Wild Balance Hunting: Lessons from the Roar

Ray is a keen hunter behind the YouTube channel @WildBalanceHunting. Growing up on a small farm in North Canterbury, he got into hunting small game as a kid. While he grew up hearing plenty of stories about deer hunting, no one he knew actively hunted, and over time he drifted away from it. That changed recently when a friend and hunting mentor, Trev, opened his eyes to hunting deer in the mountains. “It ticks all the boxes: adventure, self-reliance, fitness, reading weather and maps, planning and logistics, then the hunt itself and the reward of incredible food on the table! Last season's roar, Ray found himself learning an important lesson the hard way.

The stag was dead. Or so I thought.

“I’d gone into the Kaikōuras early, right at the start of the roar. Staying at a friend's farm that bordered some bush. Not much noise yet, but the plan was to get high and cover country looking for a good stag.

First morning, I pushed straight into the tops. Big country—steep, loose, that shingley Weet-Bix rock that I find a bit freaky! The sunrise was unreal, but the hills were quiet. No roaring.

I ended up taking a scrappy stag across a gut. Nothing special, but the meat would be appreciated. A good mission anyway—climbing down, breaking him down, hauling meat, then stashing it in a cold little stream before pushing on. Saw a couple more deer, but nothing worth going after. By the time I dropped the 1000 vertical back to the car, I was toast!
Back at my friend’s place that night, the plan was simple: have a bath, then a day off tomorrow, sort a few jobs, then back into it for the weekend. But the gas ran out - no bath. 
My friends were out of meat, and so were their dogs. The first job the next day was to find a deer for them close to home.

I glassed up a hind, a fawn… and a stag. He was feeding across the valley. Not massive at first glance, but a decent animal and one that'd feed the whole crew. I ranged him at 240m and settled in. The .308 did its job—hit him clean and he bowled over, tumbling a good 100 metres before jamming up in a tree.

I sat and watched. No movement. Took a few photos, marked the spot, and headed back to the house to share the good news! We celebrated with a coffee, locked the rifles away, grabbed packs and knives, and headed back in to pick him up.

Crossed the valley, started climbing up toward where he’d fallen. Then my friend stops— “Bro… is that your deer?” I looked past him. All I could see were antlers. Big ones. Points everywhere, sticking up out of the grass about 30 metres ahead.

Then they moved. That sick feeling hit straight away. That’s him. And he’s not dead. My rifle was back at the house. I said I’d run for it, but my friend said he'd dash back and grab his .30-30. I stayed put, eyes locked on the stag.

He tried to stand once. Rolled. Slid a bit further down the bank and got stuck again. Then it was just waiting. Twenty minutes… forty… an hour. A pig even wandered past at one point, winded me, and bolted. The whole time I’m crouched there, legs cramping, just hoping that stag doesn’t find a way to get up and disappear. It felt like forever!

When my friend finally got back—must’ve been an hour and a half— he passed the rifle, and I crept in. Up close, he was a different animal altogether. A real beast. Way bigger than I’d realised from across the valley. He was just about done by then. One more shot, and it was over. Turns out he was the biggest stag either of us had seen on their property.

The pack-out took multiple trips. But it could’ve gone very differently! If he’d found his feet properly… if he’d made it into the scrub… we might never have seen him again.

That was the lesson.

When you go in to retrieve a stag—especially during the roar—don’t assume anything!
Take your rifle.
Every time.
And if there’s any doubt at all, put another shot into him while he’s still pinned.
Because the one time you don’t… might be a stag to remember.”