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Chamois and Tahr

"Fishing for Chamois" written by Tony Pizzata, published in Sporting Shooter September, 1997  

"Nick's NZ Adventure Part 2" written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter December, 1998  

"Chamois-New Zealand's Smallest Big Game" written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, October 1999  

"Two Twelves - try a guide on tahr" written by P D Budd, published in New Zealand Outdoor, November 1999   

Fallow Deer

"The Mighty Fallow Bucks of New Zealand" written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter. November 1999  

Wapiti

"Canadian Wapiti in Kiwiland" written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, December 1999  

 FISHING FOR CHAMOIS

written by Tony Pizzata, published in Sporting Shooter September, 1997

This year for the second year in succession, Penrith, in Sydney’s outer west, played host to Australia’s Safari Expo, held each year by Safari Club International. Once again, Sporting Shooter was in attendance, and after setting up our booth, I decided to take a walk and catch up with a few exhibitors.

New to the Australian scene was Mathew’s Trophy Hunting in New Zealand. After a brief introduction to guide and outfitter, Brendon Matthews, I took a look through his client photo album. I was impressed to say the least.

Brendon was offering chamois, tahr and red deer hunts.

"What’s your specialty Brendon," I asked.

"One day Chamois hunts by boat," was his reply. I pondered for a moment, wondering if he was pulling my leg. Thinking to myself, I’ve hunted the South Island more than a dozen times now and this was definitely a first.

"What , have they learnt to swim?" I replied. Brendon proceeded to tell me of several areas he had that were only accessible by boat and hence had good numbers.

Although now living in Christchurch, Brendon is a former sheep and cattle musterer from South Canterbury and knows plenty of areas that contain good concentrations of chamois, not to mention tahr and reds. For the past three years he’s been guiding on a full-time basis with an outstanding record of success.

My plan, the same every year, was to visit New Zealand the first week of May for a tahr hunt, which I had already booked. With this in mind I decided to allow a couple of days and give the chamois a go with Brendon. As I had planned to take a mate over with me I called him first to ensure he didn’t mind. "Count me in," was Mick’s reply.

Returning to Brendon’s booth I made the booking and looked forward to this hunt with a difference.

Primed and Ready

Just over two months later Mick and I met Brendon in Christchurch. The plan was to travel about two hours drive to his family property located in Waimate, South Canterbury and use the farm as a base camp. From there we would travel to the hunting area for the chamois hunt.

"If the weather turns bad we can hunt paradise ducks, mallard, wild goats and feral pigs on dad’s place until it clears," he said. "He keeps the hunting exclusively for my brother and I and there’s also trout and eel fishing on our 6km river frontage."

In no time we were away and managed to arrive at the farm just on dark. Little did I know we’d be staying at the homestead. As we pulled into the driveway Brendon’s parents were there to greet us. After showing us to our rooms Mrs Matthews put on a baked dinner fit for a king. Home cooked meals and hospitality are a Matthews’ family specialty.

The following morning we were up early and after a quick breakfast hooked the boat up and headed south. Brendon had the whole operation down to perfection and had the boat in the water just before sun up. It was a 14 foot jet boat powered by a Ford Capri V6 motor, which he also uses for water skiing. After loading the boat with our gear we donned our life jackets ( standard procedure with this guide) and were away. The lake was still and calm with barely a ripple. Within 20 minutes we approached what Brendon calls chamois gully. After securing the boat and unloading the esky and all our gear, Brendon pointed out the route we’d be taking.

Following a brisk 20 minute walk up the river bed, Brendon said we’d do some glassing as the chamois are often seen from this point onwards. Mick and I welcomed the break. Although we had both trained for the trip, we were still blowing the cobwebs out from all that city living. From this point onwards the rolling hills abruptly changed to steep rocky bluffs, grassy saddles and shingle fans - typical of good chamois country.

"We’ll move up a little further," Brendon muttered. Sticking to Brendon’s heels, both Mick and I were keen to see some action. Approaching another bend along the rough rocky river bed, Brendon slowed the pace to check for any sign of life around the corner. He signalled a stop. Now in full view was a steep but sheltered rocky basin. Before we had time to settle in for a thorough glass of the area, Brendon sensed movement.

"There’s one coming over the top," he whispered, "and another and another, quick!"

Within moments about six dark objects were visible as we scrambled to get into position for a shot. Brendon and I had climbed about 20m up the opposite face in an effort to gain elevation. Dropping my pack I quickly got into position and lined up on the first chamois that stopped. I could hear my daypack rolling down the hill, as the country was so steep.

"Forget the pack; get your crosshairs on that chamois," I remember thinking to myself. "How far mate?" I whispered.

"About 280... quick," Brendon replied.

Lining the chamois up I can remember another buck running in beside him, his horn length was well above the ears and definitely a better trophy, so I quickly changed aim and taking a deep breath held and slowly squeezed the trigger. The buck cartwheeled over the edge into a small gut above a shingle slide, but was stone dead and in full view. Mick had another animal lined up and fired just after me but missed. Within seconds the chamois were a mile away and out of sight.

Sliding back into the creek bed we crossed over to the face my buck was on. Brendon was already half way up the 300m climb. As I approached my trophy, he had already pulled out the tape and was measuring the horn length, with a smile from ear to ear.

"It’s a buck Tony and guess what? He’s just over 9 inches, congratulations mate."

After several photos we decided to leave my buck in a safe spot and continue hunting to give Mick another crack at a chamois.

Brendon explained the head of the valley was about one and a half hour’s walk up river and where the main concentration of animals were usually located. We continued up the valley at a moderate pace glassing likely spots from time to time. A little further and Brendon dropped to his knees, signaling us to keep low. "Chamois," he hissed. "On that next ridge, just below the top."

A quick glass revealed six chamois slowly moving across the face. Brendon led the way, followed by Mick, whose turn it was to shoot. We quickly dashed up the creek and around the next bend to where Mick could prepare for a shot. The chamois were momentarily out of view as we continued our scramble to close the gap. Brendon, whom I’m convinced is part mountain goat, was first on the scene and glassing as Mick and I arrived gasping for breath.

"They're gone...damn!" he said. "They’ve probably gone over the top again."

With clouds rolling in and rain threatening we decided to call it a day.

By mid-afternoon we were back at the boat. Brendon had elected to gut the chamois I had shot and carry him out as he wanted the meat, knowing I only wanted the cape and horns. Within no time it was all aboard and anchors away. Although the lake was still quite calm Brendon assured us we were in for a bit of rain, and sure enough, we barely had time to get mobile when down she came.

The following day we were away in much the same manner as our first and had anchored down before sun up. By first light we were approaching the area where I had shot my buck and Brendon said we’d wait for better light before going any further. No sooner had we got comfortable when a lone chamois came tearing around the opposite face at a trot. He was probably a buck due to the fact that the rut was in full swing and he was on his own. All we could do was watch him pass at about 300m above us on the opposite face. It was apparent he wasn’t stopping for anyone.

"He’s working his way down," Brendon motioned.

As the buck hadn’t seen us, Brendon signalled Mick to stay close and make a mad dash up the creek to see if they could follow his intended movements. As we neared the next bend, Brendon said he caught a glimpse of something in the creek bed, heading across to the opposite face. He quickly propped and began glassing as Mick and I got into position to do the same. Pointing to a basin above where we were located, he rather calmly commented, "There must be twenty chamois in that lot."

Brendon seemed to always be a step ahead of us and that’s what I suppose you’d expect from a first class guide. He certainly knew the area and where to look but never rushed his clients.

"Look, there’s that buck."

The buck we’d seen had crossed the creek in front of us, destined for that mob of chamois. He was about 250m away from us and about the same distance again from the rest of the mob.

"Take him Mick," Brendon whispered. But Mick had already done his homework and at that instant let his Ruger do the talking. I can still vividly see the buck drop to its side as the rest of the mob made good their escape. Mick was over the mood to say the least and after much congratulating he and Brendon headed off to retrieve buck number two.

Mick’s buck measured out at 8 1/2 inches with very heavy bases. The rest of the day was spent photographing and videoing as the pressure was now off for all of us. In fact after seeing more chamois, I’m confident we probably could have taken an extra animal each if we had so desired.

Returning to shore we loaded the vehicle and headed for home. In my books, Brendon’s one day chamois hunts were an utter success and something I’d be proud to tell my mates about.

NICK’S NZ ADVENTURE - Part 2

written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, December 1998

The morning our little expedition set out from Wanaka on the South Island of New Zealand, it was cold, slightly foggy and almost windless. In addition to yours truly there was Tony Pizzata, Brendon Matthews and guide Garry Cochran.

New Zealand is a hunter’s paradise offering an incredible variety of game - Japanese sika deer and axis deer and English fallow deer and Indian sambar and American whitetail and wapiti and European hirsch or red deer - scattered clear across New Zealand from the northerly point of the North Island to the southernmost point in Fiordland.

We drove out to the hunting area, parked the vehicles and unloaded the Honda 4-wheeler out of the back of the Nissan Navara ready for the 8km trip to the top of the range. Brendon took Tony up first and then came back about an hour later for Garry and I. There was a fairly good walking track snaking around the steep slopes which took us right to the top of the range.

We took the Honda as far as we could before leaving it on the far side of the ridge and then took off on foot. It was foggy and visibility was limited to a few metres. Every now and then the mist would drift away allowing a clear view of the lower slopes. We spotted some chamois before the mist came swirling back. Then conditions deteriorated and it began to snow heavily.

We hung about all morning but no amount of glassing through the snow curtains could turn up any chamois. Before long we decided it would be more comfortable having lunch down in Wanaka. All four of us piled on the Honda and it hauled us back down to where the weather was at least bearable.

That afternoon we went back up the mountain but it was snowing heavily so we gave it away for the day. That’s New Zealand for you and only seldom does a hunter get through his trip without losing a day or two to bad weather.

The next morning dawned fine and sunny, a direct contrast to the previous day. The sky was clear and we could glass all round the steep tussocky slopes below us. Garry was delegated to guide me, while Brendon would try and find a chamois for Tony.

As the temperature rose we began to spot chamois far below us. Garry located a herd bedded down in the notch of a narrow saw toothed ridge and after checking their position through a spotting scope, we set off to try and stalk within range.

Brendon and Tony started in another direction parallel to ours. Our route took us down the spine of a narrow ridge which skirted a lush-grassed basin then dropped away sharply before rising up and dropping away between a series of humps.

The view from where we stopped to glass about was stupendous. Blue water lakes against a backdrop of snow-capped peaks. Down in the main gully a red stag roared somewhere out of sight, his rutting call ringing out hoarse and exigent.

For an hour we worked along under the ridge, circling around the edge of the basin behind the ridge to stay out of sight of our quarry. Every now and then bellying up over the spine to glass for the chamois still well below us.

Soon we drew close to the spot where we had located a small bunch of chamois bedded down on a rock ledge. Suddenly, Garry whispered us to halt. He walked on ahead half bent over and cautiously peered over the brink, then returned.

"The chamois are still there, and two bucks, one a good trophy, are grazing across a narrow gut," he told me.

"Start crawling closer so you can have a look. Quietly now," he cautioned.

Half-bent and moving as silently as we could we made our way forward. Lying flat on our bellies, we began wriggling through the tussocks and slithered over to the edge of the drop-off and began glassing. When we finally got into position I raised my head. I could see the rocks, but couldn’t locate the chamois, so we decided to back off and circle back lower down. When we finally got into position Garry again went on ahead.

"They’re there," he whispered upon his return. "They haven’t spotted us yet - the old buck has turned sideways. I can’t tell whether he’s standing up or lying down because of the brush. But he’s in a good position. Just take your time when you shoot. Bring your rifle and come with me."

Jacking a round into the chamber of the BSA .284 Winchester, I began wriggling forward the last few metres. "Be careful, there’s an old doe just below us. Whatever you do, don’t spook her. The buck’s straight across the gut," said Garry, "sideways against the rocks."

Yes, now I saw them, but they were at least 230m away! I examined the biggest buck through my binos, but couldn’t make out any horns. Swinging the glasses back to look at the chamois sprawled out on the rock ledge about 60m directly below us, I couldn’t make out any horns against the brown-grey rocks either.

Garry wasn’t having any better luck, so looked through the glasses at the other two bucks. They walked up onto the ridgetop and were silhouetted against the skyline. Now I could see the thick horns on the larger one, but before I could take aim, he dropped behind the ridge and all I could see was his head. I didn’t dare risk a shot as it would wreck the trophy.

Then I heard Garry say, "The old doe below us has good horns. Shoot her."

The doe was no more than 70m away, almost straight down. In fact, the angle was so steep I had to raise up into a sitting position and shoot literally between my boot toes. She must have sensed danger for she was on her feet looking around, but thankfully not upward.

The old doe was standing quartering slightly away, so I held low on her rib cage and the 130gn Speer spitzer took her at the edge of the spine and ranged down through the lungs and heart to exit behind the far shoulder. She took off in a mad dash down off the ledge into a rocky chute and dropped dead 30m further down.

Garry went back up the ridge to recover my backpack, then came down to join me in the rock chute where the chamois lay. Four more bucks who were standing on the side of the opposite ridge watching us ran off. I whacked a bullet into the face of a bluff ahead of them in an unsuccessful attempt to turn them back.

We sat down to eat lunch before taking pictures and heard two or three shots in the distance. Then moments later Tony Pizzata’s voice came over the walkie-talkie asking us what we were doing. I told him we’d bagged a chamois and were having lunch.

We posed the chamois against a background of steep tussock slopes and I took our photos. While Garry caped her out I started back up the ridge. The narrow necklace of rocks and slippery head of the gut was a finger and toe job and I fought for foot holds and grabbed for tufts of grass. After I surmounted one more steep pinch, the ridgetop had a gradual rise all the way to the top.

Although it was sunny the wind was flowing off snow-clad peaks across the lake and I was very comfortable wearing my Four Seasons outfit all day without stripping off a single layer.

Brendon and Tony were already on top sitting back against a rock glassing for more chamois. Garry arrived half an hour later and they set out after a buck they’d spotted further around the mountain in a basin and had to climb down to it. We took the 4-wheeler halfway down the track and left it for them.

Tony is a good shot and fit and keen. he will walk a long way in the most rugged terrain after game. But on this trip he suffered bad luck all round and missed two more chamois while hunting with Garry. He was using a borrowed rifle and bitterly regretted leaving his beloved Model 70 .300 Winchester Magnum at home.

Tahr Hunt

We stood on a narrow ridgeback, the sheer drop behind us, and gazed into a high basin. On each side New Zealand’s rugged Southern Alps soared up to meet the sky, their moss green tussock-clad slopes rising steeply to sharp peaks which disappeared into clouds.

Brendon Matthews and I had started out before daylight and driven for two hours to reach the hunting area where we’d unloaded the Honda 4-wheeler. Then we’d ridden it up a side gully, following the creek for about 2km. Leaving our petrol pony we continued on foot to a point where we faced a series of basins between peaks that soared up in a massive semi circle to form the backbone of the range.

We had found our quarry, the tahr, after glassing a series of bluffs. I couldn’t distinguish between the bulls or the cows until Brendon pointed them out to me, for the browny coloured coats of the shaggy mountaineers were almost indistinguishable from the colour of the rocks.

As I discovered after hunting chamois and Arapawa ram with him. Brendon has a good knowledge of the fame he hunts and knows how to go about finding big trophy-class animals.

Through my 7x24 binocular I began searching higher on the rock pile. Suddenly, a section of the bluffs seemed to shake itself loose. It paused, warily, then swiftly, silently a dark blur detached itself and walked upward and into the clouds.

Patches of mist hugged the rugged rocky outcropping where only minutes earlier my guide, had spotted two big bull tahr. The mist thinned out and drifted away, allowing us a clear view of two blocky black shapes standing atop the bluffs where they were silhouetted against the blue sky.

The holy grail for mountain hunters; the premier challenge to which all good keen hunters aspire is that of taking a free-ranging trophy Himalayan tahr under conditions of fair chase. But they’re the hardest to bag of all the South Island’s game species.

"We’ll get to them Nick," Brendon said confidently, "after a wee walk."

The "wee walk" turned out to be grueling mountaineering marathon as we slogged for four hours uphill to reach the snow-grass grazing area under the peaks. We went zigzagging between the wringing wet tussocks that dotted the steep slopes. However, when we finally reached a rock outcropping across the gully walking half bent over to gain its cover, we expected to find the two bulls and attendant cows grazing, below the bluffs opposite, but they had all walked over into the next gut.

We were hunting on private land where there were some big bull tahr. A shepherd had told us that a few days before we got there he’d spotted a herd of 15 big bulls in this basin while mustering sheep.

Gradually, we picked our way up and around the mountainside, detouring here and there to avoid the browny gray outcroppings of rock, working our way around great bluffs - the remains of ancient landslides - that cantilevered out from the slopes.

We snaked our way around until we reached a point just below the top of the range before Brendon called a halt. Now at our feet the valley spread out like a rich green, brown and grey tapestry, with a thin streak of silver where the stream meandered through it. Out came the binoculars again and another slow, deliberate search of the surrounding bluffs and slips took place before we started toiling further around toward the head of the valley.

A nanny tahr observed us curiously from her perch on a bluff only 40m away. As we drew closer she slowly walked away without spooking several others behind her. We were wearing the latest Swazi polarfleece camo gear and although she could see movement, I doubted if she could make out what we were.

We sat atop a pulpit-shaped rock and resumed glassing, discovering two young tahr watching us from the opposite side of a shallow gully. Then Brendon spotted a bull about 200mg below us, lying in the monkey scrub, surrounded by his harem of nannies.

"Don’t shoot, he’ll only go about 11-1/2 inches," my competent young guide advised me.

Highly gregarious when their eagle-like eyes are blinded by lust out of the rut the biggest trophy bulls are normally loners. You’ll spot them camped under some overhanging ledge along a bluff or above a slide, where they don’t have to walk far to graze. Their long hair stops just short of their feet and almost drags on the ground. Coat coloration varies from near-black to near-gold.

The bull’s short, sharply curved-back horns are reinforced with a ridge along their leading edge. Nature has also provided their thick skulls with a double-walled shock-absorbing construction. Inside the outer skull lies a separate brain pan of thick bone, protected and bolstered by webbed struts of bone. Evidently, their heads were designed this way to prevent the bulls suffering from concussion under the shocking impacts sustained when they charge headlong at each other and crash their heads together during rutting combat.

The wind had freshened by now, blowing toward us, prompting us to don our Swazi parkas against the chill. Brendon had maneuvered correctly and the herd had no idea of our whereabouts. From our vantage point we could see that the bull was in a protective position near the edge of a bluff with his harem out in front of him, and lookouts set beyond them.

We sat there and scanned all around the basin, discovering animals scattered all around us. It was tahr heaven! Just then a nanny whistled her alarm cry and tahr stuck their heads up out of the monkey bush everywhere to see what was up. Suddenly we saw a big bull running along the edge of the slip below us before coming to a halt.

"He’ll go over 12 inches," Brendon told me. "Better take him."

Bolting a round into the chamber of the BSA .284, I held a bit low on his chest to allow for the steep angle downhill and fired. The bull seemed to drop on the spot and we congratulated each other.

Suddenly, another bigger bull appeared. He came bursting up out of the slide, crossed the scree and ran along the opposite ridge heading downhill. He was in the lead and there was a herd of nannies strung out behind him for several hundred metres.

"He’s even bigger than the one you shot," Brendon said in awe. Altogether we estimated there’d been about 70 tahr in that basin.

We went to look for the bull I’d shot, but couldn’t find him. Although we searched for two hours, quartering the slope forth and back we couldn’t find hide nor hair of him.

Eventually we concluded the bullet must have hit the monkey bush and been deflected or else blew apart. It was probably the same bull we’d seen leading the nannies away. It was a pair of disappointed hunters who decided to stay high and sidehill around the top of the mountain. In the evening we’d follow a long ridge back down to the 4-wheeler.

We were trailing around just below the crest of the ridge when suddenly Brendon motioned with the flat of his hand for me to halt and get down. Bending over I drew alongside my guide.

"Big Bull!" he hissed, as he looked through his binos.

I aimed my Bausch & Lomb 7x24 across the basin at the head of a broad slip. The blocky, black-coloured bull stood out above his harem of nannies. He was starting to rut and was far too busy trying to woo one of his girlfriends to notice two hunters crouched down amidst the tussocks. This lack of wariness may well prove his downfall, I thought.

We had located a very big bull tahr and glassing with the B&L 7x24 binoculars I could make out enough of the heavy-based horns to know that he was a keeper - a top trophy.

"Get ready to shoot," Brendon hissed. Carefully, quietly, I eased a shiny fat .284 Winchester round into the chamber of my BSA and steadied the fore-end by resting my hand on top of my backpack.

Bellied down on the slope with a rifle I knew like a brother I felt confident the bull was mine. Then Brendon whispered in my ear, "The range is 348 yards".

A broad grin creased my face. Brendon was using a Simmons rangefinder he’d bought from an American client the previous week to good effect. The laser-operated instrument had proved very accurate on previous occasions he’d employed it.

My handloaded ammunition was driving the 130gn Speer spitzer boat-tail at around 3200fps. I had my BSA rifle sighted-in so that the bullet dropped 4 inches at 300yd.

Placing the horizontal crosswire in the Leupold 2-7x scope on top of the bull’s shaggy shoulder, just behind the taupe coloured cape that marked his withers, I applied a steady pressure to the trigger.

The report split the silence of the basin wide open. Startled tahr nannies took off in all directions. The bull, mortally hit, went careering downhill through the monkey scrub, came to a halt and stood there swaying back and forth. Remembering the difficulty we’d had in searching for the other bull I decided a little insurance might be a good thing. So I planted another bullet in his chest.

The bull plunged forward, toppled over the edge of the slip and went rolling over and over down the scree in a shower of rocks. It was a spectacular sight to watch. The bull kept gathering speed and rolled about 300 or 400yd before vanishing out of sight.

I was worried that perhaps we wouldn’t be able to recovery my trophy from the big slip hemmed in by sheer walls of rock. "Do you think we can recover him?" I asked Brendon anxiously.

"We’ll get him," he replied confidently.

We dropped down through the tussocks bordering the broad gash in the mountainside until we drew opposite the spot where a rocky outcropping jutted above the floor of the slip. Brendon took off in a hurry leaving me plodding along behind. Five minutes later I could see him standing on top of the rock looking down at his feet. I knew he’d found the tahr.

Crossing into a small spring-fed creek, I clambered up to where Brendon sat grinning like a Cheshire cat alongside a bull that looked to be as large as a black bullock. While I watched he took a tape from his pocket and measured the horns. Then he stuck his hand out and shook mine.

"Congratulations, you’ve shot the biggest bloody tahr I’ve ever seen in my life. His horns are 14 inches long!"

Nothing to compare with the 56 inches of my kudu or nearly as spectacular as my New Mexico elk, or even the three twisty feet of the headgear of the feral goat I’d taken near Waimate three days earlier. Only 14 inches of ridged and battle-scarred horn. But that put my tahr well into the record class for these Himalayan exotics.

But no matter how stubby the horns this tahr was much more impressive by virtue and being extremely difficult to get. This was a trophy I’d earned the hard way, climbing all day for 12 hours among the New Zealand peaks.

A bull tahr is easily the most fascinating and prestigious trophy animal in the South Pacific region. He deserves a fair chase hunt and to be taken on his own ground without the aid of a helicopter. This way he offers a serious challenge in his own exacting and rugged kingdom.

CHAMOIS - New Zealand’s Smallest Big Game

written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, October 1999

The basin across the steep gorge from us lay in a mood of sunlit inactivity. Apparently, except for my guide, Brendon Matthews, and I, this part of the mountain range was deserted. As we climbed up the tussock-clad ridge, we’d stopped and examined every hectare of the surrounding terrain with our 10x42 Leica binoculars many times. After we topped out, we had sat and glassed a dozen more times in the last two hours and after the most recent slow, cautious probe my guide had lowered his glasses and sighed, "Not a bloody chamois in sight".

I grunted my disgust and tried to straighten my cramped right leg. My guide unwound his own lanky frame and yawned. "Bit of a waste of time lying here any longer, don’t you think?"

I flicked an eye at the sun riding high in the sky, and said, "I’m for all going farther back up along the ridge and crossing over. I don’t think there’s a chamois left in this part of the country. The landholder told us he’d carried out a rough muster last week and all along the ridge there’s sheep tracks imprinted on top of chamois tracks. I think they’ve all moved out, at least for the time being."

We were hunting at about the 2000m above sea level on the east coast of New Zealand’s South Island in a hunting area Brendon calls "The Lakes". Our base camp lay about an hour’s drive north, and there was blue lake below us to the east and south, while way off on the horizon to the west, Mount Cook jutted skywards, shrouded in mist and providing a beautiful backdrop to the breathtaking view.

Somewhere down in the guts of the steep ravine below us, Tony Pizzata and his guide, Garry, were struggling over the rocky creek bed, below the gorse and manuka, heading in our general direction. Brendon heaved a sigh and advised me that we should take a "wee walk" further back.

Chamois are a real challenge to the hunter. This largely European goat-antelope is widely distributed on the Continent, being found in the Pyrenees, the French, Austrian, Italian, and Yugoslavian Alps, the Jura, the Tatra and Carpathian mountains, the highlands of south-east Europe and south-west Asia.

They were introduced with great success in the South Island of New Zealand in 1907 when six does and two bucks were liberated - a gift from Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria. They are generally found between the 1500m and 2500m levels, descending lower in winter.

The chamois arrived a few years after the Himalayan tahr which are true wild goats, except that the cows have four teats. The Duke of Bedford imported some tahr from India to England in 1897 and in 1904 presented six of their offspring to the New Zealand Government. They were liberated like the chamois were later, in the Mount Cook area.

An hour later we were bellied down on the spine of the ridge glassing the vast open folds of the steep slopes opposite. "If there’s any chamois they’re bedded down," I said. "Maybe amongst the tussocks or that jumble of rocks below the bluff."

Brendon agreed. "It’s likely they’ll stay bedded until mid afternoon, so our best bet is to circle around to the head of that basin, and rest somewhere ourselves until it’s time for them to start feeding again. We can look over a lot of country from there."

An hour later, we were lying on an outcrop of rock just made to order for an observation post. From it we could glass the entire basin in front without being seen. If the chamois were indeed in small patches of brush and gorse, we’d spot them as soon as they moved. After a long wait I was half asleep when Brendon’s elbow dug me in the ribs. I head him whisper a single electrifying word: "Chamois!"

I rolled over onto my belly and got my binoculars solidly bedded on my daypack. Failing to find anything at the bottom of the basin, I was scanning the face of a bluff, when my companion murmured "On top of the broken rocks higher up, the ridge, a lone buck!"

I panned my glass over to the bluffs. A lone chamois was standing there silhouetted against the coppery flare of the sun on the skyline. The heart rate picked up tempo as the Leica steadied and fixed on the animal’s horns. They looked to have good hooks, but I watched and waited while Brendon set up the Meopta 2x spotting scope.

I admired the alert-looking buck, a moderately deep-chested little animal with sturdy limbs, I recognised that he was built to be perfectly adapted for alpine conditions. A full grown male may weigh 45kg or even 55kg; the female will generally weigh about 10kg less. Both sexes carry horns, the buck’s being thicker, wider apart and curved backwards more strongly.

As I watched, the buck was joined by five does who suddenly trooped out of the tussocks. The chamois were starting in the rut and the buck was soon sniffing at one of the does. Two of the does looked to have nice long horns.

The does can also provide good trophy heads. An old female is highly regarded as a trophy in Europe, and one was shot in New Zealand which had 30cm horns. Behind the horns lie two scent glands, which are particularly active during the rut, when a heavy musk-like odour is given off. The chamois coat is reddish smooth in the summer, changing to a thick long-haired black winter one.

We were hunting in mid-April and their coats were still reddy coloured. I marveled at their agility as they jumped nimbly from rock to rock. Chamois breed polygamously. Gestation takes between 160 and 170 days, with young mostly being singles, but occasionally twins will be dropped in September.

Before dropping her young, the dam leaves the herd and finds a sheltered hiding place in which to give birth. A young chamois can stand and even walk when its coat is dry, and begins to graze in about 10 days. Average life expectancy in the wild is about 10 years, but a Jaeger said an old doe I shot in Austria was 13!

Brendon, who had been studying the buck through the Meopta spotter for several minutes, said "Take a good look at that buck. He’s got long, heavy, even horns. I reckon he’ll go around 27 cm. That’s an exceptionally good trophy."

We nestled down against the rock, scarcely daring to move. While the chamois were at least 500m above us and close to 1500m away, they had a birds eye view of all that lay beneath them. A rabbit couldn’t have moved on the floor of the basin without having at least one of the animals spot it.

We watched the chamois spread out and start grazing. They were by now, I judged, almost 2km from us. The index finger of my guide’s right hand drummed a nervous tattoo on the top of the spotter. "No possible chance of getting within range before dark, is there?" he asked me to confirm.

There certainly was not. It would be dark in an hour, and the stalk would take double that time. A premature attempt would only botch the whole affair and perhaps scare the chamois clean out of the territory.

"Better if we back off and get out of here now and come back with daylight in the morning," I replied. "They won’t move far tonight if they’re not spooked."

We slid back from the outcrop until we were behind the ridgetop and when it shielded us we stood upright. Then we followed the main ridge back down to where we’d left the Nissan pick-up.

We didn’t have to wait long where the creek in the gorge joined the lake before Tony and Garry arrived. Tony was carrying a chamois head and cape. They’d followed the creek bed a long way, gradually gaining height all the time without seeing a single animal. Then on the way back, Tony spotted a lone buck at the base of a rockslide about 350m away and knocked him off with a well-placed 130gn Hornady from his Winchester Model 70. He’d earned his trophy the hard way.

We were back at that spot in the chilly pre-dawn the next day and started climbing, eventually veering over further from our outcrop of the previous day. North and east sky was uninterrupted blue, but to the south and west ragged dark clouds hid Mount Cook from view.

It was steep going, but we took it steady, pausing once in a while to catch our breath. I was wearing Huntech’s Four Season outfit and soon peeled one inner layer off and stowed it in my pack. We circled wide and came onto the edge of the basin further around and higher up.

Our Leicas picked up the chamois as soon as we peered over the rim. They were still feeding in the same general area, slightly higher up. They were primarily browsers, and eat twigs, bark and alpine grasses and weeds. They probably wouldn’t bed down until mid-morning.

We lay quietly, glassing between the tussocks, watching the chamois and deciding on the need to get a bit higher. The ridge up which we had to climb was split by a deep ravine whittled down to bedrock by centuries of heavy rain and snow. The cut began as a narrow trench at the spine of the ridge but widened as it went up to reach a saddle.

Now everything hinged on the wind. At 2000m the wind seldom blows from any one direction for long. The peaks trap it as it whips down over their brows, hold it a while and then turn it loose in any direction. It was out of the Southwest now, gently fanning our faces.

When we finally crawled out atop the short saddle, we hunched down behind a heap of rocks just as the wind changed direction and blew across in front of us. Westward, the top of Mount Cook thrust up into a sky that was slowly clearing and the sun shone through the breaking clouds. Lady Luck was smiling on us.

We lay there on the same level as the chamois and focused our binoculars on the spot where they’d last been. It was deserted!

"Look around near the foot of those bluffs," Brendon said. I picked out half a dozen reddy-brown chamois scattered through the jumbled rocks and gorse.

"Get ready to shoot," he said as he pulled a Simmons Rangefinder out of his pack and aimed it at the chamois. I jacked the Leupold’s magnification up to 8x and chambered a .270 Weatherby cartridge in my Model 70 Stainless Synthetic. With a solid rest on my daypack, I got the cross-wires on the buck’s spine as he stood with head downhill browsing on weeds growing amid the rocks.

"It’s 200m?", Brendon said. I squeezed the trigger and sent a 150gn Partition Gold winging on its way. As the rifle came back in recoil, through the scope I saw the buck limply sliding down over the rock and his girlfriends scattering to the four winds. Ten minutes later Brendon and I were admiring him.

The horns were very heavy and even - 26.5cm (10-1/2in) long. It was the perfect end to an interesting hunt.

TWO TWELVES - Try a guide on tahr

written by P D Budd, published in New Zealand Outdoor, November 1999

After hunting deer, mainly Sika in the North Island for nearly 20 years and not securing my dream head, even though I’ve shot several 8 pointers, none to brag about, The first Sika I ever saw in the wild an S pointer in the velvet is the only one to be hung on the wall. I decided to try and get a bull Tahr in the 12" category, while my legs could still handle the hills of the South Island.

With time and local knowledge against me I decided to hire a guide. After perusing ads in several magazines, and a few phone calls, I booked a hunt with MATTHEWS TROPHY HUNTING in June.

Fitness was going to be first, as I didn’t want to be struggling and not enjoy myself. So out came the ten speed and a slow build up to get the legs and lungs used to a bit of extra curricular activity, as sitting on a forklift they don’t get much. A local "hill" provided some other training, as I believe the only way to get fit for climbing hills is climbing hills. A borrowed exercycle also found muscles I never knew were there. A bit of encouragement and competition going up the "hill" from long time work and hunting mate Kerry saw everything progressing well, with six months still to go. April and another try for that Sika. After several days and only hearing two or three stags things weren’t looking to good. I shot a yearling hind for meat as Kerry was coming to join me for a couple of days. I got back to camp and his Ute was there so I knew he’d be out trying his luck. When he got back, over a few tinnies we discussed where we’d go tomorrow. Just before lights out I started getting pain down my right leg which started to get more unbearable even with more pain killers, and some panadol. After a sleepless night I decided to call it quits and go home and see a doctor, Siatica caused by a collapsed disc was the diagnosis. Things got worse I could hardly walk for a couple of days, with visions of my Tahr trip going out the window.

Three weeks off work laying on the couch watching TV saw my fitness almost back to square one, I could hardly pedal the bike, let alone walk up hills. It must have been the thought of losing my airfare and deposit that saw a concerted effort to get fit again, with only three weeks up my sleeve. A good flight to Christchurch saw me waiting at the airport to be picked up by Brendon Matthews, but it was Gary that picked me up as I was a day early. Brendon was with another client. Gary works for Matthews Trophy Hunting as a guide and accompanied us on my hunt taking some brilliant video footage.

Six o’clock the next morning and we were on our way, about two hours later at the hut I was looking at a bull Tahr through a spotting scope. On questioning how long it would take to get up there, five to six hours was the reply, they were bigger hills than I’d thought. We spotted another a bit closer so decided on a closer look. We went upstream and glassed several side creeks, spotting several other Bulls but out of range as far as time went, so headed back, stopping to look for the Bull we saw from the hut. Eagle-eyed Brendon spotted three bulls and it wasn’t until I looked through the spotting scope I knew where to look. It was getting late so they would have to wait until tomorrow. So back to the hut. It’s here I should mention the hut is more like a motel. The smell of bacon and eggs, cooked by Gary had us up and raring to go. There was a strong wind coming down the valley so we looked downstream in a sheltered creek. After half an hour of nothing sighted, Brendon decided to look for the ones we spotted yesterday, when time was running out.

After going back upstream for an hour Brendon got his spotting scope out, with the howling wind, didn’t expect to see much, obviously experience coming into play. So after a lengthy glassing where we’d seen several the day before, it was decided to go back and look for the three bulls we’d seen yesterday.

It didn’t take long for Brendon to spot one, no two, after a few seconds seventeen was the count, with three trophy bulls amongst them. A plan was devised to stalk them, which would take over an hour to get into shooting range. This is where the training came into play, Brendon was like a Tahr, and my legs and lungs were grateful for his rest stops. He’d been a shepherd on this property after leaving school. After getting into position and watching the Tahr to determine the biggest bull, we had to wait not only for the wind but for the bull to stand up, as he was resting behind some scrub. A passing nanny did the trick and he was straight into doing what comes naturally.

The distance between us of 264m was confirmed by the laser range finder. A wait for the wind to drop was the only concern. As soon as it did the .280 Hornady 139grn S.P was on its way.

At the sound of the sot Tahr were running for cover, but not so my bull; a short dash down hill saw him tumble and roll head over heals, all of which was captured on video by Gary. Then another unseen bull came charging out of the gut between my fallen trophy and us. At about this time Brendon asked if he could have a shot with my rifle, handing it over to him I warned him of the light trigger, just under 2lbs. His first shot going in between a fleeing nannies feet, exclaiming shit! It is light. Then connecting with his second shot. As we got up to go and inspect my trophy, we spied a second bull hiding in some scrub about 200m across from where we were laying. He obviously thought he was safe because even after we stood up to go over to inspect my trophy, he just stayed put. A lengthy video session watching him seemed not to disturb him at all.

Upon traversing some screes that only Tahr normally do we came across my trophy with his feet in the air. Brendon pulled the tape out of his pocket confirming 12", my training hadn’t been in vain. After the photo session, of which there were many, I sat back and watched two professionals at work. After the caping was done, Brendon asked if I’d like the backsteaks to try. I’d eaten every thing available in the N.I. so why not.

We headed back across, to where we’d started from then Brendon the proverbial salesman spied the other bull still exactly where it was over an hour previously. We got a whole lot closer this time, as I’d already seen this bull. It looked to be bigger around the base of the horns as I could see the growth rings of his horns in my scope. After a bit of discussion I decided to take a second trophy, after all my legs mightn’t make it next year. As it turned out there was very little difference between the two, only an inch around the bases. A second photo session and I was all smiles this time. Just as we got back to the hut the weather turned around, so a hasty decision was made to make a run for it.

Well my legs might regret it but I plan to go back next year for a Chamois!

The MIGHTY FALLOW BUCKS of NEW ZEALAND

written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, Novemebr 1999

We were standing alongside a fallow buck scrape that was big enough to couch a yearling steer. It had rained lightly the previous day and the ground was gouged with sharp-toed tracks, all of them made by mature animals, hopefully the trophy buck I was looking for would be amongst them.

The gorse and manuka clumps had been hooked and horned and thrashed to pieces. Little piles of shredded bark lay beside deeply scored trunks. Heavy antlers had broken off many of the lower branches. In marking out his territory, the buck rubs or thrashes small trees and bushes about the perimeter of his stand. In the process he salivates freely and will rub his muzzle on the broken bark of a rubbing tree and transfer the moisture to his flanks.

A secretion from the glands below the eyes is also transferred, and he urinates in the scrape. We would smell the pungent odour of a rutting buck who’d recently been in the rutting stand. The area looked promising, just as guide, Brendon Matthews, had said it would be.

I was certain that our two days of hard walking and constant glassing of tussock-clad slopes with our Leica 10x42 binoculars was going to pay off. The previous evening we’d sat on a ridge for more than an hour without hearing a sound. Then we heard the rattling hoarse call of a rutting buck. The sound was followed by a low grunting interspersed with sharp squeals from a rutting stand in a nearby gully where he waited for the does to come to him. However, it got dark and the buck still hadn’t put in an appearance, so we went back to camp.

Unlike other species of deer, the fallow buck doesn’t round up and herd a harm of does. Instead, the does in season visit him in his stand. These same stands are used year after year by the master bucks and they are jealously guarded against any intrusion by younger bucks and challengers.

We’d seen a number of bucks, all showing signs of rut - swollen necks with prominent Adam’s apple. They were aggressively fighting with other bucks and on a number of occasions we heard antlers clashing together from a long way off. We were hunting on a private block in South Canterbury in the South Island of New Zealand which is noted for its fine tahr. Last year I bagged a fine 35cm bull further back in the ranges, but now we were looking for an equally fine free-ranging fallow trophy on the lower slopes. It was a difficult task, for even though the animals were rutting they had lost little of their natural caution and wariness.

The base of the mountains was heavily cloaked in gorse and manuka where the bucks hid out during the daylight hours. They are cunning enough to lie doggo in the thick cover and let you walk past within a few metres.

Once we were stalking around the rim of a gorse-choked gully when we heard an explosive, heaving cough. From its deep tone I knew it was a big deer. He was probably lying in his bed, and only about 20m away. From the evidence around us, the odds were it was a buck. The problem was how to stalk the deer in brush and gorse so thick you couldn’t walk through it or see more than a couple of metres in any direction.

Then across on the opposite ridge we spotted the tops of three sets of antlers as three large bucks came over the ridgetop. One was much darker and older than the others with high, broad palms and good brow tines. We sat and watched them through our Leica binoculars while we sized them up. They were all shootable bucks, but one’s antlers were of uneven length, while the third had a distinctive throwback. However, they made a pretty picture standing there posing against the clear, blue sky.

Suddenly, they spooked and trotted along the ridge for a short distance before vanishing into the gorse jungle out of sight. Then Tony Pizzata and his guide, Garry, appeared at the spot where the deer had been standing. After looking around with their glasses, they spotted us and waved. Then Tony shouted to alert us that there was a fallow buck hiding in the gorse alongside a dry tree only 20mt in front of us.

It must have been the buck we heard earlier. Brendon lobbed a rock into the gorse alongside the tree and the deer shot out of cover and up over the edge going straight into overdrive when he hit the clear country. He skirted the edge of the gorse for a short distance before zipping into the brush to vanish from sight.

We could see that he was a trophy class buck, but Tony and Garry later swore that he was a far superior buck to any of the three we’d been watching and had a rack like you wouldn’t believe. Brendon and I were dubious about that, but they’d had plenty of time to study him while he stood in the gorse.

We saw a number of bucks but they didn’t behave as fallow deer are supposed to behave. They rarely came out into the open. They lurked in the edges of the jungly cover and only came out when it was too dark to see them, even with the aid of our Leicas. Our worst suspicions were confirmed. Those Kiwi bucks had been educated to what hunting was all about.

I wasn’t going to shoot the first buck I saw, even if he looked fairly good, because I wanted something special. I was reasonably certain that we could find one of those hoary old bucks with an immense rack if we were patient, so we spent two days scouting the country. We climbed to every vantage point we could find and glassed for hours on end.

We decided to try and find the big buck that Garry and Tony reckoned was so special, but although we combed the area all the next morning we could not find hide nor hair of him. In the afternoon we climbed up a high and steep mountainside bordering a forestry area. It was almost completely covered with dense manuka interlaced with fallen trees and standing snags.

A little creek started near the top and coursed almost straight down the mountain before making a sudden turn to snake its way across the open flats. Right in the middle of this almost impenetrable mass of brush was a stand of tall pines. It was only a few hectares in size and completely hedged in by gorse, but the heavy cover made it an ideal spot for a buck to hide in.

Whenever big bucks are subjected to heavy hunting pressure, hiding becomes their first consideration. They will clear out of an area altogether and commence making a fresh line of scrapes.

Brendon and I liked something else about that patch of pines. A buck wants to hide out in dense cover but also wants to be able to see out. The patch of pines was on a little flat on the mountainside, but a small fingertip ridge ran right to the creek where it ran down through the gorse. We inspected it with binoculars from a vantage point about 2km away and saw quite a few openings in the manuka and pine where a buck could lie in the sun and keep watch over the surrounding country.

For more than an hour we surveyed the area with our Leicas, planning a route through the dense timber. We wanted to hit the creek about 300m above the patch of gorse. In that jungle, the only way to see any distance was across the creek or up. So we memorised the way we had to go, knowing full well the odds were against nailing a buck in that tangle.

Half an hour later we were sneaking along a deer trail which skirted the edge of a steep drop above a scrubby gully, moving only one step every two or three minutes because I wanted to see the buck before he saw me. Easing forward to the edge of the bank I found myself looking at a big buck asleep in a little clearing in the gorse, about 150m away.

Brendon saw him at the same time and we lay on our bellies and studied him through our 10x42 binoculars trying to size up his antlers. He was a fine trophy buck, but not the one we’d seen the previous day.

The thick-bodied, reddy-coloured buck looked almost white in the sun as I counted 16 points on his heavy antlers. Making up my mind, I indicated to Brendon that I’d take him and slid the Winchester Model 70 in .270 Weatherby Magnum forward to rest on my daypack. Slowly chambering a round, I settled down to take aim.

There was a stiff breeze blowing up the creek and the buck’s antlers were laid along his back. I decided I’d have to aim well back of his shoulder to avoid hitting his antler. When the 150gn Partition Gold slammed home, the deer just rolled over and lay still.

We got down to where he was by following a deer trail that twisted and turned through the gorse and manuka to descent to the valley floor. We found the buck and I noticed that the entrance hole where the bullet had landed was oblong. Further examination revealed that the bullet had nicked the edge of one antler and had been expanding when it slammed into the deer’s body. I hadn’t made enough allowance for the wind.

My New Zealand hunt had successfully been completed by taking the fallow - or at least I thought it had. The next day Brendon and I spent the morning culling goats, knocking a number of billies across a wide gorge. He was shooting his Brno ZKK .270 while I used my .270 Weatherby. We had a bit of a bomb-up and rode the 4-wheeler back to camp for lunch.

In the late afternoon we went out looking for a trophy goat. This time we were accompanied by Philip Bailey, a farmer who was providing accommodation and meals on his property, although we weren’t hunting there. We were travelling through the same area where I’d seen a world class billy the year before. With the wind in our faces, we came upon fresh tracks and steaming droppings. Apparently, there were a number of does and a buck in the herd - a big fellow, judging by the size of the tracks. They had moved off upwind at our approach.

Knowing there were deer moving somewhere ahead of us, we started to follow the trail in the hope of getting a look at them.

Brendon had two clients arriving on the weekend to hunt fallow and wanted to know what bucks were in the vicinity. We walked steadily after them, pussyfooting between the clumps of gorse that dotted the grassy ridgetop. There was plenty of cover and it was ideal stalking country.

A kilometre further along, there were dozens of tracks crisscrossing the original ones, and the tension really started to build up. With that number of deer on the move, we were bound to see something soon. Suddenly, Philip grabbed my arm and pointed, saying in a low voice, "Look at that bloody huge buck in the gully over there".

By the time my eyes found the spot he indicated the buck was gone, but Brendon, who was carrying his video camera said "Let’s go around the edge of that gully and see if we can get him on film".

We hurried across the open hillside, circling around the gorse to sit on the ground to look through our binoculars. Brendon was opening his camera case when he saw the tops of the buck’s antlers as he ran through the gorse below us. We got a clear view as he crossed a grassy clearing and started up the opposite side. It was the same big buck we’d all seen two days ago. We recognised him by a distinctive cleft atop his right palm and his long brow tines.

Without conscious thought. I worked the bolt to chamber a round and swung onto the buck, who by this time had nearly reached the top of ridge and was ready to duck into a side gully. I knew that once in there, we’d never see him again. As he slowed up to round the corner prior to diving into cover I pressed the trigger and saw the 150gn Partition Gold knock him flat.

We pushed through the thicket of gorse, crossed the gully floor and followed the deer trail up the side of the ridge to where my buck lay. When we pulled his head around and saw the length of his antlers and width of the palms we all exclaimed about how massive they were. The taxidermist in Christchurch who does all Brendon’s work told him that it was the best fallow trophy he’d seen in years, adding that he couldn’t believe those antlers and brow tines were so long.

Nobody knows what to expect of a free ranging fallow buck. Hunting him is a game of wits, in which you pit your patience, knowledge and skill against a wary, cunning quarry. You stalk him on his own terms in his own territory and try and outguess him as you go along. It’s not often he slips up, but in the event he becomes careless just once, you have to be in place to take best advantage.

Canadian Wapiti in Kiwiland

written by Nick Harvey, published in Sporting Shooter, December 1999

The big bull bugled again, and my fingers tightened convulsively around the forend of my rifle. Whenever I hear an elk bugle, it causes a primordial tingle along my spine as I thrill to that compelling and attractive sound. I glanced over at Brendon Matthews, seated a couple of metres away. He pointed towards a tangle of manuka edged with gorse in front of us, indicating that the wapiti would emerge from that cover.

Seconds later another shrieking bugle shattered the still morning air. The call was a challenge issued with courage and the desire to procreate. One could sense the pride in his maleness as the wapiti bull filled his lungs with icy air and raised his head to pour forth a tremendous volume of sound that filled the entire valley from side to side, and went echoing up every side gully.

The guttural roaring rose in pitch to trumpet tones, going higher and higher, finally breaking into a shrill screaming whistle, then fading to drop again to the guttural, before concluding with a few savage grunts. We could hear the bull raking his antlers as he vented his fury on manuka saplings.

I bolted a round into the chamber of my Model 70 .270 Weatherby Magnum, engaged the safety catch and turned the power ring on my Leupold scope down to 2-1/2x. The bull would be no more than 50m away when he came into view. I was sure he would be moving, probably coming straight towards us in a belligerent rush to combat. I wanted the widest field of view my scope was capable of.

Then limbs snapped and there was a crashing in the bush just out of view. I waited expectantly.

"He’s circling into the wind," I whispered to Brendon. "He’ll catch our scent soon if you can’t get him out of cover soon. Make another roar."

My guide-outfitter made a call like a bull elk itching for a fight. Instantly, the enraged bull bugled a challenge. He was closer now, and I was straining my eyes trying to get a glimpse of him through the tangle of bush. But I still couldn’t spot him.

Suddenly, the sound of him crashing through the undergrowth sounded further away. Brendon muttered, "We’ve lost him."

When bulls hear suspicious bugling, some undoubtedly head in the opposite direction. Others, like this one, will sneak in, quiet and wary, and then circle around until air currents betray the caller and give the bull a negative reaction.

We sat there glassing all around for half an hour while listening for another bugle, but that rambunctious bull wapiti had made himself scarce. It pays to treat the big bulls with respect during the rut. A couple of weeks before while he was checking the area out, Brendon walked onto a bull lying down; it jumped to its feet and with mane all bristling made a regular charge upon the outfitter who took to his heels and managed to lose him.

We were hunting during the rut on the South Island of New Zealand for wapiti. The high block we were stalking had pure Canadian wapiti (Cervus Candensis nelsoni) on it, and if reports were true, some magnificent bulls. Earlier that day we’d glassed a monster of a bull grazing in a gully hemmed in by steep slopes thickly covered with manuka and gorse.

We got the spotting scope on him and checked him out. He had very long, straight antlers without the characteristic throwbacks and Brendon labeled him as being from Fiordland stock.

As we toiled back up the ridge and crossed a saddle to reach the top of an adjoining ridge, we heard the bark of a cow wapiti far below. As we wandered along I saw antler-scarred trees, fresh droppings and plenty of tracks indented in the soft soil of the track running along the ridgetop. After going another 2km, we again sat down to glass. The mountains throw up rocky, knife-like ridges above timbered hills slashed with steep gorges. Here and there open mountain meadows show bright green against the dark timber bordered by the ubiquitous gorse with its yellow flowers. This was some of the most beautiful hunting country I’d ever seen anywhere.

We walked out into the highest point and started glassing with our Leica 10x42 binoculars. The only animals we located were a herd of fallow that was also rutting. A poor sort of buck seemed to be lording it over about a dozen does, while two lesser bucks hung around hoping to get in on the action.

We dropped down the ridge and when we reached the brush rim we eased up carefully and began glassing. The amount of fine detail revealed by the Leicas never fails to amaze me. They’re easily the best binoculars I’ve ever used.

"I saw two bulls in this basin a week ago," Brendon said. We watched the basin until late afternoon, but no wapiti appeared, so we continued our descent intending to skirt the bases of the ridges and head back to the vehicle.

Halfway down the ridge we stopped and while I sat atop a rock and began using my 10x42s, Brendon pulled out his elk bugle, a piece of pipe, and made a call into the deep gorge to the south. The sound had hardly died away when a bull answered from dense pines far below. Then another bull bugled somewhere close.

Through my glasses I picked up two bulls on a distant clearing as they sparred for the control of a small herd of cows. I turned to Brendon. "Hey, want to see two bulls fighting over a harem?"

We watched the combat for several minutes until the smaller bull broke and ran. The victor extended his back and let go with a piercing bugle, proclaiming himself to be king of the mountain, but his calls sounded faint because of the distance between us.

"That’s the bull we want," Brendon said, "a real rump scratcher," as the bull started herding his harem into the trees.

We climbed back above the scrubline and followed the horseshoe shaped ridgeline around to where we’d seen the herd bull vanish. The sun was sinking low when we took cover in a patch of manuka. Quietly we moved through it, and took a seat overlooking a basin about 300m below where we’d seen the bull earlier in the day.

We kept our vigil until the sun dropped low over the horizon and the crosswires in my scope were hard to see, but the bull didn’t come out to graze.

It was a tough hike off that mountain in the dark and we had to pick our way along as we followed the sidehill, travelling downward. It was late when we got back to the homestead.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon the next morning when we started back up the range. This time we headed straight for the area where we’d seen the two bulls fighting the day before. Daybreak caught us as we topped out and paused for a rest. Brendon glassed the country to the west. A moment later he tensed and whispered, "I think I can seen an elk in that clearing across on the next mountain."

I began to scan the distant meadow with my 10x42s, and gradually a dark outline took shape. It was more than 2km away. "That big black thing is a bull," Brendon said at last. "I can’t say how good. He’ll probably feed into the timber to the left."

"Let’s take a closer look," I said. "He’s on his own, so he can’t be the herd bull we saw fighting yesterday arvo."

Brendon was optimistic about locating the big bull. "From here it’s only a wee thirty minute hike to that bull’s stomping ground," he told me. "If he doesn’t show, we’ll hunt back around since there’s at least three or four really big trophy animals in the area."

I used to think wee meant little, until I was introduced to Brendon’s "wee walks". Last year we spent about five hours making a "wee" climb up a "wee" steep mountainside where we’d spotted a bull tahr. This was followed by a "wee" walk along the ridge for a few more hours until I shot a huge bull and then made a "wee" walk of two hours straight downhill to reach the 4-wheeler. All part of a "wee" 19 hour day!

We worked our way off the mountain and side-hilled around timbered ridges and across the head of a steep gorge. We eased through gorse and manuka, carefully avoiding open areas. We stopped when we were within the sight of the clearing where we’d seen the bull, but it was deserted.

Then we spotted the tops of his antlers moving through the brush further down the ridge. As we followed his progress through our Leicas, he stepped out in the open and stood there, about 600m away.

A big bull elk is an impressive sight. He stood huge and magnificent, with sweeping mahogany antlers, dark matted mane and creamy brown hide that looked white when the sun struck him. He carried six long points on each side. I drew in a sharp breath.

As I looked, he took several steps forward and scanned the terrain below, before ambling down the spine of the ridge. "I’ll go down behind him," Brendon said. "You drop over on the other side where he won’t be able to see you and find a spot to sit and wait. I’ll try and push him around in your direction."

Hurrying down the steep slope I found a clear spot where I sat and scanned back toward where I expected the bull to appear. Soon I picked up his antler tops above the brush alongside a cabbage tree on a small knoll at the base of the ridge. As I watched, he raised his head and looked behind him testing the air for scent.

Suddenly, he spooked and went crashing down through the brush off the knoll, going straight into overdrive when he hit the flatter going around the base of the ridge. He started towards me in a plunging gallop, but after a few strides settled into the swinging, ground-covering trot that is the wap’s characteristic gait.

Realising that I was badly positioned, I moved forward about 10m to shoot from a sitting position. Planting my backside on the ground, I flipped off the safety on the Model 70 and started to track him in the scope as he ran to the right past me about 150m below.

The crosswires slid past his shaggy shoulder and when they were about a metre ahead of his brisket I pressed the trigger, The rifle bucked, and the bull’s momentum carried him for another few strides before he vanished in a patch of gorse. But I saw his antlers tip over as he went down between the bushes. If he’d gotten into cover a split second sooner, I would have completely missed the opportunity for a shot.

Scrambling down the slope, I reached the bottom and walked around to where he lay. Bull wapiti are awesome animals and it is a profound experience to bag one. The 150gn Partition Gold bullet had landed behind the rib cage and driven through the lungs at an angle to exit just ahead of the point of the far shoulder. It was excellent performance from the new moly-coated bullet.

A few minutes later Brendon arrived. He was amazed at how far the bull had got before I shot him. "He must have been running flat-out," he said. "It was only a couple of seconds before you shot that I saw him go off the brushy knob."

He was hard in the rut, lean and rank with the odour of musk and urine. He looked to have lost weight - at least 200kg. During the mating season, a bull spends little time feeding, devoting himself primarily to fighting for rank or cows. The magnificent rack was long, wide and even with 13 points. We congratulated each other on the successful conclusion of the hunt, took some photos and then removed the cape and antlers.

As I stood there savouring the cool, bracing air, amid the grand scenery, I rejoiced that I’d taken as noble and lordly game as is to be found in the South Pacific region.

Thanks to prudent and progressive game management on private property in New Zealand, wapiti will not only survive, but hopefully thrive, giving more hunters the opportunity to stalk a ball in some of the most beautiful and wild country in New Zealand.