Thar Hunt - New Zealand
Standing amidst the rugged wilderness of New Zealand's South Island, the relentless rain drummed against the hood of my jacket. Just in front of me were two of my best friends, hammering away at the two-hour walk into the first alpine hut. Fully provisioned with supplies to sustain us for seven days, we're geared up and ready for an immersive Tahr hunting expedition in the Southern Alps.
Neither of us had hunted this area; Simon and Ash had just flown in from Melbourne, Australia, that morning. The weather looked to clear in a few days, and the plan was to hunt around the first hut then push 8-10km further into the valley. We were pleased to see three kiwi lads already at the hut; they had had a successful day with one of the guys shooting a Tahr, which they shared with us that evening. It was the first time for me to eat Tahr heart, which they served seared from a hot pan. They shared with us all the intel they had gathered over the past four days; it appeared that the deer in this area were mainly nocturnal due to hunting pressure, and as we were hunting with bows, it was going to be very hard to get it done in this location. So while it pissed down, we hunted anyway... getting acclimatized to the terrain and taking our chances with first light hunts and all-day scouting.
The weather cleared, and we were off! After five hours of contouring through the valley floor, we reached the remote second hut. To our surprise, we had the hut to ourselves. A little exhausted, we bathed in the alpine river and lay around glassing the mountain faces for Tahr feeding in the shadows of the cliff faces.
It didn’t take too long for us to spot 20-30 of them feeding just below the snowline. I learned that they don’t like the heat from the sun; they stay in the shaded areas of the cliffs until the sun is off the mountain, then they come down to feed on the lush grass in lower meadows. This herd of Tahr was on the opposite side of the valley, which meant a pretty serious river crossing. The discussion was made to scout our side of the valley, gain some altitude, and see what we could see. After an hour of climbing, we stopped at a good vantage point about 600m above the riverbed. The cliff face behind us looked like a great spot to observe, but after about 20 minutes, the other two lads got impatient and wanted to scout another area. They pushed on; I stayed.
I lay in the sun for about an hour, watching the Tahr on the other side of the valley slowly making their way down to the lower meadows. I was starting to formulate a plan to cross the river when I saw, from the corner of my eye, about 20 Tahr contouring down the cliff face behind me. I was in direct view of the bulls leading the herd, and there was no way that I could move. Luckily, I was camouflaged from head to toe in Sitka Optifade gear (love that stuff), so as long as I didn’t move, I could be okay. Observing their approach, I tracked their movements as they closed the distance to within a hundred meters. Suddenly, a shift in their trajectory diverted their course, leading them to carefully navigate towards my right, ultimately making their way towards a lush meadow situated at an altitude of approximately 800 meters.
The only plan I could think of was to back off the high point that I was on without being seen, get to the valley floor, then come up a drainage that was slightly out of view by the herd and have a crack from below them. With that, I was off.
All my stalking skills came into play as I got within 300m of the herd. The bulls stayed on the cliff line above the feeding Tahr as a lookout. I crawled in closer, keeping small bushes between myself and the nearest animals. I could feel the wind on my left cheek. It couldn’t get better.
I opened my rangefinder pouch to get a gauge on distance... they all looked up! Fuck! These things are wired. I am at 70 yards, on a 60-degree face, need to get closer, but I am losing light so much so that I have to turn my sight light on. Time is running out.
I am on my hands and knees for another five minutes, edging closer, range... 55 yards, it’s now or never. Slowly coming to one knee, I dialed the sight, stepped through my shot process, and the arrow was away. Moments later, the Tahr is tumbling down the face to my left. The shot went through a lung and out its spine; I don’t think it felt a thing. I waited for about 10 minutes, put my headlamp on as it was dark, and went to see if it had expired. Next task was to get back down to the valley floor; taking it by the horns, I dragged it down the slope for around an hour until we got to a small cliff that I couldn’t climb down with my kill. Leaving it at the top of the cliff, I scaled down and made my way back to the hut.
The next morning, we recovered the Tahr, getting a few pictures before removing the legs and back straps. The following few days provided some close calls for Ash and Simon with no success.
New Zealand is a magical place; the rugged alpine landscape provided us with the physical suffering and adventure that we had trained for. Now, back in Melbourne, Australia, we find ourselves on the mouse wheel, longing for the next adventure.