and hunter Sam Gibson. 

They're subtitled ''Cracking Yarns and Tall Tales From the Bush'', which may instantly send some customers further along the bookshop shelves. But hang on. Gibson is also a committed conservationist. He walks bush and hills knowledgeably, thoughtfully. He's endearingly self-deprecating, urgently honest and concerned. He's worth reading.  

He offers a genial, sometimes repetitive set of – yes – yarns, which are given gravitas by his respect for the environment in which he works and lives. ''The responsibility to rebuild our landscapes'' is mentioned almost immediately, and becomes a recurring motif, along with frequent, apposite use of Te Reo Maori.

Raised thriftily and lovingly in Gisborne, Sam doesn't thrive at school, though he thrives a bit too much at surfing parties. Aged 12, he's taken to Te Urewera, where toothless, meditative Keith instructs him how to shoot down a helicopter. He goes on to be a track cutter; bags his first deer, which has been gazing at him disbelievingly. That sets the pace and tone.

A male reader could feel pale and meagre beside Gibson. His grandfather was a bushman who ''sucked moisture out of moss when creeks ran dry''. Mine was a failed haberdasher. His Mum and Dad trekked to Everest Base Camp. Mine never left the North Island. Sam has caught almost every type of fish and meat in Aotearoa. I hit a duck while driving once.

Anyway, we hear of monitoring beech trees to predict the year's mast, and about the ravages of pigs, goats, deer. We get a good nostalgic story of Jim aged seven, wearing over-sized boots lined with plastic bags to prevent blisters, while his excellent Dad mentors him. He puts in a plug for his favourite telescopic fishing rod; helps set up acoustic recordings to safeguard kiwi and bats; warns against DOC's shrinking financial resources (current government please listen). You learn about a roaring horn and a hummel; how a single snapped ponga frond can spook a deer. If your steak has grown green edges, then trim them and rub with horopito leaves. You're even advised on how to pee out of a hammock. Invaluable stuff.

It's very contemporary: hunters use GPS and scopes that connect to their cellphones. Some trappers take meth to keep them racing along their lines.  

Idiosyncratic characters parade past. There's Pete of the bib overalls and teeth-rotting tea; Kaiapoi, who cooks his mince in the laundry pot; Dangerman the roll-your-own champ; the Rastafarian pig-hunters who don't mind bristles sprouting on their bacon. They're overwhelmingly male; the few women who appear are treated courteously, even if they do rail against ''cruel hunters'' or go tramping in high heels. Gibson makes grateful mention of his partner Roimata, gutsy, supportive mother of his two kids, who can lug a bullock's hind leg up a steep slope. She's ''the perfect woman''. Awww. Actually, she sounds terrific. 

There's the occasional clunky phrasing: ''Lindsay had cut his teeth on possum skins''; ''I felt pretty stoked with my stag. He was an absolute ripper.'' The book's editors don't know the difference between ''flair / flare'' or ''stank / stink''. Bad.

But there's lots of laid-back, appealing stuff. The word ''mate'' features a lot. His first rifle ''shot like an alcoholic with the shakes''. One page on, ''I carried just about enough ammunition to start a small revolt''. I nodded approvingly at his verb for acquiring paternal skills. He learns how ''to dad''; isn't that great?  

Heaps of photos. There's mist, kai, huts, kills, ridges, tussock, rivers, terrifying armaments, the author's dogs, the author's mates, the author's kids; the author's beard. 

I opened the book uncertain. I finished it pleased. Sam Gibson sounds an excellent bloke. He's en route to becoming an excellent narrator. Good on yer – mate.

Reviewed by David Hill