Two Yankees, an Australian & a Kiwi Walk Into a Bar

The sky was red and grey as we traversed up. Shale crunched and skidded beneath our boots. I glassed the opposite face, a menagerie of scree slopes and bluffs willing to reveal a mob of tahr. Zach, my Australian companion gasped behind me. The mountains of New Zealand are not high altitude, but they are steep and treacherous. A few days prior Zach had cleanly taken a nanny tahr, checking that species off his list. Though, he still wanted to claim a bull before he hopped back over the ditch. Previously a fresh dump of snow had sent us packing out of the hills with our tails between our legs, the next two days were our final chance. Somewhere in the folds, crevices and spires of New Zealand’s Southern Alps was a bull tahr.

A week or two prior I picked up two Americans. Liam, a stocky, curly-haired kid from New Jersey with a bottomless pit for a sense of humor and a passion for biology. And Aiden, a lanky aspiring marine from Wisconsin. Two friends I had met at a guide school in Montana a few months prior. They were on a round-the-world trip and their first stop was the land of milk and honey. Our first adventure was a test. Canterbury High Country, undulating golden hills in the heart of the southern Alps. It proved even harder than I thought, taking a couple of days before we secured a first red deer for Aiden. With their endurance and resolve tempered to the New Zealand mountains, it was on to tahr. I picked up Zach, the Australian and host of the Hunting Connection podcast. Eager to get him onto his first tahr.

Getting into the mountains was rather uneventful. A drive up a river bed I’d done a million times. Glassing all the same slopes and faces I always do. Many New Zealand valleys are glacier-carved. Massive immovable boulders, even by centuries of annual flooding, lie scattered in the river catchments. Without trees, camp is as simple as finding flat ground and a pile of detritus for firewood. The many rabbits that abounded in the area made for a fine feast alongside wood-fired venison and deer tongue. New Zealand lacks tags or hunting seasons for any of our many introduced mammals. A fact I often lord over my fellow guides at elk camp. The mountains, and hunting the creatures that live in them, are a constant in my life.

The next morning we set out up the valley, climbing around a steep rocky gorge we spotted two nannies merrily eating at a patch of clover in a black rock field. Zach leaned over my Tikka .270 taking the nanny with a clean heart shot. After cutting up his kill and finding a good camp spot, Aiden, Liam and I left Zach behind to hunt with his bow while we went further up the valley to find Liam a tahr. It was hot and the climb steep. We sidled and bashed our way above a tremendous ravine. I had planned to get further, to a golden basin usually filthy with mobs of bulls. The shadows were lengthening, knowing my American compatriots weren’t going to make it, I opted for us to stay put, knowing a nanny would likely show up in the evening. As we waited a kea, an omnivorous alpine parrot, leered beside us. Hopping from rock to rock and nibbling at our packs. It wasn’t long before a nanny finally appeared. I pushed Liam ahead to make a hasty shot before it disappeared into the scree. The shot rang out with sparks a shower of stones. Liam had tried to lie down in the scree and looking through the scope appeared to be on target, however the barrel of my .270 pointed firmly towards the dirt. No matter. The shot spooked Tahr in all directions. More nannies emerged across from us. Liam briefly dejected, took aim again, this time off my pack. He thumped the tahr with an excellent shot, or at least not bad for a New Jersey shotgun hunter.

The next morning dawned misty and cold. It wasn’t long before the snow was pelting the tent. Remember I mentioned a snowstorm that sent us packing? This was it. We stuffed our gear into our packs. Wet snow that numbed our hands and stung the eyes. As we sidled back down the valley, walking on a mix of glacier and stone I’d look back cautiously. Liam and Aiden, hands in pockets and faces hidden behind masks and hats. We emerged from the snow-clad hills to Zach, packed and ready to go. He’d never seen snow in his whole life.

Refreshed and refueled we drove into a nearby area and hiked our way in. With Liam and Aiden guarding camp and satisfied with a first wallaby on the way in. Zach and I headed to a nearby glassing knob I had visited a month before. The sun was golden and highlighted the snow-dusted peaks around us as we climbed. Nothing was seen and doubt was beginning to crawl into my mind. Tomorrow was our last day.

The next morning, we rock-hopped our way up the valley, glassing as we went. It was just Zach and I once more, as this was the last day. I was in such a hurry to get to where I thought there would be a tahr that I neglected my glass. Perched high above us on a small rock outcrop was a chocolate bull. He didn’t move. Many had probably walked straight past him. Zach spotted him first, and instantly we crouched low to the ground. He knew the fearsome unnatural gait of men and began to haul ass upwards and away. In a minute he'd be over the rise and never seen again. Zach set up on both our packs. I was hesitant to let him shoot, as it was over 400 yards at almost 45 degrees. He looked confident, with a steel gaze. The shot rang true, I watched the bull's shaggy mane shudder with the bullet impact. Collapsing on the spot and rolling out of sight. A bloody good shot. After some huffing and puffing from Zach the Aussie, a handshake was had and we got to work. Cutting the cape off and taking as much meat as we could. High on a ridge we could see the glacial water of Lake Tekapo. New Zealand is an absurd island of rough mountain country, remote back roads and wild game. We New Zealanders are luckier than we know. And even luckier to share it. No matter where you are from, whether it Steve Irwin's backyard, a frigid ice plain of dairy cows or somewhat close to Taylor Swift's hometown, we hunters speak the same language