Bush Stalker

By Tim Stewart

I grew up spending my school holidays roaming around on my Grandparents farm at the base of the Kaimai range in the Bay of Plenty, near Tauranga. With an abundance of rabbits on the property, which we hunted as soon as my brothers and I were old enough to use Grandpas old BSA .22.
At the age of eighteen the call of the bush had grown too strong to resist, and I gathered some traps and bought an ex-military .303 rifle and “went bush”.
From the early eighties I hunted in TeUrewera ranges, before moving across the Great lake Taupo, to the Hauhungaroa range, to hunt Possums for their skins in the winter, and meat hunt Red Deer in the spring.
For the last six years I have written of my experiences on the NZOutdoor magazine and included the stories in this eBook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Stewart
• Release date: Oct 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005268749

Book preview

BUSH STALKER

By Tim Stewart

Copyright © 2020 Tim Stewart

Cover design by eQube Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ISBN 9781005268749

Dedication

Dedicated to my wife, Jocelyn.

Who supports me in everything I do.

Thanks to

NZ Outdoor Magazine for publishing my stories over the past six years.

Tim Stewart

The Hunters dilemma

Mountain high, valley low.

Ponder which path to go.

Not just to walk.

But have a successful stalk.

For this to be done.

Then simply follow the sun.

Dawn’s break and dusk’s twilight.

Can find animals in clear sight.

Fickle wind a hunter’s foe.

Undecided which way to blow.

For if you leave hut’s sheltered door.

Be content to but explore.

Then next time you will know.

Just where it is you need to go.

Contents

Spring Rains

Cover Up

Mid-Day Scouting

Tread Lightly

The Hauhungaroa Horse

Chasing Phantom Stags

One Out of the Box

Stalking Post Roar Wallows

36 Hours

Don’t Camp on their Dinner

Optimizing MyStalking time

Easter Moon

Second Chance Stags

Mastering Earth

A Mid-Winter Sojourn

Roaring Up Reds

Bush Bound Deer

Ya Can’t Shoot em Twice

Stalking Wet Bush

Gosts in the Grass

Fiordland Sojourn 1

Fiordland Sojourn 2

Eighty Years in the Bush

Winters End

Hunting Against the Wind

Be Ready, for the Stag will follow the Hind

Running with Red Stags

Red Deer Calling

Chapter 1

Spring Rains

As all hunters well know, the weather affects how successful their hunt will be. Too windy and the chances of bagging a deer decrease to just about nil. Add some heavy rain into the mix and it can be almost impossible to find an animal. I personally believe that deer dislike being wet and will find as much refuge as they can, be it a shelter tree or lee side of a prominent forested ridge, to get out of bad weather.

Scotch mist, which is drizzle mixed with a warm northerly, brings with it, good hunting. Scent will not carry far in the drizzle; the moisture in the air will dull the deer’s sense of smell. Sound will not carry any distance in air laden with mist, and in the low light of the dull day their sight is limited. With three of their senses only working at half speed the deer almost become docile and sedate. Couple this with lush spring growth and hungry deer will be eager to get out for a feed early in the evening.

The spring of 2012 was plagued with unsettled windy weather, with few chances of good hunting days. I managed to get out for a couple of days early on when there was a break in the weather but had to work hard to shoot a spiker on an evening hunt.

However, sometimes the weather conditions can increase your chances so much that it can seem almost criminal to go hunting. Throw together some drizzle on a late spring morning, followed by a fine sunny afternoon with little wind, and you have an awesome evening ahead for deer hunting. The weatherman, Jim Hickey, had forecast just that for the day ahead. I had not planned to go hunting that day, going to work as usual, but as I toiled on with the Scotch mist steadily falling while the morning wore on and the humidity building up my mind started to drift towards hunting. By lunchtime the sun started to break through the diminishing cloud and the call to go hunting had gone from a whisper of an idea in the back of my mind to becoming an unbearable shout, calling me to the bush like a magnet which I could no longer either ignore or resist. I knew that the bush would be wet and quiet to stalk. The moon phase had not passed its first quarter so would not yet give out enough light for deer to linger in the bush edge until after dark, preferring instead to come out and feed in the safety of night. They will feed well during the night on a full moon, with it being so easy for them to see, and be back in the bush well before daylight.

It was mid-December and with spring growth well underway, I felt the deer would be keen to get out of the damp scrub for a good feed of the sweet spring grass that was growing on the clearings. By 2pm I had my gear stowed in an untidy heap in the back of the ute. The quad was on the trailer and after telling her indoors that we were nearly out of venison and for us to survive another month I had to go hunting, I said my goodbyes and that I’d see her late tomorrow. A quick wave to the wife and soon home was shrinking quickly away in the rear-vision mirror.

This would be a hit and run trip with none of the usual camp comforts, only a mattress in the back of the ute and a fitted sheet stretched over the back doors to keep out the mozzies. I picked up some dinner and muesli bars on the way through Otorohanga; with muesli and yogurt for breakfast what more could I need.

Arriving at the campsite late in the afternoon with no time to waste, it was just a matter of throwing my hunting clothes on with one hand while eating dinner with the other. By 6pm, with the quad taken off the trailer, it was now time to hunt. On the way to my chosen hunt I came around a corner in the track to find fresh deer prints etched deeply into the rain-soaked road. Stopping to look at them I hopped off the quad and found the first prints splayed wide and cut deep into the soft ground. As I followed them it was easy to read their story.

The animal had come out of the bush not more than 50 metres back up the road, after making his way down an old overgrown logging track. From there he had made his way toward the grass on the corner in the road where the noise of my quad then disturbed him, causing him to bound away into the safety of the forest.

I was heartened to see that even though it was not long after six this stag was already well out of the bush. A year ago, at the same spot, I had seen a good spiker who got away. I wondered if the same stag had made these prints and judging by their size it probably was.

Continuing with my hunt, I was now more confident on having a successful stalk. Another set of fresh prints crossed the road before I arrived at my bike park, but this deer had also departed. After leaving the quad, there was a quarter hour stalk ahead of me through open bush before I reached the first clearing. While sidling through the quiet bush I caught some movement below me. There, fifteen metres below me, was a deer. The only thing was that its legs were only a foot long and its fluffy brown coat was covered in an array of little white spots. The fawn trotted forward to find mum who was standing partly obscured by a tree. I wondered if I could get my camera out before she spooked but she did not hang around long enough for a picture. She ran off down the ridge with four unsteady, awkward little legs trailing after her.

Ten minutes later the first clearing came into view fringed by dripping bush, and there, half-way up it, was a yearling hind intently grazing. She moved hungrily from one tasty patch of grass to another as she fed. From where I was there was not a clear shot so after a short stalk, I found a handy tree to rest on. With her being about 100 metres away it gave me a chance to try out the five power on my new 1.5x5 scope. Picking a gap through some branches, I lined up on her shoulder and squeezed off a shot. She dropped on the spot.

Another larger hind ran across the clearing and disappeared into a thick patch of wineberry and pepperwood scrub. Reloading, I waited to see what would happen next. The hind broke from the scrub and trotted up the clearing, stopping in the middle, confused as to what was happening and where the loud noise had come from. That was all I needed, and she fell with a 130 Hornady to the shoulder.

The next hour I spent boning out the two hinds. I had one eye over my shoulder checking the ridge tops on the sun’s progress. By the time I stuffed the last piece of meat into my day bag I was ready to hunt again. Looking up towards the top of the ridge I could see that the tall tawa trees that lined it were still bathed in sunlight, so I knew there was time enough to finish my planned hunt.

After thumbing some new rounds into my .308 Tikka, and winding my scope back to two power, I started stalking towards the next clearing. With a gentle breeze in my face I quietly moved through the damp forest. Following the noise of two rifle shots I was unsure if the deer would be too disturbed to come out on the remaining clearings. It had been over an hour since they had rung out in the valley, so I was hopeful that any deer in the area had settled back down by now. Also, in such heavy bush the sound sometimes does not carry as far as you would expect.

About 50 metres from the next large clearing some movement caught my eye. A young hind had spooked from just inside the bush edge.

Unsure of what she had seen, she only ran a few metres and then stopped to see what I was. Settling the crosshairs of my scope on her head I squeezed off a shot. She dropped on the spot. I already had enough to carry for the night, so I gutted her and set her with a stick holding her belly open. This would allow her to cool down. I also made sure her back legs were well separated so the meat wouldn’t overheat and spoil during the night. Shouldering my load of venison, I thumbed another round into the magazine, checked the scope was clear and continued on my way.

The next clearing had plenty of deer sign but was empty so I started the climb up to the end logging skid, reaching it just before dark. The sound of pounding hooves and crashing scrub greeted me as I noisily pushed through the long thick toitoi grass fringing the clearing. Damn I thought, this cunning old hind had been beating me here for a few years now.

I dropped my burden on the skids to pick up with the quad later and started back down the track heading for my bike. The old hind had not finished with me yet and after I had gone about 100 metres, she started to bark at me from the safety of her hiding place deep in the forest. I was cursing through my teeth that not only had she beaten me at the clearing but now she was twisting the knife by also warning any other deer that might be around that there was danger in the area.

Taking another step around the corner I looked up the old grassy logging track to see a spiker standing looking over his shoulder towards me. I remember seeing small clouds of hair come off him; one where the bullet hit him on the side of his shoulder and another where it came off the base of his neck and exited before he dropped to the ground. This was testament to the shocking power of the .308 130 grain Hornady projectile.

Elated at such a successful hunt and with darkness now at hand, I made quick work of gutting and making him ready to pick up with my quad. I would bone it out in the daylight the following morning.

Normally I would be up and out hunting again well before dawn. However, with such a successful stalk the night before and still two deer yet to bone out I could afford the luxury of a sleep in. The birds of the bush had other ideas and waking me well before dawn the tui started off the dawn chorus. In the half-light of dawn my blue sheet covering the back of the ute was a light shade of grey (do not go there!). I lay in my sleeping bag listening to the song of the king of the forest birds and wondered if this was as close as I could get to seeing the world through the eyes of a deer as dawn’s early light gave way to the day before my colour vision kicked in and the shades of grey were gone.

After breakfast I took the spiker back up the track to bone out and then made my way back to the river to bone the hind. I do not carry whole animals anymore. I feel there is no need to carry all that weight when the meat is all you want. Also, once you get home it’s just a matter of putting the meat in the fridge and going to get yourself a well-earned

beer.

Chapter 2

Cover up

It was late in the day. The calm evening found me quietly stalking along the ponga face as I followed some familiar and well-worn deer trails. I was disappointed to find that they were devoid of any fresh sign. Fifty metres below me I could hear the rushing waters of the river as it flowed down towards the gorge. Up ahead the slip on the far side of the river came into view through the overhanging ponga fronds.

It had been a warm early spring day and I was glad to have my new pair of Ridgeline airflow pants on in this heat; so far they had surpassed all my expectations. Although I had a lingering doubt in the back of my mind as to how well these light pants were going to protect me against the demons of the bush.

The new growth had yet to come away on the sun-drenched slip. I dropped towards the river, heading for the lookout where I could cover the large rocky landside properly. Reaching the vantage point, I leaned against a handy tree settling down to wait while watching the sunlit bush edge for any sign of a deer. The resident goats were conspicuous by their absence.

Lingering on the lookout, I sat scanning the face while willing a deer to come out; without success. Some movement in the bush upstream from me caught my eye. An animal came into view, purposely making its way down the deer trail I was standing on oblivious of my presence as I stood next to my hideout tree. The split second of hope of a successful hunt dissolved, turning into animosity as I identified the billy goat the same time as he spotted me. Unsure as to just what I was, he cut around below me trying to catch my wind not knowing that his miserable life was spared. Only because I did not want to disturb the valley with a crashing gunshot echoing its way up through the river clearings. Impatient to be on my way and my feelings toward my present company getting the better of me, I left the lookout and continued my way down the well-used trail that led towards the river.

The bush clad ridge climbed steeply behind me as I bent down and stepped under a scrubby branch. With just a few more steps I would be out on the small open river flat. From deep in my subconscious I caught the shape of an old foe in my peripheral vision and lurched quickly backward, trying to avoid the bite of its evil fangs. Saving my face from its painful venom, I took another footstep backwards but already it was too late to avoid its greeting. Wincing with pain upon feeling the sting of its poison burning into my leg through my light summer pants, I cursed the plant and all its ancestors.

I had just had a bite from tree stinging nettle in its most toxic stage, while in its bright green growth of springtime. This plant has a myriad of tiny spikes covering it, all loaded with a painful poison. The evil plant’s shape has been burned deep in my memory from past unpleasant meetings and while it might have been only slightly miffed on our winter get-togethers, in the spring and summer its mood gets downright belligerent.

Spitting on my hand several times I rubbed the cooling saliva into the wounded area, soon feeling some of the pain go as my saliva diluted the painful toxin. Without treatment, after coming up in white welts, it would sting and tingle for days. This plant is very toxic to dogs, at best it will lay them out for a couple of days while they froth at the mouth and convulse as the poison works its way out of their system; at worst it will kill them. Too much of the venom in a man’s system will also kill him.

More nettles filled the first river bench, cousins of the plant that had bitten me. Across the river, at the base of the slip, its parent plants grew to a full height of eight feet.

Stalking up the river, I came to the second flat and found it was empty with some fresh deer sign on it. I stepped up onto the grassy bench. At the next bend and down in