This is the second installment of my 2024 trip to NZ. Published in NZ Outdoors last year.
After the high of my successful Tahr hunt in the Makenzie Basin in July I had one major objective left for my 2024 New Zealand adventure, and it wasn’t to try every pie shop in the South Island. This goal was a little more European, but seemingly enjoying the alps just as much as I was, the Chamois. To this point I had endured a few failures on my quest for a Chamois, one notable hunt saw the loss of my Paddy Smyth knife in some deep snow. The orange handled knife made by one of Ireland’s top bladesmiths, now a relic on the southern slopes of Mt Alford. The attempt made to relocate the knife did result in a foggy hunt in the melting snow and driving rain that provided some delicious venison from a Red spiker along with a precarious river crossing.
As the end of my adventure began to draw near, I once more loaded the Land Cruiser and headed south to Queenstown to meet up with another YouTube creator, Ben Carson of Crossbow NZ was to be my host and guide on my last throw of the dice for this trip. The drive from my Canterbury base through the heartlands of Otago illustrated to me once more the beauty in the stark contrasts of the New Zealand countryside. The mountains however retained the same beauty, silence, and sharp edges. The snowline clings stubbornly to the ridgelines, and the wind carries the kind of bite that reminds you you’re alive.
Arriving to Queenstown late in the afternoon didn’t allow me the opportunity to hunt, but it did allow Ben and I to have a good feed and come up with a plan. Recovering from illness meant that Ben wouldn’t be able to join me on this hunt, but his imparted knowledge of the hills made me confident that if I followed his instructions that I would have success.
The next morning, my penultimate in Aotearoa, I was on the road before sunrise, the air was crisp and the frost hard on the ground. The lights on the ski-slopes above were awake long before Queenstown beneath them, I took pause on a dry riverbed to enjoy the scene before me before pressing on to my destination. I parked up and pulled on by battered boots, survivors of 4 seasons in the Irish bogs were quite literally hanging by their last thread after 3 weeks in the harsh alpine environment. Admittedly, I was also beginning to feel a tiredness, but sharp mountain air has a way of dragging me back and providing instant invigoration.
“Just keep going up until you’re between 1200 and 1400m, then go around”, I was told. “Get clear above the tree line into the open rocks and tussock”. The climb was steep, the terrain unforgiving—classic South Island country. Loose scree, frozen tussock, and the occasional patch of ice kept there to keep me honest with every step, again I was glad I had my quad sticks to help support the climb even if they did let me down once as I tumbled into some tussock when the frozen ground gave way. The reward was immediate upon reaching a summit: a panoramic view across the Remarkables Range, with the vast Otago backcountry sprawling out beneath a sky that seemed to stretch forever. The rock rising straight from the lake looked almost surreal.
At 1250m, I paused, scanning the jagged rock face as the morning sun spilled across its surface. My breath was steady, my hands sure—but then, a flicker of movement. A shape materialized among the stone and tussock, the unmistakable white blaze of a Chamois staring back at me. My pulse quickened. Here it was—my opportunity, my final chance before leaving Aotearoa. I pressed the rangefinder button on my binos, 220m, easy work, bread and butter stuff really. I pride myself on being calm on the trigger, even when faced with the largest of Red or Sika stags back home, but now—just as it had with the Tahr three weeks prior—my heart hammered at the sight of a small goat. I settled on a flat rock and clipped my bipod onto the 7mm, I brought the Vortex Scope to bear on the animal’s shoulder and pressed the trigger of the tikka. The rifle cracked, echoing through the mountains—but something was off. I watched in disbelief as a plume of rock dust rose, far from where my crosshairs had settled. The Chamois stood unmoved, unaware of my mistake. My pulse hammered. I cycled another round, steadied myself, and fired again. More dust. Another miss. The animal, oblivious, remained frozen against the rock face, while frustration tightened in my chest. What was going wrong?
At that point I looked at my scope and realised that my tumbled to the tussock earlier had broken the windage turret of my borrowed rifle, thankfully the Vortex lifetime warranty would take care of this issue but I needed a more immediate solution. Looking back at the Chamois my heart sank, that was until I noticed two bullet strikes on the rock face to the left of my target. The reticule of the scope immediately showed my error on the hash marks and for a final attempt I held the corrected distance to the right. This time the chamois crumpled dead and slid down the hill some 40m before coming to rest in a clump of spear grass—tangled, sharp, and all too familiar. I made my way down to her, grateful for the clean shot, the recovery, and—if I’m honest—to see the last of the spear grass for this trip.
In the silence of the high country, victory feels different. There is no celebration, no voices filling the air—only the wind and the quiet gravity of the moment. Standing over the Chamois, alone on this ridge, I felt the deep satisfaction of a hunt earned entirely on my own. The solitude didn’t dampen the triumph; it magnified it. This Chamois doe would most certainly not have been a trophy to any dedicated Chamois hunter, but to me, my first Chamois is unforgettable. I allowed myself some time to breathe it all in, a successful solo hunt in one of the most stunning locations on earth. Sufficiently enriched, I dressed the animal quickly, packed out, and began the precarious descent to the truck and the road. I still had to make it back to Canterbury that night, gear to sort, alarms to set and a last day goose hunt to be had.
By dawn, I was lying in a green paddock with a shotgun in hand, surrounded by decoys and the laughter of good mates. The contrast couldn’t have been sharper—yesterday’s alpine silence replaced by the roar of Canada geese and the whistle of wings overhead. We shot a bag of 19 geese and 12 paradise ducks that day. I spent the full day in the field, soaking in every moment. As the sun dipped behind the Alps, the sky lit up in a blaze of orange and violet. It was one last epic sunset—a final gift from a country that had already given me so much.
Back to the North
Five hours later, after one last meal of Chamois loins washed down with L&P, I stepped onto the plane, the weight of my journey settling in. My knees ached—years of Judo, weeks of mountains—but pain was drowned by something deeper: the quiet satisfaction of adventure fulfilled. As the engines roared to life, I gazed out at the night sky over Aotearoa, knowing that no dream in restless sleep could ever rival the reality I had lived. In the span of 48 hours, I’d climbed solo into the Southern Alps, taken a chamois, and shared a green field with friends and a sky full of birds.
New Zealand had given me everything I came for and more. So, until next time… sláinte
After the high of my successful Tahr hunt in the Makenzie Basin in July I had one major objective left for my 2024 New Zealand adventure, and it wasn’t to try every pie shop in the South Island. This goal was a little more European, but seemingly enjoying the alps just as much as I was, the Chamois. To this point I had endured a few failures on my quest for a Chamois, one notable hunt saw the loss of my Paddy Smyth knife in some deep snow. The orange handled knife made by one of Ireland’s top bladesmiths, now a relic on the southern slopes of Mt Alford. The attempt made to relocate the knife did result in a foggy hunt in the melting snow and driving rain that provided some delicious venison from a Red spiker along with a precarious river crossing.
As the end of my adventure began to draw near, I once more loaded the Land Cruiser and headed south to Queenstown to meet up with another YouTube creator, Ben Carson of Crossbow NZ was to be my host and guide on my last throw of the dice for this trip. The drive from my Canterbury base through the heartlands of Otago illustrated to me once more the beauty in the stark contrasts of the New Zealand countryside. The mountains however retained the same beauty, silence, and sharp edges. The snowline clings stubbornly to the ridgelines, and the wind carries the kind of bite that reminds you you’re alive.
Arriving to Queenstown late in the afternoon didn’t allow me the opportunity to hunt, but it did allow Ben and I to have a good feed and come up with a plan. Recovering from illness meant that Ben wouldn’t be able to join me on this hunt, but his imparted knowledge of the hills made me confident that if I followed his instructions that I would have success.
The next morning, my penultimate in Aotearoa, I was on the road before sunrise, the air was crisp and the frost hard on the ground. The lights on the ski-slopes above were awake long before Queenstown beneath them, I took pause on a dry riverbed to enjoy the scene before me before pressing on to my destination. I parked up and pulled on by battered boots, survivors of 4 seasons in the Irish bogs were quite literally hanging by their last thread after 3 weeks in the harsh alpine environment. Admittedly, I was also beginning to feel a tiredness, but sharp mountain air has a way of dragging me back and providing instant invigoration.
“Just keep going up until you’re between 1200 and 1400m, then go around”, I was told. “Get clear above the tree line into the open rocks and tussock”. The climb was steep, the terrain unforgiving—classic South Island country. Loose scree, frozen tussock, and the occasional patch of ice kept there to keep me honest with every step, again I was glad I had my quad sticks to help support the climb even if they did let me down once as I tumbled into some tussock when the frozen ground gave way. The reward was immediate upon reaching a summit: a panoramic view across the Remarkables Range, with the vast Otago backcountry sprawling out beneath a sky that seemed to stretch forever. The rock rising straight from the lake looked almost surreal.
At 1250m, I paused, scanning the jagged rock face as the morning sun spilled across its surface. My breath was steady, my hands sure—but then, a flicker of movement. A shape materialized among the stone and tussock, the unmistakable white blaze of a Chamois staring back at me. My pulse quickened. Here it was—my opportunity, my final chance before leaving Aotearoa. I pressed the rangefinder button on my binos, 220m, easy work, bread and butter stuff really. I pride myself on being calm on the trigger, even when faced with the largest of Red or Sika stags back home, but now—just as it had with the Tahr three weeks prior—my heart hammered at the sight of a small goat. I settled on a flat rock and clipped my bipod onto the 7mm, I brought the Vortex Scope to bear on the animal’s shoulder and pressed the trigger of the tikka. The rifle cracked, echoing through the mountains—but something was off. I watched in disbelief as a plume of rock dust rose, far from where my crosshairs had settled. The Chamois stood unmoved, unaware of my mistake. My pulse hammered. I cycled another round, steadied myself, and fired again. More dust. Another miss. The animal, oblivious, remained frozen against the rock face, while frustration tightened in my chest. What was going wrong?
At that point I looked at my scope and realised that my tumbled to the tussock earlier had broken the windage turret of my borrowed rifle, thankfully the Vortex lifetime warranty would take care of this issue but I needed a more immediate solution. Looking back at the Chamois my heart sank, that was until I noticed two bullet strikes on the rock face to the left of my target. The reticule of the scope immediately showed my error on the hash marks and for a final attempt I held the corrected distance to the right. This time the chamois crumpled dead and slid down the hill some 40m before coming to rest in a clump of spear grass—tangled, sharp, and all too familiar. I made my way down to her, grateful for the clean shot, the recovery, and—if I’m honest—to see the last of the spear grass for this trip.
In the silence of the high country, victory feels different. There is no celebration, no voices filling the air—only the wind and the quiet gravity of the moment. Standing over the Chamois, alone on this ridge, I felt the deep satisfaction of a hunt earned entirely on my own. The solitude didn’t dampen the triumph; it magnified it. This Chamois doe would most certainly not have been a trophy to any dedicated Chamois hunter, but to me, my first Chamois is unforgettable. I allowed myself some time to breathe it all in, a successful solo hunt in one of the most stunning locations on earth. Sufficiently enriched, I dressed the animal quickly, packed out, and began the precarious descent to the truck and the road. I still had to make it back to Canterbury that night, gear to sort, alarms to set and a last day goose hunt to be had.
By dawn, I was lying in a green paddock with a shotgun in hand, surrounded by decoys and the laughter of good mates. The contrast couldn’t have been sharper—yesterday’s alpine silence replaced by the roar of Canada geese and the whistle of wings overhead. We shot a bag of 19 geese and 12 paradise ducks that day. I spent the full day in the field, soaking in every moment. As the sun dipped behind the Alps, the sky lit up in a blaze of orange and violet. It was one last epic sunset—a final gift from a country that had already given me so much.
Back to the North
Five hours later, after one last meal of Chamois loins washed down with L&P, I stepped onto the plane, the weight of my journey settling in. My knees ached—years of Judo, weeks of mountains—but pain was drowned by something deeper: the quiet satisfaction of adventure fulfilled. As the engines roared to life, I gazed out at the night sky over Aotearoa, knowing that no dream in restless sleep could ever rival the reality I had lived. In the span of 48 hours, I’d climbed solo into the Southern Alps, taken a chamois, and shared a green field with friends and a sky full of birds.
New Zealand had given me everything I came for and more. So, until next time… sláinte
