THE GREAT Southern Alps

"Next thing, the young bull came barrelling over the ridge with our bull chasing him. He slowed and stopped, quartering downhill slightly, and giving me enough of an opportunity to squeeze the trigger"

But ten days out from departure into the great Southern Alps, my usual hunting companion reluctantly told me that he had to sit this one out. Quickly I phoned an old school buddy that I hadn’t seen in 18 years, to see if he wanted to try and bag his first tahr.

Kyle, who is a very keen and seasoned pig hunter, jumped at the chance to get a run on the board, especially since his fourteen year old son had already beat him to it on a hunt with his grandfather.

After a brief reunion and a small debate on essential items to pack, (a value pack of jet-planes is not an essential, Kyle) we were all set to jump in the truck and catch our chopper ride the next morning.

We arrived at the hut after a quick, smooth flight and the usual quality banter with the pilot, amped up and ready for the six days. Knowing the following day had been forecast as absolute shite, we waived unpacking and shot straight out the door