Searching the South Island for a special buck

There is something about a fallow buck that gets my blood pumping – probably initiated by my friendship with the late deer hunting guide, Barry Nelis. Barry was an experienced hunter, having travelled to many exotic destinations, and was a wealth of information.

During my treks to the Mary Valley in South East Queensland, I would make a point of catching up with Barry. He was a real larrikin of a man, who loved a joke and a good yarn and was rambunctious in his story telling. Barry was never one for allowing truth to be an obstacle to a great story, intriguing his audiences with a wonderfully humorous account of his latest narrative.

As we were both ex-servicemen, when we sat down for a coffee he might begin with a yarn from his past, when he served in the RAAF, knowing I would be able to relate to it because of my years spent in the force. However, invariably the conversations would circle back to hunting. He’d talk of an adventure from Africa or some other colourful destination he had hunted or an experience while guiding his clients for red deer.

One occasion, on my arrival at the hunting property, Barry produced a fallow buck head he had managed to take the day before. A menil (brown with white spots) buck was no record breaker but a good representative of the breed. This started Barry chatting about one of his favourite topics – hunting fallow deer. He vociferously claimed when he shot a Spanish black he would have a fallow grand slam. His description of the Spanish black kindled my interest in hunting fallow.

I was privileged to share Barry’s last hunting camp with his brother Gordon, days before Barry’s passing. I shot a red stag. Just after the shot, Barry made radio contact with me asking where I was. He then informed me he and Gordon were on their way to help me retrieve the meat and head. On their arrival it became evident that Barry was having problems, so Gordon and I managed the carry-out while both of us kept an eye on him.

Jovial to the end, Barry struggled to make it off the mountain. I left the camp late that afternoon. The next day, I rang Barry who assured me he had an appointment with his doctor. The following day I received a phone call from Gordon saying Barry was gone. Barry was forever garrulous about his desire to hunt a Spanish black. His flamboyant description stirred me.

Fortunately for me while hunting in NSW some years ago I took a beautiful specimen of a Spanish black. I often look at that mount, allowing my mind to wander. I can almost hear Barry describing the Spanish black.

At the time of taking this great specimen it could have been the end for me and fallow, but it was only just beginning. I love the palmate antlers and the various coloured capes, plus there is nothing more enjoyable than fallow steaks on my dinner plate. When I am fallow hunting, I never know what to expect, adding to the intrigue. Though I may have some expectations, my experience is that these have never been satisfied, though each animal I have taken proved to be a milestone in my hunting journey.

Having never hunted in New Zealand’s South Island, my anticipation had been enhanced by conversations with others who had been there. I had hunted the North Island with its challenges of the manuka forest, active volcanoes and rugged mountains. But the South Island is something to be experienced. Where we hunted was stunning.

Scott and I landed in Queenstown, with our primary targeted species, a red stag, with an option to hunt a fallow buck as well. Both of us managed to secure our personal best red stags, so now the chase for a fallow had begun. At this point we were to separate, as another guide was available. Will, a 24-year-old local and a veritable mountain goat, took me hunting for an Arapawa ram. I was successful in taking one while Scott and Raynardt were to hunt fallow.

I arrived back at camp well satisfied after taking my ram. When Scott returned, nothing would wipe the smile off his face. He had managed a screamer of a fallow buck that any hunter would be proud to hang on their wall. Scott’s enthusiasm immediately triggered my levels of anticipation for the coming day’s fallow hunt.

As we drove out of camp the next morning, Raynardt asked me what I was looking for in a fallow buck. Not overly particular, I laid down some parameters. First and foremost, I wanted an older animal, unfazed if points had been rubbed down or broken. Though I did want the buck to have good guards, wide palms and longish main beams. Coat colour didn’t matter, though I would prefer it wasn’t a black. As we arrived at the gate to public land, daylight was breaking.

We drove up a mountain, rounding yet another bend, and silhouetted against the morning sky was a small mob of fallow on the ridge opposite. Raynardt allowed the vehicle to roll to a halt. We began glassing the mob. One deer was a stand-out, having long palmation with reasonable width. It was a good deer but not quite what I had in mind.

Scott and I continued to glass the mob, while Raynardt disappeared behind the vehicle to view from another perspective. That left Scott and me to discuss the pros and cons of the deer in front of us. We both came to the conclusion, had we been home, neither of us would have left the area without attempting to take him. But we weren’t at home.

On Raynardt’s return we continued up the mountain. Clambering out of the comfort of the heated vehicle, the chill slammed us in the face. A frost had whitened the valley floor, triggering a chilly breeze to whisper up the ridge line. We began to walk below the skyline, preventing us from being silhouetted. The breathtaking views interfered with our concentration levels. Pausing to glass periodically but with little wildlife to be seen, time passed quickly. The sun had now risen and was beginning to warm the air and our cool bodies.

Raynardt and I moved ahead of Scott, who lingered, glassing the opposite ridge to us. Every now and then we looked back to confirm Scott was following. Each time we glanced, his attention was firmly fixed on the opposing ridge line. Scott quietly said he could see a buck but just couldn’t work out whether it was a taker or not.

Raynardt set up the spotting scope. All three of us concentrated on the deer, for what seemed an eternity, before he showed his glorious headgear. Being the largest fallow I have seen while hunting, I let Raynardt know. Quietly, we slipped around the knoll before trekking quickly towards the buck, without fear of him seeing or hearing us. We closed the distance to 300m of open grassed meadow.

Surveying from high, we looked down to the foot of the ridge opposite, where the buck lazily breakfasted. Lessening the gap was necessary but the terrain was too open. Laying prone atop of a small knoll, I extended the legs of the bipod. My scope was set on the lowest power for fast target acquisition. I slipped in behind the scope, focusing on the buck, then wound up the power ring to maximum.

With the buck squarely in my sights I took up the trigger pressure. By the time I recovered from recoil, the buck was now on the valley floor below, unscathed. He stopped to look back to where my bullet slammed into the ground after missing him. I jacked another round into the chamber, sights firmly fixed approximately 6″ behind the shoulders, centered on his spine. I remember visualising the flight of my bullet hitting the spine then passing through to the heart.

Squeezing the trigger, the rifle barked and the buck collapsed where he stood, adjacent to the vehicle track. Raynardt turned to me and said: “how did you do that?” Smirking, I shrugged my shoulders. Scott was up shaking my hand, then we stood immersed in what had taken place. The view was spectacular and so was the buck. I don’t think anything could have improved this hunt; I couldn’t have been any happier than I was at that moment.

Strolling back to the vehicle, our mood was jovial while discussing the hunt. I had managed to take a beautiful deer. There is nothing that can compare to the comradery of hunters who are truly happy for the success of another hunter. Reaching the vehicle, we drove along a few bush tracks to where my buck lay waiting.

As often is the case when I have killed an animal, I enjoy some quiet time with it. Which the boys graciously gave me. While sitting with the buck I looked up to where my deer had first been spotted, to see a beautiful young red deer stag walking, no more than 80m from me. At home this stag would have been a taker, but here it was just another young red deer to be left to grow.

My passion for fallow deer has not waned since the taking of this buck, though my next one will have to be special. But then again, the trophy is always in the eye of the beholder. I remembered the thoughts of Barry Nelis. Becoming a friend of his is one of the highlights of my life. He was a true hunter who helped spread the love of the hunt. Barry has been gone now for some time but the memories with him remain vivid.

We can’t walk the hills together anymore but the legacy he passed on to me, I hope I can, in turn, pass things onto others. As one little anecdote, I would be sitting on a hill glassing for deer with Barry, when suddenly he would boisterously say: “I wonder what the rich people are doing?” Then he would answer himself in a stentorian voice: “who gives a #@%^, I am hunting and that’s all that counts.” RIP ol’ mate.