Brisbane Valley trophy red stag

The Brisbane Valley in March is a hunter’s paradise, where rolling hills and rugged valleys cradle red deer in their prime. My passion for the excitement of hunting red stags during the roar runs deep, forged through years of chasing deer in Queensland’s wild heart. This roar, I returned to a familiar property, a mix of native bushland and open forest, aiming for a trophy stag worthy of mounting – a treasure to crown my dedication to the stalk.

The property we hunt is prime cattle country, its terrain a patchwork of steep, scrub-filled gullies and open-top ridges. Red deer thrive here, slipping through the dense cover of jungle-like valleys or sneaking out into the stretching shadows of cleared paddocks. Native birds chattered, going about their business, their calls mingling with the scent of fresh, clean air. March’s roar makes stags bold yet vulnerable, bellowing their dominance to gather harems and fend off rivals. Their vocal displays turn the bush into a stage, guiding hunters like me to their haunts. Spot-and-stalk is the most effective method of hunting – find a roaring stag, glass him with binoculars, and close the distance until you can assess him without being betrayed by the wind or spotted by his harem of does. But the weather had other plans.

Rain was our constant companion. The forecast warned of wet days, and it delivered, turning knee-high grass into a sodden curtain that kept us soaked from the knees down, seeping moisture into our boots. With the workers’ quarters unavailable, Dad and I hauled tents, gazebos and gear to an out-of-the-way ridge on our hunting property, setting up our stag camp. I got my hunting gear ready: my brand-new Sauer 100 in .270 Winchester, sighted-in a week before this hunt, with 130gr Remington Core-Lokt factory ammo, hitting an inch and a half high at 100yds. Its slick action and balanced handling sparking excitement for the hunt ahead. A Leupold VX-3i 3.5-10×40 scope sat atop it in low Tally mounts, ideal for the valley’s variable ranges. My Swarovski 10×42 binoculars, with rangefinding function, were my eyes in the bush. I made sure my Lowa Ranger boots were freshly waterproofed and checked my hunting clothes. Happily, after some weight loss in recent months, ‘encouraged by my beautiful wife,’ I finally fit back into my old hunting clothes. The rain loomed large, but anticipation drove me forward.

Our first few days tested our resolve. The rain fell so heavily that at times visibility dropped to 50yds, and stag roars were muffled or stopped entirely, making them harder to pinpoint. Wet and weary, we trudged through morning and evening hunts, clothes sodden and camp as damp as the bush, yet I relished the challenge regardless of the weather. The valleys’ steep slopes sapped our energy. Dad kept my spirits up with his dry, cutting humour, making it impossible to complain about discomfort. We don’t hunt together often, life’s demands pulling us apart, so these moments were as much about catching up as finding a trophy. I noticed he was slowing down in retirement, no longer blasting up hills like the mountain goat of his younger days.

On the third afternoon, we eased up, hoping to avoid overexertion on the steep hills, but little did we know that plan was about to drastically change. We chose a long ridge line near camp, where we’d heard stags earlier in the week. The rain, wetting us through, quieted the bush, with only faint roars echoing from an adjacent ridge line on the neighbouring property. We were quietly stalking along the ridge top, the valley’s hush amplifying every distant bellow. Pausing to glass the gully below, we hoped to spot a stag we heard roaring close by, his bellows placing him just over the property line.

Dad’s sharp eyes caught movement first – a stag crossing the creek onto our huntable property, then vanishing into the bush below. We glassed intensely, hearing his roars but struggling to spot him. Suddenly, I glanced up to see some wild-eyed cattle ambling toward us along the ridge. My heart sank. If they spooked and charged downhill, they’d barrel toward the stag, ending our hunt. This wouldn’t be the first time that I had a deer stalk blown by nervous cattle or a kangaroo’s panic running and alerting prey to my presence. Our luck held as I watched them spot us, hesitating, and turning back around and going back the way that they had come from.

Then Dad whispered, “There he is.” At the bottom of the steep gully, 190yds below us, a black stag stood, his antlers showing promise through the drizzling rain. His coat, dark and slick from the rain, gave him an almost mythic presence, his bulk commanding the gully’s floor. He pawed the earth, head thrown back, his roars echoing as does lingered nearby, their eyes wary, his dominance a fleeting spectacle in this rain. I studied him through my Swarovskis and Dad through his Leica Geovid binoculars, assessing his trophy potential. His rack showed good tops, a shooter, no question. Dad and I bickered quietly, each urging the other to take the shot. “You do it,” he insisted, his nod steady with confidence. I relented, trusting his call.

Dad said to get a good rest from a tree and pointed to a small tree at the gully’s edge, a perfect place to take a rest for a shot. I eased into position, the Sauer 100’s weight steady in my hands. The Swarovski’s rangefinder read 190yds, but the steep downward angle advised that the true ballistic range was 145yds – barely an inch of variation for my .270 Win ballistically. The stag stepped clear of the scrub, offering a perfect broadside shot. My pulse steadied with time and focus settled into the moment. Feeling calm and steady in my sight picture, I squeezed the trigger. The 130gr Core-Lokt smashed into the stag’s chest, taking out both lungs and shoulders, dropping him instantly – a clean kill.

The descent to the downed stag was brutal. The wet, steep gully tested our footing, taking 15 minutes to navigate. As we approached, the stag’s size grew, his dark coat and 6×7-point rack revealed to be a masterpiece of the bush. I ran my hands over his antlers, their rough heft heavy with the Brisbane Valley’s story, awestruck by my first stag in two decades. Dad’s pride was palpable, his nod warm with approval, and a firm, embracing handshake pulling me in for a hug. Dad, ever the perfectionist, went to work setting up the stag for a few obligatory photos, propping the body and head of the stag, to frame the antlers just right against the gully’s scrub. We field-dressed the stag for a European mount, butchering some choice cuts of venison, honouring the animal’s gift.

The walkout was gruelling. The steep climb back the way we had come down would be impossible in the wet, so we followed a finger from the valley floor to atop the ridge line we had descended earlier. The hour-and-a-half trek tested my fitness, legs burning under the weight of the stag’s rack, meat and my hunting gear. Dad offered help, but pride – and the thought of my brothers’ sledging me for needing help – kept me going. His knowing smirk told me he’d seen this stubborn streak before. Sweating and soaked, we reached camp, the antlers a reward for years of effort without success.

This stag, hard-won, symbolises more than a trophy. It’s a testament to persistence, a nod to nature’s cycles and a reminder of hunting’s role in stewarding Queensland’s wild spaces. Hunting red deer in Queensland has its challenges in accessibility for all who want to pursue the excitement of a red deer hunt in the roar. Access to private land is a privilege, and finding a willing landowner is the real challenge. I dream of public lands opening for hunters in Queensland, with deer designated as game species. Culling deer here balances the ecosystem, a duty I carry with respect. Until that day, I’m grateful for properties like this, where I can pursue my passion.

This hunt taught me patience and perspective. Years can pass between trophy stags, the rain nearly breaking us. But the true reward wasn’t just the 6×7-point rack. It was time with Dad – the quiet moments on the ridge, his dry cutting humour, the shared thrill of the stalk. Hunting strips life to its essentials: nature, effort and connection. For hunters, it’s the bush’s call that keeps us coming back, and the possibility that over the next ridge, there could just be the trophy of a lifetime waiting for you.