footsore
FNG
This is an account of a hunt I had during the Red Deer roar [rut] last April. Don’t get too excited fellas I’m afraid no animals were harmed in the making of this report, although I did try! I'm due to head back there in a couple of weeks for round two!!
As hunters go I’m pretty mediocre, but each trip is a lesson and I devour any information I can glean from books, magazines and you guys on the interweb. I enjoy the challenge and am slowly picking up skills, but I remain a fairly clumsy bipedal predator with a way to go yet.
I get a lot out of just going into an area and learning how to hunt it and what the animals are up to as governed by seasons etc. So I can enjoy trips and consider them a success when all I achieve is a glimpse of an animal or finding a clearing with an encouraging amount of poo! Having said that I of course would like some more tangible results from time to time, and I feel the frustrations of being unable to find animals or of cocking up a stalk.
Success, while still a bit of a novelty, is becoming a little more regular as I learn. This yarn, though, gentle reader is about an unsuccessful solo hunt and the satisfaction I got out of it.
In NZ unlike the States we can hunt all year around, I generally hunt for the table but the Roar is a special time and I become a “trophy“ hunter for a few days each year. I’ve hunted four previous ruts but have never managed to shoot a stag, so for me even a 6 pointer would be a mighty trophy. Two of those previous trips were poorly timed and the mountains were quiet except for my curses. But the thrill I had in finding a roaring stag and trying to close in on him on my first roar trip, was enough to keep me coming back.
I leave the car park a bit anxious about how many vehicles were there – how many hunters will I be sharing the hills with? Will they be hunting the same spurs and ridges that I intend to? I’m glad to have a bright blaze vest covering my pack, where it advertises my humanness as well as deadening the noise of branches scraping across canvas as I push through the bush.
It’s a warm day and entering the bush I’m met with the sweet smell of honey dew and the incessant hum of wasps. The mild weather is a worry - too warm for the stags? – is this going to be another dud roar for me? The track sidles the main valley gently ascending towards a saddle at its head where I intend to make camp. I fall into a hiking rhythm, just enjoying being away from the stresses and complications of everyday life, back into the utter simplicity of being alone and beholding to no one in the back country. Then my thoughts are interrupted by a roar [ A stags vocalization is somewhere between a bulls bellow and a lions roar] from the opposite side of the valley. Things are looking up!
The trip in to camp takes just on 3 hours and for the first hour I’m entertained by several stags moaning from their territories over the river. I mark their positions on my map but keep going, it would be a steep and tough descent down to the river followed by an even worse climb to try and move in on these fellas from here. As the morning proceeds they all take a break, that’s not to say I stop hearing any roars though, several times the drone of a fly or a gurgle from my own stomach has me trying to pin point the stag.
I put up camp at the last creek before the saddle and scoff some lunch to quieten down those internal roars. I switch into hunting mode and pack some gear with the intent of looking at an area that a month ago had plenty of hind sign. But by the time I crest the saddle the plan has changed, the roaring has started again with two, three no at least four stags mouthing off down in the next catchment. I again mark the animals on my map as they seem too distant for a realistic effort today and instead come up with cunning plans for tomorrow. I descend into that valley walking as far as the first hut to see if any hunters are in residence to discuss territory with them - I’m surprised to find no one there.
The light is dimming fast as I cross back over the saddle and in the twilight the roars are echoing up from the valley. I am just so thankful to be there, already this is easily my best rut yet in terms of the intensity of the roaring. I sit for a while listening to the chorus and taking in the view before trotting down to camp.
That night I hear some moans drifting up from the valley as I prepare tea and plan tomorrows stalk. Almost as soon as sleep finds me I’m woken by a barking deer in the side stream directly above camp. The barking goes on over 10 minutes and is unusually deep, I suspect I’ve upset a resident stag by camping on his turf. Later he or one of his mates is roaring from near the saddle.
Before first light I’m keyed up and getting ready for the day. I think about last nights camp stag and wonder about tackling him, but decide to keep with my original plan. I cross the saddle and head down to a bush spur that leads to a prominent knoll. I noted a stag calling from here yesterday as well as one on an adjacent face. I figure if I screw up the initial stalk I will have a chance to try out his neighbour.
Making my way down from the saddle I hear my stag staking his claim. He goes quiet for a while so I coax some more roars out of him with the occasional moan, helping me fix his position in relation to mine. Soon other stags join in and keep one other going, so I shut up.
When I reach the base of his spur I leave the track and try to close in on him- sounds like he is a couple of hundred meters higher than me. This is black beech forest with a lot of windfall and thick regeneration I try to keep as quiet as possible but the myriad of obstacles and crispy dry conditions take all pretense of stealth away.
Tactics change then, I accept there is no avoiding that my quarry will hear me and I opt to try and sound like a timid wandering stag by emitting a low moan regularly as I gain height. There is little feed evident just the beech and mingimingi often interlaced with lawyer [a nasty thorned vine]. The wasps are everywhere and you need to be careful where you put your hands, several times I detour my route around areas especially thick with them, fearing stumbling into a nest.
Slowly I gain elevation but my boy is less vocal now, only occasionally moaning and between each call I worry he has made off. The day is still and the direction of the light air flow is generally down slope but quite fickle. I notice I’m starting to come across the occasional broadleaf [favoured deer food] now and areas with browsed fern.
Off to my right I hear movement through the bush and I’m aware he is closing in on me. But I’m in an area with a very limited view through the regen. I get to a small rise that offers a slightly better view and eagerly await developments.
The snapping of branches betrays the animals progress as he closes in above me but I can see nothing at all. There is a silent pause and then the sound of two separate animals trotting past at speed, around 20-30m away. A quick check with the lighter confirms the slight wind drift uphill. The stag roars again from well below me, seemingly, just to let me know that he has me sussed. He, and presumably his hind, had gone without me even laying eyes on them.
I continue up through the stags territory coming across a wallow, two dry scrapes and several rubbing posts. From his spur I angle down to the intervening creek and out on to the face that belongs to his neighbour. Here I scout around and find another wallow but no deer. I decide to call it a day and drop down to the track. Easier said than done, I am hours getting off this damn hill, fighting the regen and copious lawyer - honestly fellas, it was so tight at times you couldn’t turn around without your hat being knocked off! I disturb another animal as I descend, but again never see it, only hearing it crash away. Several times I resort to crawling under the scrub and when I finally stumble out to the track I am exhausted. A couple of muesli bars perk me up a bit and I climb back over the saddle to camp.
The camp stag makes himself known again that night and I decide it will be his turn tomorrow. Up before dawn I creep up to the saddle but he’s moved on from his last nights wanderings. I figure that he bases himself somewhere above my camp during the day because that’s where he seems to move out from early each evening. So I gain some height from the saddle and head back in the general direction of camp. There is the usual windfall, regen and lawyer but nowhere near as thick as yesterday.
I again start to come across browse species and sign. The gouges on the saplings from his rubbings are over 6 feet suggesting he is bigger animal the yesterdays target. Here and there I pick up stag scent but there are no roars and I wonder if he has got sick of my company.
I eventually come across a thicker area of lawyer and rubbish beyond which I can see a semi open face covered in fern and dotted with broadleaf. This is a sizable area of I’d guess 2 acres or so and is criss-crossed with many deer trails.
I start to push through the wall of saplings when a moan comes up from the bush below the ferns. I circle the face hoping to find a quiet way down but to no avail. Once I do negotiate my way, noisily, towards the stags possie, predictably there is no sign of him.
This fella I realise is pretty cunning and has certainly out played me.The approaches from above were well guarded by noisy obstacles and during the day upslope air currents would warn of any approach from below. He restricted his roaring to the saddle area in the dead of night and kept quiet during the day.
I feel sure he realised my camp was below him [with the barks each evening] but he tolerated it as he held a fantastic piece of feeding territory to attract the hinds.
Both stalks were fails on my part, but I enjoyed every minute [well except a couple of those lawyer episodes]. I figure I was beaten fairly and just have to up my game for the results I’m after.
As hunters go I’m pretty mediocre, but each trip is a lesson and I devour any information I can glean from books, magazines and you guys on the interweb. I enjoy the challenge and am slowly picking up skills, but I remain a fairly clumsy bipedal predator with a way to go yet.
I get a lot out of just going into an area and learning how to hunt it and what the animals are up to as governed by seasons etc. So I can enjoy trips and consider them a success when all I achieve is a glimpse of an animal or finding a clearing with an encouraging amount of poo! Having said that I of course would like some more tangible results from time to time, and I feel the frustrations of being unable to find animals or of cocking up a stalk.
Success, while still a bit of a novelty, is becoming a little more regular as I learn. This yarn, though, gentle reader is about an unsuccessful solo hunt and the satisfaction I got out of it.
In NZ unlike the States we can hunt all year around, I generally hunt for the table but the Roar is a special time and I become a “trophy“ hunter for a few days each year. I’ve hunted four previous ruts but have never managed to shoot a stag, so for me even a 6 pointer would be a mighty trophy. Two of those previous trips were poorly timed and the mountains were quiet except for my curses. But the thrill I had in finding a roaring stag and trying to close in on him on my first roar trip, was enough to keep me coming back.
I leave the car park a bit anxious about how many vehicles were there – how many hunters will I be sharing the hills with? Will they be hunting the same spurs and ridges that I intend to? I’m glad to have a bright blaze vest covering my pack, where it advertises my humanness as well as deadening the noise of branches scraping across canvas as I push through the bush.
It’s a warm day and entering the bush I’m met with the sweet smell of honey dew and the incessant hum of wasps. The mild weather is a worry - too warm for the stags? – is this going to be another dud roar for me? The track sidles the main valley gently ascending towards a saddle at its head where I intend to make camp. I fall into a hiking rhythm, just enjoying being away from the stresses and complications of everyday life, back into the utter simplicity of being alone and beholding to no one in the back country. Then my thoughts are interrupted by a roar [ A stags vocalization is somewhere between a bulls bellow and a lions roar] from the opposite side of the valley. Things are looking up!
The trip in to camp takes just on 3 hours and for the first hour I’m entertained by several stags moaning from their territories over the river. I mark their positions on my map but keep going, it would be a steep and tough descent down to the river followed by an even worse climb to try and move in on these fellas from here. As the morning proceeds they all take a break, that’s not to say I stop hearing any roars though, several times the drone of a fly or a gurgle from my own stomach has me trying to pin point the stag.
I put up camp at the last creek before the saddle and scoff some lunch to quieten down those internal roars. I switch into hunting mode and pack some gear with the intent of looking at an area that a month ago had plenty of hind sign. But by the time I crest the saddle the plan has changed, the roaring has started again with two, three no at least four stags mouthing off down in the next catchment. I again mark the animals on my map as they seem too distant for a realistic effort today and instead come up with cunning plans for tomorrow. I descend into that valley walking as far as the first hut to see if any hunters are in residence to discuss territory with them - I’m surprised to find no one there.
The light is dimming fast as I cross back over the saddle and in the twilight the roars are echoing up from the valley. I am just so thankful to be there, already this is easily my best rut yet in terms of the intensity of the roaring. I sit for a while listening to the chorus and taking in the view before trotting down to camp.
That night I hear some moans drifting up from the valley as I prepare tea and plan tomorrows stalk. Almost as soon as sleep finds me I’m woken by a barking deer in the side stream directly above camp. The barking goes on over 10 minutes and is unusually deep, I suspect I’ve upset a resident stag by camping on his turf. Later he or one of his mates is roaring from near the saddle.
Before first light I’m keyed up and getting ready for the day. I think about last nights camp stag and wonder about tackling him, but decide to keep with my original plan. I cross the saddle and head down to a bush spur that leads to a prominent knoll. I noted a stag calling from here yesterday as well as one on an adjacent face. I figure if I screw up the initial stalk I will have a chance to try out his neighbour.
Making my way down from the saddle I hear my stag staking his claim. He goes quiet for a while so I coax some more roars out of him with the occasional moan, helping me fix his position in relation to mine. Soon other stags join in and keep one other going, so I shut up.
When I reach the base of his spur I leave the track and try to close in on him- sounds like he is a couple of hundred meters higher than me. This is black beech forest with a lot of windfall and thick regeneration I try to keep as quiet as possible but the myriad of obstacles and crispy dry conditions take all pretense of stealth away.
Tactics change then, I accept there is no avoiding that my quarry will hear me and I opt to try and sound like a timid wandering stag by emitting a low moan regularly as I gain height. There is little feed evident just the beech and mingimingi often interlaced with lawyer [a nasty thorned vine]. The wasps are everywhere and you need to be careful where you put your hands, several times I detour my route around areas especially thick with them, fearing stumbling into a nest.
Slowly I gain elevation but my boy is less vocal now, only occasionally moaning and between each call I worry he has made off. The day is still and the direction of the light air flow is generally down slope but quite fickle. I notice I’m starting to come across the occasional broadleaf [favoured deer food] now and areas with browsed fern.
Off to my right I hear movement through the bush and I’m aware he is closing in on me. But I’m in an area with a very limited view through the regen. I get to a small rise that offers a slightly better view and eagerly await developments.
The snapping of branches betrays the animals progress as he closes in above me but I can see nothing at all. There is a silent pause and then the sound of two separate animals trotting past at speed, around 20-30m away. A quick check with the lighter confirms the slight wind drift uphill. The stag roars again from well below me, seemingly, just to let me know that he has me sussed. He, and presumably his hind, had gone without me even laying eyes on them.
I continue up through the stags territory coming across a wallow, two dry scrapes and several rubbing posts. From his spur I angle down to the intervening creek and out on to the face that belongs to his neighbour. Here I scout around and find another wallow but no deer. I decide to call it a day and drop down to the track. Easier said than done, I am hours getting off this damn hill, fighting the regen and copious lawyer - honestly fellas, it was so tight at times you couldn’t turn around without your hat being knocked off! I disturb another animal as I descend, but again never see it, only hearing it crash away. Several times I resort to crawling under the scrub and when I finally stumble out to the track I am exhausted. A couple of muesli bars perk me up a bit and I climb back over the saddle to camp.
The camp stag makes himself known again that night and I decide it will be his turn tomorrow. Up before dawn I creep up to the saddle but he’s moved on from his last nights wanderings. I figure that he bases himself somewhere above my camp during the day because that’s where he seems to move out from early each evening. So I gain some height from the saddle and head back in the general direction of camp. There is the usual windfall, regen and lawyer but nowhere near as thick as yesterday.
I again start to come across browse species and sign. The gouges on the saplings from his rubbings are over 6 feet suggesting he is bigger animal the yesterdays target. Here and there I pick up stag scent but there are no roars and I wonder if he has got sick of my company.
I eventually come across a thicker area of lawyer and rubbish beyond which I can see a semi open face covered in fern and dotted with broadleaf. This is a sizable area of I’d guess 2 acres or so and is criss-crossed with many deer trails.
I start to push through the wall of saplings when a moan comes up from the bush below the ferns. I circle the face hoping to find a quiet way down but to no avail. Once I do negotiate my way, noisily, towards the stags possie, predictably there is no sign of him.
This fella I realise is pretty cunning and has certainly out played me.The approaches from above were well guarded by noisy obstacles and during the day upslope air currents would warn of any approach from below. He restricted his roaring to the saddle area in the dead of night and kept quiet during the day.
I feel sure he realised my camp was below him [with the barks each evening] but he tolerated it as he held a fantastic piece of feeding territory to attract the hinds.
Both stalks were fails on my part, but I enjoyed every minute [well except a couple of those lawyer episodes]. I figure I was beaten fairly and just have to up my game for the results I’m after.
