Nelson Lakes Roar

Hunting and Wildlife Magazine - Issue 224 - Autumn 2024

Words By: Courtney Hickton

In April 2023, our team that took to the hills via a roar permit offered to us for completing ungulate control the previous November. Lisa brought her fiancé (now husband), Chris Webber, and Gwyn brought his brother Brent Thurlow this time.

I drove to Wellington from the East Coast after a few days of roar hunting in the Ruahines with my Dad, which I treated as a warm up for our wilderness expedition. I hitched a ride with Gwyn and Brent back to Murchison; the gateway to Nelson Lakes National Park. The three of us crammed into Gwyn’s short-wheelbase Jeep Wrangler with 10 days’ worth of gear and high anticipations.

It wasn’t until after 10:30pm that we settled in for some rest. We had spent hours in the dark bouncing up a riverbed that we were fortunate to gain private access through, navigating the river and trying to keep to the barely visible track. We made a couple of backtracks, while I lost count of how many crossings we made as the hours passed. The chopper was due to arrive the next day with Lisa and Chris, who would pick us up on the way up the ranges. Chris and Lisa would have to exit earlier than us on the hunt hence the separate logistics.

We spent the morning with packs and rifles ready, with a brew in hand, watching the suspended clouds above while we waited and wondered if the chopper would make it in. A little after 1pm, we heard the comforting hum in the distance. Game on! After spending the November trip on one side of our permit block, we decided to push to get dropped on the other side, allowing us to cover the whole area. We landed at a spot where the sun didn’t seem to shine and set up our tents in a frozen, stony dip that hid us from the tussock fields around us. We were about 1,900m above sea level with spurs of undulating tussock in every direction for us to explore. An evening glass presented no immediate targets, but plenty of curious ideas were saved for the next few days.

Early in the morning, we summited the peak of the main ridge behind our campsite; taking the spotting scope, the clear blue skies gave us miles of glassing in all directions. Before long, we were already splitting up; Chris and Lisa headed east, while the guys and I headed down a southwest spur to gain further perspective. With stags roaring all around, it’s easy to miss those adrenaline-filled mornings. We soon locked eyes on a stag, that we knew, even from great distance was worth the chase, given his distinctive blob in the spotter. He had been making the most noise all morning while working a basin of hinds.

That evening, we shared stories of what we all saw and heard. Family groups of Chamois were spotted, other stags near and far, and plenty more noise tormented from the bush line below that was a temptation that sought to draw us in. We knew we had options, but with time constraints and the challenge of not wanting to walk too far in the wrong direction to where we were planning to walk out from, we concluded that the big stag we had heard and seen earlier was the best option to pursue.

At 8am the following morning, packs were on our backs, and we were off with no time to lose. We trekked on the ridge as long as possible before being forced off to avoid ice/snow and inaccessible rock structures.

Ten hours later, we had made our way around the range, positioning ourselves above the basin where we had seen Mr Big. Feeling somewhat knackered, we heard an epic roar. There is no time to muck around when a stag gives you an opportunity, so we were off. Off the tops we went, scurrying our way down the tussock as fast and as quietly as possible, dropping a couple of hundred metres in elevation as we went. Glassing, pausing, and waiting, we couldn’t spot him.

The next morning, we were glassing at first light. It wasn’t looking favourable for us, though. High winds had started to come through, as had the clag. We didn’t hear a single peep from any stags, either. It was disappointing, to say the least. By 7am, my tent was blowing sideways, and we knew we had to get off the tops. Gwyn was getting an alarming weather update from the Garmin, and we were already packing up, admitting defeat on this stag, at least.

We continued toward our exit point by taking the day to drop some altitude, glassing where we could and hiding from the wind. We had a bit of a plan for where we might be able to pitch the tents below and made the most of what glassing opportunities we could along the way.

That night, the wind came through like freight trains. We pitched in a tussock dip at about 1,600m, which kept camp safe enough. We got up in the drizzle and wandered off to glass in different directions around our new surroundings. There was plenty of sign in the vicinity, and we quickly spotted some deer in the adjacent range. Chris and Lisa packed up, and it was their time to find a spur to lead them off the tops and out. The silence of the stags probably made their earlier exit a bit more palatable as Gwyn, Brent and I started to make plans for the next leg of our hunt.

We decided we wouldn’t hang around where we were; we packed up and made our way further up the valley along the tops to extend our time. Deer tracks led our way as more rain came through, followed by thunder. When the clouds are that low, and the thunder is that loud, you don’t muck about in the open. We could see the bush edge we wanted to get to in the distance, so we  it across and got out of the open as fast as we could. Nothing says zap me quite like a rifle pointing up out of your pack.

Despite what probably sounds like a string of bad events in this story, things did take a turn once we got off the tops. The bush was beautiful and wet; I was drenched to the bone. The spur we took had perfect terraces for rutting action, and things started to look optimistic again, but we didn’t rush this time of exploration through the middle of the day as we had no roars to give us indications. Looking for a sign as we trekked, we eventually hit the valley floor. Camp was pitched not long after, as we were optimistic about what opportunities might present themselves if we did our best not to disturb the area.

We were up and ready to chase stags at the break of dawn. A quick brew and we were off, with Gwyn in front following the sound of roaring stags up the flat. It wasn’t long until we locked eyes on a few browsing hinds with a single promising stag tailing behind. There was great suspense and anticipation as Gwyn set up for a shot, no one wanting to move or indicate that we were there. He didn’t disappoint; the shot connected, and the days of energy we had spent on the tops had finally paid dividends. We closed the distance between us and the hinds, following the blood trail he had left behind. A short uphill stumble, and there he was, a massively long 9-pointer who only narrowly missed cracking the magical 40-inch mark by measuring out at an impressive 39 inches.

We spent the evening taking things easier, without too much luck other than  animals; the stags seemed much more vocal in the early hours than in the evening or even through the night. By this point in the trip, everything other than my sleeping bag and thermals I had to sleep in was wet. I had to concentrate in my sleep so as not to let my sleeping bag touch the tent floor as my air mat had a moat around it. Safe to say, the tent got the toss after this trip.

It was game on again in the morning as we headed up into the bush, chasing roaring stags. We bulleted through the bush and closed in on a stag. I’d better go to Specsavers because Gwyn and Brent could see him through the bush, but I (the hunter with the gun) couldn’t see anything; they said he looked epic. After a short, exasperated standoff, he bolted, and we backed out of the area to give a new area a nudge. We crossed the river flat and tucked into the adjacent bush line, roaring as we traversed. It wasn’t long before another stag came in, which Brent looked at and decided wasn’t promising enough for him to take at this stage of his hunting career. For me, however, I was stoked to take a shot. I gently squeezed the trigger, and it looked and sounded like a perfect shot; everyone agreed. The trouble was, with all the rain and the stag's wet coat, there was no blood trail. We circled his tracks, which went for 50m, as we searched high and low, with no further indication of which way he went. Eventually, we decided to give it a rest as we could backtrack later.

We started to roar again and made our way along briskly. Much to my surprise, we could hear another stag coming in quickly. Brent quickly and quietly closed the gap whilst Gwyn and I held back roaring. Bang! We caught up to Brent to discover he had shot an epic royal stag. He was beautifully symmetrical with long 37-inch antlers; a true South Island red trophy with which any hunter would be stoked. We took our time with taking photos, enjoying the moment before taking some meat and the head.

The next day, we returned to have another look for my stag; I was optimistic but didn’t want to get my hopes up. It’s one of those shots you replay repeatedly in your head to see if you can remember any telling details that might help you find resolve. We had widened our search, and it wasn’t long before Brent called out; he’d found him. I was grateful that our persistence in looking paid off. It makes you wonder how many animals are given up on prematurely. It was amazing to finally see him up close and admire him for all he was. I had made a good shot, but the 6.5 Creedmoor didn’t have enough bang for the buck. Gwyn renamed my rifle ‘The Witches Potion’ because it kills them slowly.

It was a fantastic feat to cover so much ground in one trip, and for the remaining three of us to each take home a trophy, which made packing up and the long walk out down the river that much easier despite the extra weight.

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