*Morning cloud drifting over the valley*

This is the first of a two-part story of the 2016 Red Stag Roar. While on this hunt, no arrows were released nor bullets fired, yet it will forever be one of the greatest hunting trips I’ve ever been on.

April had arrived and brought with it cool weather and the prospect of Roaring Reds. The boys were excited to return to the hills and the endeavour of finding a trophy stag and some meat for the freezer. Joined by the usual crew of Tom and MJ, I walked in on Friday night, reaching the last hut around nine thirty where we stopped for dinner.

After another hour walking the boys were tired and beginning to slow. The track was rough; we hadn’t been up it many times before and this was the first time in the dark. After an age of slashing and bashing, three exhausted hunters finally rolled into camp leaving a much tidier track behind them. The tent was quickly setup and a few hours of much needed rest was the first thing on the agenda.

An early rise and a hot cuppa saw us heading up valley just on sunrise. It wasn’t long before we heard the first roar. A quiet moan from below, we froze, glancing at each other.

“Was that a roar?” Tom whispered.

Again, another moan, there was a stag nearby. I raised the horn and let out a gentle roar, hopefully enough to entice a reply. The three of us sat there in silence, waiting.

A deep, guttural roar lifted from the bush below. My heart started pounding. You could see the stoke on Toms face, he had been here before and knew what was coming. MJ had never heard a stag. I could see his heart was racing. He had a look of exhilarated fear on his face as a 200 kilo beast with a tree on its head came rushing our way, looking for a fight.

A few minutes past and we hadn’t seen him yet. Eager to send an arrow flying I gave the roaring horn to Tom and started crawling down the face toward where I thought he would appear. The wind was average, lightly drifting down and slightly across. I thought this would be enough for me to make my way down to a small patch of manuka for cover. Then, as I crept across the face, the stag appeared.

*The monster stag looking up toward Tom & MJ*

*Clearly upset that someone else was in his territory*

Standing well over a metre high at the shoulder and sporting an impressive set of ‘Head Gear’ this worked up stag started thrashing his antlers in the tussock and aggressively responding to Toms roar from above.

MJ had managed to calm the nerves and got at it with my camera, getting some good shots of the stag. Sadly, these were the only shots taken. I had been impatient and chose a poor stalk. The wind shifted ever so slightly, I felt that light breeze on the back of my neck and moments later the stag bolted. BUGGER! A ripper stag with 11 beautiful points and I messed it up. Feeling deflated I walked back to the boys on the hilltop. Even though I made a mess of the stalk there were still three heightened heart rates and a massive amount of stoke having just had the first of hopefully many close encounters over the next month.

If things had gone well I would have ended up in some scrub just to the left of frame.

Not willing to give in, MJ and I headed off with camera and bow chasing another vocal stag. Tom reluctantly stayed on the hill periodically roaring.

After some time struggling to stay quiet while sneaking through tight scrub we found ourselves very close to what sounded like a good stag. We could hear him profusely thrashing saplings while letting off the occasional roar. As we walked into tight windfall and under growth that was proving bloody hard to move through quietly, I saw him. A flash of deep red hair and the whip of a sapling. While I knew that this stag was no more than 40 metres away I had no way of getting a shot without making a horrendous noise crossing the windfall.

After a long five minutes taking the most carefully placed steps of my life, everything went quiet. Stag number two had moved off and we were left, once again, with no prize. Miffed at the mornings events we headed back toward Tom finding along the way a couple of good wallows and a decent amount of sign. This was worth taking note of.

Once back with Tom we had a bite to eat and continued up valley. While sitting on the ridge glassing for more stags we had a young eight pointer come in for a look. I quickly grabbed the roaring horn and got to work. The young fella came right in on Tom and MJ who were taking photos from below. While he was a young stag with good potential, I thought it would be a good opportunity for MJ to shoot his first deer. I gave Tom the signal and he grabbed the rifle. Unfortunately, in the motions of setting MJ up for the shot the stag caught wind of what was going on and got out of there.

During the commotion of me roaring at the young stag, another had started up and didn’t sound too happy that we were in his area. I dropped behind the top of the ridge and moved to the right roaring as I went. I was getting some good replies but was yet to spot the culprit.

Lying low in the tussock and matagouri I crawled over the knob and tucked in behind a rock, raised my bino's to my eyes and scoured the bush line. Standing there amongst the shadows of the beech forest was a monster of a stag. This was Toms chance, all I had to do was get the brute to walk out from the bush line and present a good shot. This proved all too difficult and the cunning old stag didn’t venture far from the bush, never presenting a shot before going quiet and retreating into the bush.

*This stag never took another step and from where tom was he was unable to take the shot.*

Defeated again we walked back to camp under the guidance of our headlights.

Sunday provided more animal sightings and the prospect of a stag on the ground late in the morning. After yesterday’s events, I had run out of power in my camera and was unable to get any photos of an old stag that was bedded up with a group of hinds in a hard to reach spot. Discussions were had and we decided to try and cut a lookout in the manuka that we could shoot from. We took turns on the rusted pocket saw Tom had in his pack. Unable to break through the manuka in time, we stood there watching as our last chance to go home with heavy packs stood up and walked away.

Although we never fired a shot, I look back on that weekend a lot. I would rate that Saturday as one of the best days hunting I’ve ever had. Having so many close encounters with testosterone-fueled Red Stags in the one day is something special.

Next week we dive into another adventure, back in the same spot a week later with more roaring reds and heart pumping moments.

Check out @brucehunts_nz on Instagram for my latest adventures and some photos from these trips.