I spent the last two summers on the South Island of NZ. I wrote this article (part 1) about my Tahr hunting and it is published in NZ Outdoors magazine this month.
Across the World for a Golden Mane: A Northern Irish Hunter’s Tahr Dream
From the tranquil shores of Lough Neagh in Northern Ireland to the snow-dusted peaks of New Zealand’s Southern Alps, my journey in search of a bull Tahr was more than a hunt—it was a pilgrimage. It spanned nearly 19,000 kilometres, several time zones, and a lifetime of anticipation. What began as a dream in a quiet village ended in a moment of awe on a windswept ridge, rifle in hand, heart pounding. In a hunt that tested my legs, my lungs, and my gratitude for the generosity of Kiwi mates who made it all possible
Home Waters and Distant Peaks
Ballyronan is a small village on the western edge of Lough Neagh, a lake so vast it feels like an inland sea. At 383 square kilometres, it’s the largest lake in the UK—twice the size of New Zealand’s Lake Pukaki, my destination. Growing up here, I learned to read the land and water, to hunt diving ducks on the big water, to stalk deer in the misty Irish hills, and to appreciate the quiet rhythm of rural life. But I’d always dreamed of something wilder, more remote.
In July 2024, I finally made the leap. I packed my gear, said goodbye to the familiar, and boarded a series of flights that would take me halfway around the world. After 47 hours of travel—planes, buses, and a less than comfortable 14-hour stretch wedged between two very large Australians—I touched down in Christchurch at 1:30 a.m.
By 2:00 a.m., I was in Rangiora, welcomed into the home of my friend and fellow duck hunter, Tom Lanauze. Tom and I had met through international waterfowling circles, and though we’ve hunted together since 2016 this was the first opportunity Tom had to open his home and his country to me, which he did without hesitation.
Jet Lag and Mallards
We agreed I should take a day to recover before heading into the mountains. But in our world, rest doesn’t mean idleness. Just four hours later, we were setting out a decoy spread in a green paddock, preparing for a Mallard shoot from layout blinds.
As the first sunrise of my trip broke over the Canterbury Plains, the ducks came in fast and low. The air was crisp, the light golden, and the adrenaline cut through the jet lag like a knife. By lunchtime, I had a full bag of Mallards and a renewed sense of energy. It was the perfect reintroduction to the outdoors—and a reminder that hunting is as much about camaraderie and shared experience as it is about the quarry.
South to the High Country
The next morning, I loaded up Tom’s Land Cruiser and began the long drive south to Twizel. My destination was the turquoise waters of Lake Pukaki, framed by the jagged peaks of the Southern Alps. I was meeting Jurgen, a seasoned Kiwi hunter I’d connected with through his YouTube channel, Strider. We’d been planning this Tahr hunt for weeks via WhatsApp, trading maps, gear lists, and stories.
As I drove, the landscape shifted dramatically—from rolling farmland to alpine grandeur. The sun rose behind me, casting the snow-capped peaks of the southern Alps in hues of crimson and gold. I stopped often—sometimes to take photos, but mostly just to breathe it all in. The air was sharp and clean, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel more alive.
Breakfast came from Fairlie: a pork and apple pie, a venison and cranberry pie, and a custard slice. New Zealand’s pie culture was something of a revelation to me, but that combo would become my go-to fuel for the rest of the trip. Pies and chocolate milk—simple, effective, and very Kiwi.
Meeting the Mountain
Jurgen and I met in Twizel’s town square. He was as I’d imagined: calm, capable, and quietly enthusiastic. As I transferred my gear into his truck, I realized I’d left my bino harness back in Rangiora. A rookie mistake, born of sleep deprivation and excitement. Fortunately, Tom had packed a box of essentials, including a pair of Vortex Razor 10x42 binoculars and a rangefinder. It was a stroke of luck and valuable foresight that would prove invaluable.
We drove to a steep valley on the lake’s edge, where Jurgen suspected a bull might be hiding. The terrain was immediately intimidating—steeper, rockier, and more unforgiving than anything I’d trained for in Ireland. The soft bogs and rolling hills of home had not prepared me for this.
We began the climb. The footing was loose, the gradient relentless, and the Spear grass unforgiving. After two hours, we paused to glass the opposite slope. Jurgen spotted a group of nannies grazing on a rocky face. Then, a bull stepped out.
The Shot of a Lifetime
He was magnificent. His mane caught the wind like a lion’s, golden and wild against the pale greywacke rock. He stood proud and statuesque at 700 metres away, high on the far side of the valley. We studied the terrain and plotted a route that would bring us within range, weaving through Spear grass and Matagouri—thorny, tangled, and aptly nicknamed “wild Irishman.”
At 250 metres, we found a hollow in front of a boulder that offered cover and a clear line of sight but no possibility of a stable prone shot. I set up my quad sticks—essential gear back home, where prone shooting often means a bog bath or a tick bite. Here, they gave me a stable, elevated rest for my 7mm Rem Mag.
The bull grazed behind a rock, his mane rippling in the wind. My heart pounded. I waited.
Three more steps, confirm range. Two steps, I slipped off the safety. One more step. I drew the crosshairs up his front leg and paused. In that moment, I felt the weight of the journey, the generosity of strangers, and the privilege of standing in this wild place.
The shot rang out. The bull leapt, then tumbled down the slope. A clean and solid hit.
A Trophy, A Memory
Jurgen’s dog, Kim, had already located the bull by the time we arrived. He lay in a clear patch of rock—perfect for photos and clean enough for butchering. The loins made excellent camp meat, and the legs became a hearty stew. That night however, we celebrated with a steak dinner in Twizel, the kind of meal that tastes better when earned.
Today, the Tahr’s head sits on my desk at work, a conversation starter for curious students. The rug hangs in my living room. Every so often, I catch the earthy scent of his mane, and I’m transported back to that mountain ridge, in that moment, chasing wild dreams in the high country of Aotearoa.
Next stop: Chamois.
Across the World for a Golden Mane: A Northern Irish Hunter’s Tahr Dream
From the tranquil shores of Lough Neagh in Northern Ireland to the snow-dusted peaks of New Zealand’s Southern Alps, my journey in search of a bull Tahr was more than a hunt—it was a pilgrimage. It spanned nearly 19,000 kilometres, several time zones, and a lifetime of anticipation. What began as a dream in a quiet village ended in a moment of awe on a windswept ridge, rifle in hand, heart pounding. In a hunt that tested my legs, my lungs, and my gratitude for the generosity of Kiwi mates who made it all possible
Home Waters and Distant Peaks
Ballyronan is a small village on the western edge of Lough Neagh, a lake so vast it feels like an inland sea. At 383 square kilometres, it’s the largest lake in the UK—twice the size of New Zealand’s Lake Pukaki, my destination. Growing up here, I learned to read the land and water, to hunt diving ducks on the big water, to stalk deer in the misty Irish hills, and to appreciate the quiet rhythm of rural life. But I’d always dreamed of something wilder, more remote.
In July 2024, I finally made the leap. I packed my gear, said goodbye to the familiar, and boarded a series of flights that would take me halfway around the world. After 47 hours of travel—planes, buses, and a less than comfortable 14-hour stretch wedged between two very large Australians—I touched down in Christchurch at 1:30 a.m.
By 2:00 a.m., I was in Rangiora, welcomed into the home of my friend and fellow duck hunter, Tom Lanauze. Tom and I had met through international waterfowling circles, and though we’ve hunted together since 2016 this was the first opportunity Tom had to open his home and his country to me, which he did without hesitation.
Jet Lag and Mallards
We agreed I should take a day to recover before heading into the mountains. But in our world, rest doesn’t mean idleness. Just four hours later, we were setting out a decoy spread in a green paddock, preparing for a Mallard shoot from layout blinds.
As the first sunrise of my trip broke over the Canterbury Plains, the ducks came in fast and low. The air was crisp, the light golden, and the adrenaline cut through the jet lag like a knife. By lunchtime, I had a full bag of Mallards and a renewed sense of energy. It was the perfect reintroduction to the outdoors—and a reminder that hunting is as much about camaraderie and shared experience as it is about the quarry.
South to the High Country
The next morning, I loaded up Tom’s Land Cruiser and began the long drive south to Twizel. My destination was the turquoise waters of Lake Pukaki, framed by the jagged peaks of the Southern Alps. I was meeting Jurgen, a seasoned Kiwi hunter I’d connected with through his YouTube channel, Strider. We’d been planning this Tahr hunt for weeks via WhatsApp, trading maps, gear lists, and stories.
As I drove, the landscape shifted dramatically—from rolling farmland to alpine grandeur. The sun rose behind me, casting the snow-capped peaks of the southern Alps in hues of crimson and gold. I stopped often—sometimes to take photos, but mostly just to breathe it all in. The air was sharp and clean, the kind that fills your lungs and makes you feel more alive.
Breakfast came from Fairlie: a pork and apple pie, a venison and cranberry pie, and a custard slice. New Zealand’s pie culture was something of a revelation to me, but that combo would become my go-to fuel for the rest of the trip. Pies and chocolate milk—simple, effective, and very Kiwi.
Meeting the Mountain
Jurgen and I met in Twizel’s town square. He was as I’d imagined: calm, capable, and quietly enthusiastic. As I transferred my gear into his truck, I realized I’d left my bino harness back in Rangiora. A rookie mistake, born of sleep deprivation and excitement. Fortunately, Tom had packed a box of essentials, including a pair of Vortex Razor 10x42 binoculars and a rangefinder. It was a stroke of luck and valuable foresight that would prove invaluable.
We drove to a steep valley on the lake’s edge, where Jurgen suspected a bull might be hiding. The terrain was immediately intimidating—steeper, rockier, and more unforgiving than anything I’d trained for in Ireland. The soft bogs and rolling hills of home had not prepared me for this.
We began the climb. The footing was loose, the gradient relentless, and the Spear grass unforgiving. After two hours, we paused to glass the opposite slope. Jurgen spotted a group of nannies grazing on a rocky face. Then, a bull stepped out.
The Shot of a Lifetime
He was magnificent. His mane caught the wind like a lion’s, golden and wild against the pale greywacke rock. He stood proud and statuesque at 700 metres away, high on the far side of the valley. We studied the terrain and plotted a route that would bring us within range, weaving through Spear grass and Matagouri—thorny, tangled, and aptly nicknamed “wild Irishman.”
At 250 metres, we found a hollow in front of a boulder that offered cover and a clear line of sight but no possibility of a stable prone shot. I set up my quad sticks—essential gear back home, where prone shooting often means a bog bath or a tick bite. Here, they gave me a stable, elevated rest for my 7mm Rem Mag.
The bull grazed behind a rock, his mane rippling in the wind. My heart pounded. I waited.
Three more steps, confirm range. Two steps, I slipped off the safety. One more step. I drew the crosshairs up his front leg and paused. In that moment, I felt the weight of the journey, the generosity of strangers, and the privilege of standing in this wild place.
The shot rang out. The bull leapt, then tumbled down the slope. A clean and solid hit.
A Trophy, A Memory
Jurgen’s dog, Kim, had already located the bull by the time we arrived. He lay in a clear patch of rock—perfect for photos and clean enough for butchering. The loins made excellent camp meat, and the legs became a hearty stew. That night however, we celebrated with a steak dinner in Twizel, the kind of meal that tastes better when earned.
Today, the Tahr’s head sits on my desk at work, a conversation starter for curious students. The rug hangs in my living room. Every so often, I catch the earthy scent of his mane, and I’m transported back to that mountain ridge, in that moment, chasing wild dreams in the high country of Aotearoa.
Next stop: Chamois.
