GONE BUSH | ROAR BOW HUNTING

Pull up a chair. The fire's warm, and you're in good company.

The autumn chill sat low over the Haupiri country.

Dew covered the grass around the Defender and soaked our boots before we had properly begun. Archie and I closed the doors quietly, shouldered our packs and checked our bows in the light of our head torches.

Ahead of us, lowland forest crowded against the western foothills of the Southern Alps. The Haupiri river, that flowed west from its source somewhere above us amongst the jagged, icy peaks, was to be our guide on this hunt.

The sun was rising somewhere beyond those mountains, but none of its light would reach us today, for the canopy of the forest above us was too dense to let direct light reach the ground, except where the giants of the forest had fallen, creating a glade where new life rushed to fill the void.

Fog hunkered deep in the gullies, drifting amongst the trees and lay heavily over the open river flats. There was only the slightest katabatic wind flowing down the river as the cool air descended. Soon it would reverse, once the sun warmed the low lying air. We would stay out of the river channel to avoid our scent drifting ahead of us.

Morning arrived without a sunrise.

The blackness merely softened to dark purple, the blue and finally to grey green under the leafy canopy. Trunks emerged from the fog one by one, wet and ancient, while the canopy held the last of night. It was an eerie experience - not threatening, but challenging - you would not want to be lost out here for there is little to help the inexperienced.

The whole forest seemed to hold its breath.

Then the silence was broken by the first roar.

It was loud and clear, but further away than it sounded, echoing through the forest and the fog, reverberating off the steep rocky walls of the gully.

A response came swiftly enough. Another roar.

Closer, louder and ferocious enough to turn both our heads. We looked at other in excitement. We had come to the right place.

Then silence.

The first stag knew his place.

The others knew theirs.

Archie pointed. 

I nodded.

Nothing needed to be said.

The game was on.

---

We moved further from the river as the temperature rose, leaving the tumbling, cascading sounds of the river behind. The forest encroached, swallowing us in the dark dank foliage, cooler and damper where the light never reached.

Moss clung to the trunks and lichen hung from crooked, broken branches. Ferns crowded every opening. Water gathered on leaves and fell in heavy drops, although there had been no rain - such is the way of the temperate rain forest.

Archie moved ahead of me, placing each boot carefully between the sticks, roots and fallen detritus. He carried his compound bow in one hand with his chest rig sitting high against his chest, binoculars and rangefinder ready.

There are things a father can tell his son.

Keep the wind on your face.

Test every footfall before committing your weight.

Go around the fern rather than brushing through it.

Move when the stag roars.

Freeze when he listens.

But knowing the words is not the same as understanding them.

Understanding them comes from mornings like this - where experience counts.

Another roar rolled through the forest.

We stopped - it was surprisingly close.

A branch snapped somewhere beyond the fog.

We stood still - mimicking the trees around us.

Then came the dull scrape of antler against timber.

The stag was moving.

We eased forward until the ground fell sharply into a ferny gully. On the opposite face, an fresh slip had opened a small wound in the foliage. Rock, fern and fallen timber showed through the dissipating fog.

There was a blur of movement.

The stag materialised out of the grey.

Not all at once.

Antlers first.

Then the heavy line of his strong neck.

Finally his whole body.

He stood in the grey cold light beneath the forest like some fabled beast stepping out of another age. Broadside. Head high. His dark mane hung heavy along his neck.

Steam rose from his nostrils, drifting briefly through the damp air and merging with the fog.

It is moments like these that one commits to memory.

He was old.

We could see it in the way he carried himself. I felt some empathy for him, feeling a bond between males past their prime but still unwilling to let go.

He was not rushed, he was not careless. He stood with the confidence of an animal that had survived many seasons and won many mornings like this one.

He watched the forest.

We watched him.

He was well beyond the range of our arrows. Had we had a rifle, he might already be dead.

The thought passed and was gone.

There is hunting.

Then there is bow hunting.

They are not the same challenge.

---

A hind stepped from the fog below him.

Then another.

Shapes first, then bodies. The forest revealed itself in pieces.

A magpie called somewhere beyond the river and was answered once. the stag shifted his weight and scraped the ground with a forehoof.

He was not alarmed.

The wind favoured us, for now.

He was simply present.

Archie and I eased backwards, careful not to let stone scrape against stone or clothing brush against the under growth. We waited until the trees and fog had swallowed the stag again.

When we could no longer see him, we moved.

The route down into the gully was steep and greasy. There was no trail worth naming, only faint game paths pressed into the damp earth beneath the trees.

We placed our feet where the deer had placed theirs.

It felt right to follow them that way.

Fog beaded on our jackets and gathered on the bow strings. I check mine with my fingers and wiped it dry against my sleeve.

Archie imitated me without being told.

The air remained breathless for minutes at a time but the occasional draft reassured me that the wind still favoured us. We did not speak. Every unnecessary sound seemed too loud in that forest.

There was nothing to say anyway.

Another roar rolled through the gully.

Closer now.

Deeper. 

It was answered from somewhere beyond the river, but this time the reply carried the edge of challenge.

Our stag moved.

He was searching, listening and testing the air.

The fog was all but gone now, desperately clinging to the lowest holes, reluctant to evaporate.

We crossed the gully and climbed the opposite face. Our legs burnt and then settled into a dull, steady ache but we closed the gap.

Time stretched thin. The air stood still.

There was only breath, foot placement and the sound of our hearts whenever we paused long enough. The next faint movement of air came only when the morning was well advanced. I was now fickle - moving through the bush without apparent rhyme or reason.

From face to neck and from neck to face.

Swirling.

Fickle.

We crouched beneath a windthrown beech and waited for it to settle.

A stag roared.

Close enough now that we felt the sound in our chests.

---

We followed the edge of the gully, bent low, moving when he roared and stopping whenever he listened. It was slow going.

The fog that had once been both our ally and our enemy was now long gone.

We relied on the bush to conceal us - just like the stag.

He was not specifically looking for humans - he was looking for his rival.

We saw the stag in fragments through the timber and the ferns. Never the whole animal. The bush was too thick for that and too thick for a shot.

A glimpse here and there and then nothing - he was gone.

A hind bolted from below and cut across the small opening. The stag followed and stopped, snapping his head around, exhaling, searching for the perceived threat.

He took quick steps, a nervousness had enveloped him. But he stopped dead. His ears flicked and his tubby tail stood erect.

He stared right through us again - our form still invisible in the bush - but his sixth sense told him something was amiss.

We froze.

Breath held.

Muscles locked.

The stag stamped once.

The wind touch my cheek and then vanished.

He roared again, shorter this time, harsher.

Then he turned and began angling away through the beech trees.

We let him go. Counted to thirty and followed. Quietly, one eye on the ground and the other darting ahead.

The ground steepened and loose stones lay hidden under the moss. One shifted beneath my boot and rattled down into the gully.

It sounded loud, too loud.

I turned to look at Archie with an apologetic expression on my face but he looked at me as if I was the child - scorned for being clumsy.

The stag stopped. He was barely discernible through the bush but his form gradually materialised as my eyes focused.

He stood quartering away, his head turned back towards us. It was a chance to see his full set of antlers - he was an impressive beast.

His searched for the source of the rock fall.

There was no shot - not one taking at least.

Saplings crossed his chest. A fallen limb concealed the line behind his shoulder. It was possible to loose an arrow at him, but not possible to do it with certainty

There was no shot - not one worth taking at least.

Saplings crossed his chest. A fallen limb concealed the line behind his shoulder. It was possible to loose an arrow at him, but not possible to do it with certainty.

And possible was not enough.

We waited until he lowered his head and began raking a young tree, shredding its thin trunk of bark with his antlers.

While he was distracted we moved.

Ten steps.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

Then i took one step too many.

The sound of a snapping twig was quiet but nonetheless when I look up the stag was staring right at me.

He had seen us. But our camouflaged leaf cut jackets confused him. There was no discernible shape for him to acknowledge danger - but he was obviously on edge.

Perhaps he thought his challenger had arrived on the scene.

He turned fully and faced us. Archie was still hidden behind me but I was exposed. I could see his chest heaving, in and out, up and down.

He took one long breath and then roared straight at me from about 12 metres. The sound was intense as it reverberated through me and off the gully walls, diminishing into the forest.

Then in the blink of an eye he wheeled and ran - leaving a wavering branch where he had just stood.

We ran too. Archie kept up with his old man. My hill running had been practice for just this situation. As fit as I was for a man reaching a half century I was no match for a fifteen year old in peak condition.

It was futile trying to keep up with the stag and after a few seconds Archie over took me but he soon slowed knowing that any chance of shooting this stag would mean letting it relax and forget about the danger that lurked behind him.

We settled into a brisk walk, fast enough to draw heavy breaths but slow enough to control our noise.

The ground rose hard beneath the trees. Lungs burnt. Legs screamed. But we had to keep moving if we were to have any chance of staying in the game.

The stag cut across the open face and climbed again, choosing his route with the instinct of an animal; that knew every creek, tree and fold in the land.

The stag stopped.

Not from exhaustion.

But to look back.

His broad shoulders were framed on either side by mature beech trunks.

I ranged him.

Fifty yards.

Right at my limit.

A tough shot on the range with no pressure.

Here on the hill a one in hundred shot.

My heart pumped and my arms shook.

I nocked an arrow.

It felt rushed.

My hands were shaking.

The world narrowed until there was only the small circle beyond the peep sight that remained in focus.

But the sight did not settle.

My breathing was too ragged.

The stag turned his head as if listening to something far beyond the forest.

I held.

The arrow did not fly.

The stag stepped behind the first trunk.

Then the second.

And he was gone.

---

We stood amongst the trees and listened to the sound of his hooves plunge into the soft ground and clap against the rock as his antlers rattle on the saplings and low hanging branches as he picked up speed.

I lowered the bow and released my breath.

Archie put a hand briefly on my shoulder.

"Close," he whispered.

"Not close enough." I said.

That could have been the end of it.

On many bow hunts, it would have been,

But the wind remained uncertain rather than ruined and the stag had not fled blindly. He had moved deeper into the same block of bush, travelling parallel to the gully rather climbing towards the foothills.

We waited.

The bush settled around us.

A bellbird called somewhere below.

Water dripped steadily from the canopy.

The last of the fog evaporated from the dells and hollows.

Then, faintly, came another roar.

Archie heard it first.

He pointed downhill.

The stag was still there.

We circled above him, using the lip of the gully to conceal our movement and to stay upwind.

The going was a little easier on the rocky ledges of the gully lip.

We moved with more speed and less noise.

Dropping back down into the gully once I deemed we had got ahead of the stag.

There was plenty of fresh sign.

Hinds.

This was a good omen. The stag would not leave his harem for long.

Archie found a rub where the stag had worked his antlers against a moss covered trunk. The bark was freshly opened and wet.

He looked back at me and smiled.

Large hoof prints sunk deep into the soft ground.

Fresh droppings littered the ground.

A dark strand of hair caught on a broken branch.

My son had learned to read the country.

We moved on.

The roar came again.

Close enough to feel as much as hear.

We crouched behind a fallen beech trunk.

It was not dead for new branches grew vertically from the trunk.

Our position was perfect. 

We had close cover we could shoot through.

The roar came again.

Then the bushes on the edge of the clearing shook.

We could see without being seen.

The broad antlers appeared first.

Then the head and neck covered in a steaming, shaggy mane.

Finally the thick, muscled torso emerged from the bush.

He looked in good condition from where i knelt.

The roar had only just begun.

Archie could see his antlers, but the angle from his side was blocked by a standing tree.

From where I knelt, there was a line.

Barely.

Archie touched my arm and pointed.

I nodded.

The stag stepped forward.

I drew as his eyes passed behind the trunk of a beech tree.

The compound bow came back smoothly and settled against the wall. The damp air was cold against my face.

For an instant everything became still.

The forest.

The wind.

The bow.

The thoughts inside my head.

The stag took one more step.

He stood quartering away at less than thirty yards.

His near foreleg moved forward.

The pin settled behind his shoulder.

The arrow flew.

Its passage through the damp air made less sound than a falling twig.

The stag drove forward.

Branches broke.

Hooves struck the earth and then faded rapidly into the timber.

We listened.

A final crash came from somewhere below.

Then silence.

Every instinct tells a hunter to follow immediately.

Experience tells him to wait.

We remained behind the fallen beech for longer than our nerves wanted. We spoke quietly about the angle, the stag's position and the direction he had taken after the arrow struck.

Neither of us could see him.

Neither of us pretended certainty.

When sufficient time had passed, we moved to the place where he had been standing.

Archie found the first blood.

A bright mark on the underside of a fern.

Then another on the root of a tree.

The trail ran downhill through the moss and crossed a shallow creek. We followed slowly, never stepping beyond the last confirmed sign until we had found the next.

Archie worked ahead, eyes on the ground and the vegetation rather than searching recklessly into the distance.

A broken fern.

Blood against pale bark.

A print driven deeply into the wet ground.

Fifty metres into the forest, he stopped.

The stag lay beneath a broad beech tree, his antlers resting against the roots.

The forest had reclaimed him quickly.

We approached carefully and stood together in silence.

There is triumph in that moment.

Then something else arrives behind it.

Respect.

Gratitude.

A magnificent animal has died.

A family will eat because of it.

The hunter has accepted responsibility for making the death swift, recovering the animal and ensuring that nothing useful is wasted.

I placed a hand against the stag's neck.

Archie stood beside me.

Neither of us gloated.

Neither of us needed to.

The hunt had been honest.

The beast had been magnificent.

The work began where the chase ended.

We gutted the stag and removed his fine head and rack. Together we positioned the carcass on a rock shelf about a meter off the ground. Archie help me haul it up on my shoulders.

He carried the head and both bows strapped to his pack. The stag was ludicrous. I am fit but nothing really prepares you for this. Luckily we had plenty of daylight. The thought of field dressing it and taking only what would fit in the game bags crossed my mind many times.

The route that had seemed manageable during the stalk became steeper. Every fallen tree became an obstacle. Every patch of mud tried to pull the boots from our feet.

Archie took his share without complaint.

We moved the stag downhill in stages, using the game trails where we could and the firmer ground alongside the creek when we finally reached it.

The lowland forest showed no interest in making the recovery easy.

The fog had lifted, but the mountains still kept much of the bush in shadow. The day had become lighter rather than warm. Water continued to fall from the trees and our clothing remained wet.

Eventually the ground began to ease.

We reached the river flats and followed them towards the vehicle.

The Defender waited beneath the trees, dark green and muddy, looking far more useful than beautiful.

That was precisely what we needed.

Getting the stag into the back took the last of my strength and a tirade of language that would have disappointed Archie's grandmother.

At last he was aboard.

The antlers reached towards the spare wheel. The rear legs extended over the open tailgate. Mud covered the vehicle; blood marked our clothes and sweat stung our eyes.

It was a magnificent sight, we were not.

The day was draining from the forest as we secured the load.

There had been no glorious sunrise that morning and there would be no grand sunset beneath the canopy. The light simply began to fail, the grey retreating slowly back towards black.

The roar did not come again.

The stag's challenge had ended beneath those trees, but his meat would feed our family, and his antlers would preserve the memory of the morning.

Nothing useful would be left to waste.

Archie looked into the back of the Defender and then towards the forest.

There are things a father can give his son.

Tools.

Knowledge.

A bow.

A place beside him in the bush.

Other things cannot simply be handed over.

Patience, judgement, restraint and respect must be discovered for oneself.

They are learnt when the wind changes.

When the stag stands at the very edge of range.

When the arrow must not fly.

When disappointment has to be swallowed and the hunt continued.

And when, after hours of effort, a second opportunity is finally earned.

We climbed into the Defender and began the long drive out.

Father and son.

A good red stag in the back.

Enough meat for the family and a story that would grow better each time it was told around the campfire.

That was the fortune.

We had earned the glory.

The forest would remember all three.

Written by Christo Saggers

Gear List:

Carry what you need

Essentials in my pack:

• 2 litre water bladder.
• First aid kit.
• Snacks.
• Spare socks.
• Map & compass.
• Waterproof trousers & jacket.
• Emergency blanket.
• Fire starting kit.
• Skinning knife.

Essentials on my Adventure Belt:

• Leatherman SCOUT multi-tool in leather pouch.
• Joker Bush Camp Knife.
• PLB - Garmin InReach mini.
• F & G Forager Bag.

Bow Hunting Essentials:

• Talc wind finder.
• Range finder.
• Binoculars.
• Camo cream.
• Leaf cut camo jacket.
• Face scrim.
• Gaiters.

Leave the rest behind.

Warnings:

Bow hunting is for competent and experienced hunters. High levels of fitness, fieldcraft, navigation and shooting proficiency are required.

A licence is not required to possess or hunt with a bow in New Zealand, but hunting on public conservation land requires a DOC hunting permit.

Bows and arrows must meet DOC's minimum requirements, including a minimum draw weight of 15 kg or 35 lb, a minimum opposing blade diameter of 22 mm and the use of non-barbed hunting arrows. Read the current DOC bow-hunting requirements before setting out.

Permission must be obtained before entering or crossing private land. A DOC hunting permit does not automatically provide authority to cross private property.

Identify your target beyond all doubt.

Never release an arrow unless the angle, distance and background allow an ethical shot.

Know your maximum effective range and remain within it.

Poaching is a crime.

Notes:

The New Zealand bush can be dangerous.

Weather changes quickly, rivers rise, navigation becomes difficult beneath a closed canopy and wet ground can make even low-altitude country treacherous.

Red stags are large and powerful wild animals, particularly during the roar. A wounded or threatened stag can be dangerous. Approach cautiously and confirm that the animal is dead before beginning the recovery.

Plan your access, route and emergency response before leaving.

Carry suitable maps, navigation equipment, first-aid supplies, emergency shelter and enough food and water for an unexpected night in the bush.

Tell someone where you are going, where your vehicle will be left and when you expect to return.

We carry a Garmin inReach Mini 2, a two-way satellite communicator with interactive SOS capability, because mobile reception cannot be relied upon in this country.

I still remember the warning from the old Army days:

"Piss Poor Preparation Perpetuates Piss Poor Performance."