It was the first week of April and the weather had been very wet and wild. Heavy West Coast rain for weeks on end.
Finally, the forecast looked a bit more promising with a week-long clear weather window.
Our gear was checked and packed in record time, we strapped on our boots and headed south.
Rose, our lab/pointer mix was full of beans and raring to go, she loves her adventures in the mountains.
We arrived at our usual camp site, the birds were in full song, and we had the place to ourselves.
My husband Chris does a lot of trapping in this area, for possums, rats and stoats, and given the birdsong, he was making his presence felt. Lots of tomtits, fantails, bellbirds and warblers were seen, it was a pleasure on the ears.
Once we had camp set up, pitched our tents, and had a quick boil up, we set off into the bush to check out some known wallows and rub trees.
We’d only been in the bush for about 20 minutes when Rose stopped, with ears pricked on high alert.
Up ahead we could see brown fur moving into a clear area. A fat, healthy hind sauntered out followed by her dark brown fawn. We watched them for half an hour but saw nothing else and heard no roaring.
We headed back to camp as the sun was setting over the hills, casting an orange hue over the trees.
The next day was overcast, but not cold and we headed off upriver this time to see what we could find.
This time a large slip was our destination, and we saw a very scruffy hind out grazing on the sparse growth. She appeared to be on her own, so we left her to it.
We had a couple of wet days, which left us camp bound, we passed the time swapping stories and listening to the radio for weather updates.
Once it cleared, we headed off again into the dripping, soggy bush.
Then, about 300 metres away, we heard a roar ring out. We closed the gap and soon were able to make out a set of antlers thrashing a manuka bush.
He soon tired of that activity and sauntered out into a clear area of the creek, he then climbed up the bank, turned broadside and presented himself with the perfect shot.
We’d already assessed him as a young stag, maybe three or four-years-old, with eight points and decided to leave him. He had absolutely no idea we were there, and he walked to within 12 metres of us! It was a thrill as he walked further up the creek and then melted back into the bush.
On the last morning of our trip, we headed back to the original place we’d first scouted and saw a young six-point stag out on the bush edge. He showed a bit of promise, so we decided to leave him to grow for a few more years too. I did snap some great photos of him before we headed back to break up camp.
Sometimes hunting isn’t about the kill shot, it’s also about being in your happy place, with good company and making memories.
