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You may recognise Richard from the short film, Water is Life — a story that celebrates the people who live, work, and care for the Upper Clutha’s waterways.

As an agritourism operator and passionate conservationist, Richard has long been an advocate for sustainable land management, biodiversity, and water quality. His efforts contribute not only to the ecological health of the region but also to the wellbeing of its community — championing a balance between farming, recreation, and conservation.

WAI Wanaka is honoured to have Richard serve as a Trustee with a focus on Rural, and to feature him as one of the stars of Water is Life.

His voice reminds us that caring for our waterways begins with understanding the land that feeds them — and the people who call it home.

Watch the full 60-second short film here:
https://waiwanaka.nz/upper-clutha-water-cycle/

The post Spotlight: Richard Burdon – Steward of Glen Dene and Champion for Hawea’s Waters appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

1. World-Class Hunting in an Iconic Landscape

Glen Dene boasts arguably some of the best high country locations in New Zealand.  Nestled between Lake Hāwea and Lake Wānaka, Glen Dene offers access to some of the most spectacular hunting terrain in the world. From Red Stags and Fallow Bucks to Tahr, Chamois, South Pacific Goats and Arapawa Rams, each hunt is set against a backdrop of alpine peaks, native forest, and glacial valleys — an experience as visually stunning as it is rewarding.

2. Authentic Kiwi Hospitality

When you stay at Glen Dene, you’re welcomed not just as a guest, but as part of the family. Owners Richard and Sarah Burdon bring generations of New Zealand farming heritage to life through storytelling, connection, and true southern hospitality — from shared meals to the warmth of the lodge fire after a day in the hills.

3. Purpose-Driven Conservation

Every experience at Glen Dene helps fund conservation and restoration efforts across the property. From pest-control initiatives to wetland protection and habitat regeneration, our goal is to leave the land better than we found it. When you hunt here, you’re directly supporting the future of New Zealand’s wildlife.

4. Tailored Adventures for Every Guest

No two hunters are the same — and neither are our experiences. Whether you’re a seasoned hunter chasing a world-class red stag or a first-time visitor eager to explore the South Island’s backcountry, each trip is crafted around your skill level, preferences, and pace.

5. A True Connection to Place

More than just a hunt, Glen Dene offers the chance to slow down, reconnect, and immerse yourself in a landscape rich with history, family legacy, and natural wonder. It’s an experience that stays with you long after the flight home.

At Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing, every experience is about more than the hunt — it’s about connection. Connection to land, to people, and to the timeless stories that shape this spectacular corner of New Zealand. Whether you come for the challenge, the scenery, or the camaraderie, you’ll leave with memories that run deeper than the trophy itself.

Ready to experience the best of New Zealand’s high country? Plan your next adventure with Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing.

Enquire Now

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It’s been done before, the Tolkien references when talking about hunting in New Zealand. In fact, it’s been overdone, so know this at the start: I won’t be mentioning hobbits or dwarves, orcs or wizards. I won’t be hiking through the Shire. Sorry to disappoint. New Zealand, I learned very quickly, is so much more than a Hollywood backdrop. It’s better, by far. It is a blend of myriad wonders—real, living wonders so numerous that I’ll only be able to touch on a few, so I won’t be wasting my word count with Middle Earth analogies. Mentions of beasts will be relegated to describing real game animals, like ungodly-big red deer, and the short-horned and long-maned offspring of a ram and lion union—the Himalayan bull tahr. As for fantastic locations, well, reality will have to suffice; New Zealand’s topography, including formidable mountain peaks, crystal turquoise waters and a lake of clouds contains enough grandeur on its own that literary gilding seems rather arbitrary. Rock and roll gilding, however, that’s more my style, and let’s face it, when it comes to tying in Tolkien, only one band comes to mind.

 

Over the Hills and Far Away

My guide, Tony Higgins, was a charming fellow. A visage akin to Jimmy Page and wearing aviators and a faded pink, short-brimmed bucket hat that reminded me of Hunter S. Thompson, Tony had that type of buoyant, exuberant demeanor that leaves one longing for the same medicine. Far from pharmaceutical—unlike Thompson—Tony’s engaging nature and plastered smile was purely New Zealand derived. It wasn’t unique to him, as every local I had the pleasure of encountering owned the same aura. After only a few hours in the country, I could sense the heaviness lifting from my body as well—New Zealand seeps into your bloodstream rather quickly. Our hosts, Richard and Sarah Burdon, owners and operators of the renowned Glen Dene Hunting and Fishing outfit, had it in spades. From the moment I arrived to the moment we said farewell, Tony and the Burdons made me feel like kin. They opened their home, table and land to us, and made sure we had the opportunities required to absorb as much of it as possible in a short week.

A historical sheep operation at heart, Richard and Sarah have transformed Glen Dene Station beyond farming into a true outdoorsman’s wonderland. Located on the South Island, sandwiched between the western shores of Lake Hawea and the eastern shores of Lake Wanaka, Glen Dene Station encompasses 15,000 acres of free-range paradise—as well as a decent spot of high-fence “game estate” land—providing hunters and fishermen the chance at trophy red stag, fallow deer, bull tahr and chamois—all non-native to New Zealand.

 

Introduced from the mid-1800s to early 1900s, these non-native game animals were all brought to the island nation by European settlers of some form or another. An interesting fact: If it doesn’t fly or swim, it’s not native to New Zealand. The island boasts no native mammals at all, with the exception of a few bats. But they are here now, and their presence has become, for better or worse, a part of New Zealand, creating a hunting culture as rich as the land itself. There is no doubt, however, that these non-native game animals, along with the pests and vermin that follow humans to the far corners of the earth, have a negative effect on the natural flora and fauna of the country. To boost the harvest and management on public lands, tags and licenses to hunt for species such as deer, tahr, chamois, hogs, goats and wallabies are not required. If you’re up for the challenge of sorting your own travel and transport, I am told that a DIY hunt on Department of Conservation land can be an incredibly rewarding experience. But do your research first, as nothing about hunting New Zealand is easy.

Being my first go around, I was happy to let Richard and the Glen Dene team of guides run the show, and when we spotted a few tahr on the way to a secluded mountain cottage in which we’d be spending our first night, I stepped up to the plate.

As I learned on this hunt, New Zealand’s South Island consists of only two elevations, sea level and way up high, and the tahr were not at sea level. Aiming my glass near vertical, when the suggestion was made that we go after one, I assumed that Tony was joking. He wasn’t. He led our small team, one boot above the other, on a path that ran straight and high.

It was the toughest, steepest climb I’ve ever done, and it took all of an hour and a half to make our way up the steep face to get within range. When we finally reached a point level with the bull, I had to take about 10 minutes to catch my breath before setting up for the shot. The bull was side-hilling amongst a field of large granite boulders about 250 yards out, and, nestling my pack atop some high rocks, I sunk into the hillside and steadied my aim. He turned broadside and the rifle barked, but the tahr rambled on, disappearing behind some short mountain scrub. We had to move fast, and luckily only sent a few boulders tumbling down the mountain face, but we were able to locate him again in relatively short order, limping, at about 300 yards out. Throwing my weight against the earth and rocks once more, I finished the job before he was able to cross over the next rising finger.

The view from above was unreal. Clear blue skies provided a panorama of Lake Wanaka below and white mountain peaks in the distance unlike any I’ve ever seen. Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, my fingers tangled in the long, thick mane of a bull tahr, I filled my lungs with the clean mountain air, overjoyed to prove to myself it’s not as hard as it seems.

Chasing goats required miles of hiking through treacherous, icy terrain. But it offered plenty of opportunity and the most surreal views as a reward.

 

Misty Mountain Hop

New Zealand’s red stag are unworldly, plain and simple. They sport massive bodies and headgear so impressive that even in a dream state it would be hard to conjure. That’s why I froze when my crosshairs did finally settle on a giant feeding aimlessly with his harem on a misty green hillside. For most, including myself at any other time, we’d consider it a chip shot—about 200 yards. But there I was, unable to move, a camouflaged tremor with a gun, a memory frozen forever.

We’d come upon the band of red deer whilst perusing the sheep and fallow covered hills of Glen Dene Station, and Tony pressed on to glass their potential, leaving us behind to wonder aside an old fence post. We’d seen plenty of stag at that point, some smaller “hill stag” and a few true “Gold” class giants that were beyond comprehension as well as the size of my billfold. I made clear to Tony my desire for any decent animal, but, of course, he had plans to maximize our efforts. When he returned a short time later with a favorable report, without the slightest idea what his idea of favorable was, I simply loaded the chamber of my rifle, shouldered it and followed. Rounding a bend a short distance ahead, the tail end of the herd became visible in the distance, and my clear mind began to cloud. Even at 500 yards or more I could see the towering, tangled branches of the lead bull.

“That’s our boy,” said Tony, “The one in the back. If you can make your way down this road, staying low below the berm, you should be able to get inside of 300 yards and set up and shoot from there.”

It was on me from this point forward. I was to wind on down the road, head low at a near crawl until the road turned sharply left again. That was my marker. From there I’d peak over the right-side berm and set up for the shot. It was a simple plan, and it went like clockwork—until my crosshairs found the stag, that is. Broadside and within range, the stag lifted his mass, turned and locked eyes with mine, and I froze. Recounting the events, Tony claimed they watched for about five to seven minutes, wondering when a shot would ring out and debating why one hadn’t already. Unbeknownst to them, I was wondering the same thing but couldn’t comprehend the time let alone snap out of the fever dream. The stag eventually put his head back down and then moved a few feet closer to the herd. That did it. The realization that if I let him join the group I’d be hard pressed for a clean shot woke me up. I blinked and flexed my fingers to confirm reality, and the stag did me a favor and paused again, mere feet from joining the group. My trigger broke, but the bull didn’t react, not even a flinch—not at first anyway. The stag gave me about three seconds of incredible shame, believing that I’d missed completely, before he took a staggered step forward, then a jaunt and then a gallop. He continued his run for about 40 yards before he leapt forward off the same berm I’d shot from—albeit 200 yards down the road—flung his giant rack rearward and rotated a full 180 degrees in midair before landing with a deep thud on his back. It was a sight to behold. His misty mountain hop placed him smack in the middle of the two-track.

 

The Battle of Evermore

New Zealand is a special place, complete with one of the most unique ecosystems in all the world. While there’s no denying the positive cultural and economic impact that has evolved around hunting there, there’s also no denying the hard truth that the pervasiveness of the non-native animals, including sought after and cherished big game, has had a detrimental impact on the land. These animals compete with native species for resources, damage vegetation and negatively impact the delicate balance of the environment.

Be they deer, goats, pigs, tahr, chamois, weasels, rabbits, possums, rats or cats, populations of non-native species are growing, and efforts to manage their unrestrained spread on public and private land are undoubtedly falling short. Trapping and poisoning small, predatory mammals, and hunting big game, where and when appropriate, are the only methods that can even begin to have an impact.

On our final day in New Zealand, we traveled to the land of ice and snow, public land above a lake of clouds that separates the realm of goats and men to fight the hordes and remove as many feral goats and hogs as we could. While the hunting was thrilling, no doubt, and we made a small dent, it certainly wasn’t enough. The sheer number of these animals is daunting. One wonders what a balance in this land looks like, or if it is even possible to calm these tides of war. In the meantime, we should keep supporting and keep hunting this magical place, a land of what is and what should never be.

 

 

Hammer of the Gods

A truly unique place called for a truly unique rifle: the Savage Impulse Mountain Hunter. Only two motions are required to run this American-made straight-pull action; straight back and straight forward again, like a hammer. It’s incredibly fast, smooth and safe, utilizing Savage’s innovative Hexlock bolt system, with bearings in the bolt head that expand to lock tight as gas pressures build. This particular model is furnished with a synthetic AccuFit stock providing an adjustable length of pull and comb height, and it’s rounded out with a lightweight Proof Research carbon-fiber wrapped barrel, bedded within Savage’s rigid aluminum AccuStock chassis. The renowned AccuTrigger rounds out this incredibly accurate package. savagearms.com

My rifle was chambered in a relatively new cartridge, the 7mm PRC (Precision Rifle Cartridge) from Hornady. Perhaps the best of the PRCs, this 7mm, long-action load fills the gap between the 6.5 PRC and the 300 PRC and utilizes heavy-for-caliber bullets from 160 to 175 grains with incredibly high BCs. The Precision Hunter load I used features a 175-grain ELD-X bullet that expands at nearly any range and screams out of the muzzle at nearly 3000 fps to deliver roughly 2,600 ft.-lbs. of energy on a 300-yard target while only dropping a mere 6 inches. This load is suited for just about any animal, on any continent, from big red deer to elk, moose and bear. hornady.com

Guiding my eyes and my bullets on this trip was a slew of glass from Leupold. The best-in-class 3-18×44  VX-6HD riflescope sports HD lenses, fully multicoated for optical clarity. Its 3X-18X magnification range is ideal for the mountains, where shot distances can run the range. Taking the guesswork out of bullet drop, this unit comes complete with Leupold’s CDS (Custom Dial System) elevation turret, which was matched to the ballistics of the 7mm PRC ammo I was shooting, allowing me to range, dial and shoot with confident precision. On my chest was the BX-5 Santiam HD binocular and the RX-5000 TBR/W rangefinder. The BX-5 binocular sports HD lenses and 12X magnification for cross-mounting glassing. The bino is tripod-ready, and fully multi-coated for maximum clarity and light transmission, and to shed water and dirt. Long-range glassing was accomplished via the 15-45×65 SX-4 Pro Guide HD spotting scope, sporting the same high-end lenses and coatings.

Leupold has upgraded the VX-6HD riflescope and the SX-4 Pro Guide HD spotter with its Gen 2 models. Among other additions, these new models sport upgraded lens coatings and optical mechanics that make them even better than before.

 

This article was originally published on American Hunter by Jon Draper.

The post New Zealand Adventure: A Mountain of Dreams appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

Still dropping into the massive basin with peaks on all sides we punched through the second cloud ceiling and I breathed a sigh of relief. Where the upper mountains were already in winter, the lower valley was firmly in fall’s grasp with foliage on full display. Green pastures and bright blue lakes rushed past as our landing gear came out and we touched down on the opposite side of the world. 

I smiled to myself – not many have a wife so understanding as to allow them to combine a 15th wedding anniversary with hunts for stag and fowl. 

In her defense, all it took was showing her pictures of the swanky accommodations – geodesic ‘ecodomes’ on the shore of Lake Hāwea in the heart of the South Island. Personalized day-trips to the fjords at Milford Sound, promises of the softest wool ever spun (a blend of sheep and the invasive brushtail possum, of all things!) and winery tours with all the vino and fromage a girl could ask for. She was giddy at the thought. 

Me, I’d been drooling over the chance at a mountain hunt for stag. First introduced to the South Island in 1851 by British royalty, a subsequent 200+ shipments of red deer, most originating from Invermark in Scotland, found New Zealand’s lush temperate climate and lack of predators an ideal habitat. Flourishing alongside other introduced game species like fallow, elk, whitetail, tahr and chamois, these stag propagated to such a degree that the government began culling operations in 1910 to both ensure the health of the herd and to reduce the negative impact on sheep stations dependent on grassy pastures in the mountains. 

“We still see the original Scottish lines each year during the Roar when they drop down out of the high country to mate. Since we’re late in the season now, we’ll mostly have the local stag which show more of the German and British genes, which also means more mass and points,” rancher/outfitter Richard Burdon explained. 

With time wasting, my wife Dawn and I jumped in with Bre, one of Richard’s long-time guides, to check my rifle’s zero and hopefully get eyes on some Red Deer. An American who splits her time between New Zealand, Canada, Africa and the States, she would prove to be small but mighty and one heck of a resource when it came to all things New Zealand.

“At this point they’re pretty run down from the Roar, so they tend to stick to the better grass just up from the farming operations,” Bre said. “As long as they aren’t pressured too hard, they’ll just hang out eating and trying to put weight back on before winter. They pretty much bed right in the good grass and won’t move too far day to day.”

Travel hadn’t affected my rifle, with the little Benelli putting together a 1.25” group at 100 from atop my overstuffed daypack. I had no doubts, as the Lupo had consistently surprised me with how well it shot back home in Wyoming, and from a proper rest it would do under an inch nearly without fail. 

Back in the truck and picking our way up the tacky mud two-track, we ascended out of the lake-side farmland and into the edge of the wilderness proper. Ditching the truck and grabbing binos, we side-hilled in a race with the setting sun to try to locate stag for the morning’s hunt. 

Rounding the face of a vertical, grassy slope, a lush valley meandered out in front of us, slowly ascending into the mountains. White spots on the opposite face turned out to be a fallow doe and fawn that my Leopold binos told me were a little over 800 yards distant. As I watched, a darker buck moved in a cut just to the right of them, the paddles of his rack clearly visible even at distance. 

Edging around the face further, we froze as a solitary female Red Deer fed into the open just 125 yards in front of us. Slowly sliding out onto a slight knob, the landscape opened up further and the three of us settled in behind our glass. 

“I’ve got one, probably 275 yards on level with us,” Bre stated.

”Right above the trail as the hill curves back around? I’ve got him at 380,” I replied.

“That makes two then, and yours is a bit better. He’s older for sure, those crowns are so dished out you could drink wine out of them…” She quipped. 

With that we heard a throaty bark to our left and a young stag broke from cover, pausing on the fern-covered slope to stare at us from 70 yards. After another cough of derision, he trotted off into the depths of the valley. 

“We might back out, we know those two are here and the bigger one might be worth chasing tomorrow,” Bre remarked. 

As we retreated downhill to the little Mahindra pickup we came upon a pair of Paradise shelducks, a male/female set linked for life. As we got too close for comfort they took to the sky, the low note of the male and the higher shrill response of the female echoing through the valley as the Parries winged their escape.

Settling into a chef-prepared dinner back at our lake-side basecamp, my wife let me know that she had had the perfect amount of stag hunting and that she’d be heading to town in the morning with her guide Julie. After learning that Dawn was an environmental engineer having worked in electrical generation, they had booked her for a behind-the-scenes tour of the local hydroelectric facility, something that perfectly engaged her inner nerd. 

Waking the next morning to a light, misting rain and an appropriate English breakfast (hold the beans), we loaded our daypacks and rifle into the little 4×4 and set off up the ring road along the shore of the lake. Going well past our previous turn-off up into the heights, Bre saw that I took note and filled me in.

“We’re going to check out another spot where we’ve been seeing some stag, it just depends if this weather clears off and we can get a look.”

Pulling off the road and motoring to the top of a small knee jutting out into the lake, we broke out our binoculars to see what might be bedded on the face above us. The rain had mostly stopped, but the soupy fog and clouds were rolling down over the peaks in front of us to obscure an unknown amount of mountain above.

Fallow could be seen picking their way through the brushy face, moving from one grassy expanse to the next. Chatting and glassing, the cloud ceiling seemed to raise for a moment, revealing a fresh set of clearings higher up the mountain. Working my binoculars from right to left, Bre beat me to it, spotting a trio of stags and a hind all bedded in the left-most opening right next to a brutal rocky cut that climbed its way up into the clouds. As quickly as they were there, the clouds spilled over the ridge and descended once again, obscuring the clearings from sight. 

“Well, the second one from the right looked really good, you want to go for them?” Bre asked. 

“Sure! The binos put them at 936 yards, but that’s the corrected distance on the horizontal. Not that that’s horizontal…” I chuckled, looking up at the very vertical face in front of us. “Let’s get to it!”

Before I knew it we were headed up a rocky path and out beyond the sheep paddocks of the lower elevations. The higher we got, the thicker the soup until we were finally at the height of our quarry. Side-hilling through the ferns and low thicket we passed through two large clearings and expected to find the deer in the third. As we snuck to a small ridge that gave us a slight vantage into the next opening a fallow burst from the thicket uphill from us. 

“They must have fed all the way up here while we were hiking in,” Bre leaned in and whispered. “Let’s hang here and see if it clears up a little.”

Sliding to the ground and setting my rifle on Bre’s pack, I went to my binos and scanned the mist for anything that wasn’t a fern. After a few minutes I relaxed, letting the glass fall to my chest as the damp of the ground began to seep up into my pants. 

As the slight breeze slid up the face towards us, a momentary break in the fog suddenly revealed the black silhouette of a massive stag standing inside of 70 yards out front of us and locked in on our location. He turned and walked five steps as the fog closed in around him once more. 

“Straight out,” I whispered. “He was right there.” I pointed on a line to him as Bre turned her binos in his direction.

”Nothing, you saw one?”

”Yeah, and he was massive but he knew we were here,” I replied. 

“Ok, same plan. We’ll just wait and see what the fog does. They can’t get past that cut, so they can only go up or down and we can get on them.”

We settled in even more and gave the weather time to change, which it did, albeit slowly. Eventually the ceiling lifted to reveal a face devoid of animal life as far as the eye could see. Working our way slowly through the undulations and onto the grassy patch the stags had been bedded on, we worked all the way to the brutal cut and I could see what she meant when she said they wouldn’t try to escape that direction – it was equal parts cliff and boulder field with a waterway at its bottom and no clear path down. 

“Brutal.” 

“Yep, so now they’re either above us or below us. Below us would be fine, but above us means we could push them all the way up over the top if we get unlucky. If we go low and don’t get into them, we might have another chance tomorrow or the next day – we’d just get higher next time,” Bre suggested. 

With that we slid down through the ferns and across the face, keeping a mindful eye out for the stag but knowing that the chance of them somehow popping out of a crease in the landscape was unlikely. Soon we found ourselves back at the rocky path and headed for the little Mahindra. 

As I let my thighs take a breather from the downhill, Bre took a moment to pick a handful of perfectly ripe rose hips at the edge of the path, musing that New Zealand’s foraging opportunities were excellent with an impressive array of mushrooms that were safe for consumption. Sorting the seeds from the pulp with my teeth, I indulged in a few of the sweetly tart fruits myself. 

Back to the truck we glassed the face and munched on our packed lunch, seeing a whole lot of nothing.

“Well, do you want to go try to get on the pair from last night? There’s a good chance they’ll be somewhere close to where we saw them,” Bre offered. 

“I think that’d be great, especially if we can find that old palmated one…”

With that the little truck fired up and we carved through the twisties before jumping off onto the gravel two-track from the night before. Up we went, soon catching the clouds as we gained elevation. 

Retracing our steps to the knob from the night before, we stopped to glass. It wasn’t thirty seconds before Bre caught motion lower down the valley – the tips of antlers bobbing as a stag fed. 

“Not the shooter, but maybe the other stag from last night? Let’s get closer.”

We dropped down to the washed-out remnants of a shelf road and tried to keep as low as possible. With Bre right in front of me, I peeked over her shoulder and saw two sets of antlers and then a third set attached to a head looking right at us through a break in the grass. I slowly dropped and whispered to Bre that they were just over the rise and at least one was clued into us. She shrugged out of her pack and set it in front of her, motioning me to get on it with my rifle. 

Belly-crawling the last few yards to the edge, I got behind the scope to see all three stags moving away across the grassy clearing, on alert but not running. Giving the VX-4 a twist to get a bit more magnification, Bre whispered that the old stag I was after was second in line, a welcome tidbit since they all looked massive in the wispy fog. Settling in, I willed him to pause, my finger finding its home on the Benelli’s trigger. 

No matter how hard I wanted him to slow, he kept chugging up the hill, his gait in the rocky terrain making him bob up and down in my scope. He slowed just a little and my finger started to take up slack on the trigger, only to have one of his compatriots pop into view right behind him before the three disappeared around the edge of the hill. 

We were up and moving as fast as possible from a crouch, trying to get an angle on the trio before they disappeared forever. Rounding the hill, the stags were 75 yards further up the slope and still moving higher. Again on the pack, I got one glimpse through the scope before they disappeared around an edge once more. 

Back up on our feet, we rotated all the way around the hill with eyes trained up the slope. We stopped just shy of a trickling creek, whispering quietly and speculating on where they might have gone. Out of nowhere, two very young stags materialized from the fog a little over a hundred yards above us, trotting right to left in the murkiness. 

“Get ready, our three might be following right behind them.”

Bre slid to my left and dropped her pack to the earth, but before I could join her our stags were there, pausing to stare down at us. 

“The second one!” I heard, sliding to the earth and planting my elbow on my knee, putting the reticle behind his shoulder. 

The thwack of the ELDX hitting him right in the boiler room was a sweet sound, but my programming from Idaho elk hunting had me racking a fresh round as the stag arched his back to the hit. Hurriedly I sent a second round, knowing the moment it went off that it would sail just barely over the top of his back. With the stag still standing there in shock and his buddies milling in confusion, my third round again echoed a meaty impact and he stiff-legged and shook with the firing of nerves before falling off his feet and sliding, then tumbling all the way to the creek bottom. 

Riding an adrenaline high, I hardly registered the high five from Bre and collected the neat pile of ejected brass from the rocky mud from my right. I’d fired three shots as quickly as I could run the bolt – my hunting buddy and mentor Brooks Murphy would have been proud. While giving me grief for the miss…

The climb to the stag’s final resting point wasn’t far, but it was more vertical than anything we’d done to date while being slippery as could be. Finally catching sight of him, panic hit – his antlers and head were up! After the dramatic tumble he had taken I’d had no doubt he was dead, but there he was looking up the slope…

Before I could get my sling off my shoulder Bre gave a whoop and a holler. Luckily, my moment of fear was unfounded as in his rotations down the hill he had artfully caught his massive left-side drop tine in the fork of a manuka tree, stopping his fall just short of the creek proper and suspending him perfectly by his rack.

Laying hands on him I was incredulous at how heavy his antlers were. With 31 points, dished and palmated crowns and so much mass that I couldn’t wrap my two hands around multiple spots along each beam, the scarred and stained headgear was something to behold. 

After an impressive display of knifework from Bre, the meat, cape and head were secured to packs and from out of nowhere she produced a victory beverage to make the hike out just a bit sweeter. 

A fine mist ushered us on our way and about the time my legs started screaming the little white pickup came into sight. We rolled into camp at Glen Dene just in time to watch the sun illuminate the mountains across the lake in its dip to the horizon. 

The breeze rippled in the fall leaves, bringing with it autumn’s crisp. Normally in late May I’d be plagued with withdrawals, dreaming of September and hunting season as I’ve always known it.

Richard met me at the door of the lodge with a fresh gin & tonic. 

“Congrats! Now that you’ve used the rifle, get that shotgun ready. How do ducks, pheasants and maybe wallabies sound for tomorrow?”

The smile on my face must have been ear to ear – how sweet fall is.

This article was written by Zachary Hein. 

The post The Story of a South Island Stag appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

Still unaccounted for was the Pelican case containing my hunting gear and a cooler filled to the brim with meat from that same red stag I had taken in the mountains above Glen Dene Station on New Zealand’s South Island.

“Meat? You mean to tell me you brought meat back with you?” the federal official asked incredulously.

“Yep, 46 pounds of it, all packaged and frozen,” I confirmed.

“You aren’t going to like this, but that will be a $10,000 fine. The ag guys are going to have a field day – I can’t believe you thought that was okay to do…” he shook his head.

“I’ve got all the documentation needed, I sure hope I’ve done everything right,” I conceded.

From across the cavernous room, I saw a side door open as more bags were ushered out, including my much-loved Pelican Air and the little cooler which now wore a massive clear trash bag, taped and zip-tied.

Perching everything precariously on our overladen trolley, we followed our retinue to the screening room for my belongings to be searched. Guns were pored over methodically as I produced 4457s documenting my temporary export of the Benelli Lupo and its Leupold VX-5HD, as well as the Benelli SBE3 that between the two had allowed me to take stag, ducks, pheasants, and pūkeko on our whirlwind trip.

“No ammo, you used it all?”

I had to chuckle.

“And then some…”

For a second I was transported back to the side of the mountain, the lugs of my Crispis clawing for traction on the muddy side hill as I double-timed it, crouched over with my rifle held horizontally in front of me. The vibrant green valley began to open up in front of us when my guide Bre hit the deck. Crawling up beside her, I poked my head over the ridge to steal a look – three massive stag were feeding their way uphill out in front of us.

Shrugging out of her pack, she slid it up in front of me and told me to get on the rifle while she looked them over.

All three were intent on gorging themselves, the roar having just ended and leaving any stag worth his salt worked down to flesh and bone from chasing ladies in the near-vertical terrain of New Zealand’s South Island. With winter on the way, adding a little fat was all they could think about.

About that time I realized one of them was looking right at me – the lush grass didn’t consume 100% of their attention. All three started moving as one, and Bre whispered without dropping her binos.

“The old one you’re after is second in line.”

A welcome bit of information, since between the fog of the mountain and the fog of adrenaline, I was more intent on finding a clear shot than the number of points and palmation in the rack above. Besides, my goal was age, not size, and Bre had infinitely more experience than I. Willing them to pause, I watched through my scope as the third brute caught up to the second and matched his pace, positioned directly behind him as they kept ascending the slope.

Within seconds they were gone – around and up the hill. Back on our feet and going as quickly as the slippery sloped surface would allow, we caught sight of them one more time before they ascended into the dense cloud above.

Scrambling up onto the broken remains of a shelf road we tried to make some distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the big bulls once more before they disappeared into the heights completely. Stopping just short of a babbling brook running down a crease in the mountain, suddenly there were two shapes in the fog above us.

Even with my blood pumping I could tell they weren’t the same stag – younger with less mass and length.

“Get ready, our three might be following behind them…” Bre whispered, sliding off a ridge and again setting her pack down for me to use as a rest.

Before I could make it over to her three massive bodies loomed in the fog above, just a football field away.

Dropping to my knee, I heard a hoarse whisper, “The second one!”

The reticle settling behind his shoulder, I stroked the Lupo’s trigger and it barked. An echoing ‘thwack’ was a joy to my ears as the bullet went through both lungs, and I racked in a second round. Seeing him hunched in my scope I sent another 178 gr. ELD-X, my haste allowing the shot to break as my trembling crosshairs were just over his back. Into the chamber went a third round – my years hunting elk in Idaho ingraining the desire to put as much lead as possible into animals infinitely more adept at traversing the mountains than an awkward human like me.

Settling my nerves, the third shot struck home just like the first, and the stag stiffened even more before tipping over, sliding and tumbling down the moisture-sodden hillside before crashing into the very creek we stood next.

I was shaken from my dream by the officer standing in front of me, staring holes in my cooler.

“Alright Mr. Hein, now we find out about your meat – please follow me.”

Pushing my trolley the short distance to the government gurus of fauna and flora, the scene laid out in front of me didn’t bolster my confidence. Sheet pan upon sheet pan of fresh vegetables and produce were arrayed along the central island of their station, obvious confiscations.

An agent stepped up to greet me as the CBP officer helped me hoist my skull onto the stainless inspection table, joined by the cooler.

“What do we have here – it looks massive!” the elder gentleman remarked.

“Not the biggest one we saw, but definitely the oldest and with the most palmation!” I beamed.

Producing a side-cutter, he snipped the heavy-duty zip ties that held the bag closed as I grimaced, wondering how I’d get it all bundled back up for our domestic flights. Peeling back the cloth, duplicate forms matching the ones in my hands spilled out, along with twice as many zip ties as were needed to close it back up – the Glen Dene crew back in New Zealand really knew what they were doing.

With the massive rack laid bare, he whistled softly, then called two names over his shoulder as more officials snuck a peek at the ivory-tipped antlers. With massive concave dishes where his crowns would have been in prior years, I didn’t dare tell them that the stag was past its prime – just touching on SCI Silver status when he met his end. He peeled back the bubble wrap and foam around the skull to reveal gleaming white bone.

“Processed? How was it cleaned?”

“Boiled and bleached, then treated with formaldehyde – here’s the certification letter,” I stated, handing him my copy of the document.

“Wonderful. And how was the hunt? Exciting?” our eyes met and I could see a gleam in his, a bare smile breaking his all-business facade.

“It was perfect, couldn’t have been better. Intercepted him on the side of a mountain in the clouds.”

He nodded, the smile dissipating into a slight frown.

“I haven’t hunted in a very long time. When I was a young man in the army in Egypt, I would hunt wild goats for food with another soldier. Big horns,” he said, sweeping both arms up over his head and backward. “I still think of the meat. We would leave it frozen for as long as possible – a year even. It got much better with time.”

“Ibex?” I guessed.

“Yes, ibex. Very good eating, I think of that often,” he said as his eyes focused far beyond the trophy in front of him.

Taking the opportunity, I shifted over to my cooler.

“So here is the meat we brought back from this stag, just under 50 pounds of it. All butchered, packaged in plastic, and frozen hard.”

“Superb, for personal use?” he asked, giving it a once-over and noting my affirmation before turning back to the skull to help repack it.

The CBP officer over my shoulder was puzzled and couldn’t contain himself, “That’s ok? Him bringing wild meat in?”

“Of course. It’s New Zealand, not Africa,” the official replied flatly, zipping the last tie tight and helping me hoist the trophy back over to my trolley.

“Their biosecurity is pretty strict – the list of things you don’t have to declare could probably be counted on your fingers. They want to know about everything from boots and hiking gear to medication and kid’s art supplies – it goes on and on and they take it all very seriously,” I added, remembering our entry into the island nation two weeks prior.

“Is it really worth all this trouble to bring back forty pounds of meat?” he shook his head.

“If you only knew – better than eland, better than elk. Worth the trouble to bring as much as possible back.”

An hour of stress and worry drained from my body as we found ourselves ushered out a door and back into the hustle and bustle of LAX. Thinking our worries were over, my wife and I instead found that our connecting flight had been re-booked and our 36-hour trip would ultimately stretch to 58 hours without our heads ever hitting a pillow.

Arriving home, I knew in my heart that the stag’s meat was gone. I hesitantly cracked open the cooler on the floor of our kitchen, dreading what I would find. Even after all the time and transfers the meat was still mostly frozen, the cuts at the very top and very bottom partially thawed but still cold.

Turning to my wife, I grinned ear to ear.

“Looks like we’ll have stag pies for dinner tomorrow – let’s have a party to celebrate!”

This article was originally published on Benelli USA by Zachary Hein. 

The post Stopped At The Border- The Lupo Strikes Silver in New Zealand appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

With a rifle, you can get away with it. Sight it in, learn the trigger, and nine times out of ten it’ll shoot where you point. Rifles are forgiving like that.

But bows aren’t forgiving. Ever.

I was reminded of this very thing at the bottom of a steep mountain in New Zealand earlier this year. My penance? You’ll have to tune in next week to read about that.

Every bow is unique. The draw cycle, the wall, the valley, how it feels at full draw, these details matter in ways rifles never will. You don’t just pick up a bow. You live with it. You bleed with it. You carry it in the rain, wind, and dark until it becomes part of you. Switch bows, and you don’t just start over. You break the confidence-built arrow by arrow, season by season. That’s why I believe being a one-bow hunter means more than being a one-gun hunter.

Let’s be honest. Compared to a bow, rifles seem like cheating. Bows demand honesty and loyalty. They force you to confront every weakness in your shooting and your field craft. When a buck steps out or a bull elk screams, the only thing that matters is trust. Not speed ratings. Not carbon risers. Not the brand name on your limb pocket. Just trust, between you and the bow you know by heart. Or should.

Fred Bear once said, “The history of the bow and arrow is the history of mankind.” He wasn’t wrong. A bow makes you earn every yard, every shot, every ounce of confidence. It also forces you to face every mistake.

Rifles let you play the field. Bows don’t. You can date a rifle. But a bow? That’s marriage, the good kind. Show neglect, get inconsistent, stray from the practice range, and that bow will punish you. Bows reveal every flaw. Every time. You can’t BS your way through bowhunting. That’s its curse, and its greatest reward.

Stay faithful, and a bow rewards you with what rifles never can: unshakable confidence that when the moment of truth arrives, you’ll deliver. And when you do, the success just tastes better. That’s the salt of sweat equity every archer knows.

Archery isn’t about convenience. It isn’t about specs. It’s about commitment. A bow asks you to give yourself completely, and in return, it gives you something deeper than a filled tag; it gives you truth.

That’s not just hunting. That’s life.

One bow. One hunter. One truth.

Tune in next week to find out how that truth caught me in New Zealand.

This article was originally published by Jay Pinsky on The Archery Wire & The Hunting Wire.

The post One bow. One hunter. One truth. appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness …”

Indeed, it was. In those early hours, optimism and excitement flooded me, I wasn’t in France, and there certainly wasn’t a revolution raging on the South Island. But by the end of my first day in New Zealand, the excitement had shifted to uncertainty and tension, and Dickens’s words fit my hunt perfectly.

Encounter

Within the first hour of the hunt, my guide, Bre Lewis, and I closed within forty yards of a magnificent red deer stag. Bre, a seasoned archer herself, had taken me to a ravine where red deer fed along the timbered slopes. The weather, wind, and terrain all favored us.

I was ready. After arriving at Glen Dene, I’d passed Bre’s archery proficiency test. My arrows stacked into a golf ball-sized bullseye at forty yards. Months of daily practice prepared me for this moment: shooting at every angle, in every condition, out to sixty yards. I thought I had covered every situation. Almost.

We slipped into position as the stags fed uphill. At forty-three yards, a break in the brush gave us a narrow shooting lane. Bre whispered, “They’re right there. Two stags. We want the first one… no, take the second.”

I drew, settled, and waited for the shot.

The Shot

The stag never stopped. In my mind, Bre’s whistle froze him. He kept climbing.

I released. The arrow flew true, exactly where I aimed, except the stag had already taken a step. Instead of slipping behind his shoulder, my arrow buried deep into his left hip.

I hadn’t missed. I’d done something far worse. My stomach sank, but there was no time to sulk. Bre, calm and professional, shifted gears. She always carries a backup rifle on archery hunts, a Blaser R8 in .308 Winchester. She looked at me and said, “This is now a rifle hunt.”

The Pursuit

We trailed heavy blood through the brush. We climbed higher and higher, until it vanished. When we looked up, we saw him on the very tip-top of the mountain.

Red deer don’t belong there. That’s where tahr or chamois live. But my stag, wounded and defiant, had climbed where no stag should – especially with carbon arrow in its hips. From that moment, he became the Tahr Stag.

The climb to him was brutal: steep rock, loose footing, and too much open space. At 300 yards, we stopped. He was sky-lined on the peak, untouchable. One wrong move and we’d lose him over the back side forever. So, we waited.

The Vigil

For six hours, we lay on that mountainside. I wasn’t comfortable, but I dared not complain given the situation. We couldn’t push him. We could only wait for gravity, fatigue, or mercy to bring him down.

The stag finally began to move. He half-crawled, dragging his ruined hindquarters, inching toward the scree slope below. Each agonizing step deepened my shame and helplessness. No hunter worth his salt can watch an animal suffer without feeling the weight of responsibility. He finally reached the rocks, and he paused broadside. The wait was over.

The Shot of Mercy

I contorted into a pretzel to get stable, rested the Blaser on my pack, and squeezed the trigger. The Hornady bullet struck true. Relief and sorrow hit me at once as the Tahr Stag collapsed, and with him went more than six hours of suffering, his and mine. This wasn’t redemption. It was mercy. And I owed him that.

Reflection

Hunting teaches humility in ways nothing else can. Preparation, practice, and planning matter, but wild animals don’t follow scripts. A single step changed my clean kill into a long, painful lesson.

The strongest and bravest red deer I’ll ever know didn’t fall to my perfect arrow. He fell because I had the courage, with Bre’s guidance, to finish what I started and not let him suffer. That realization brought a bittersweet sense of closure, with pride and sadness intertwined. The mountain reminded me: hunting is never about perfection. It’s about responsibility.

And that day in New Zealand, Dickens was right. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times.

The post The Tahr Stag appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

Where We Were

• DSC Summer Show – July 17, Gaylord Texan Resort, Grapevine, TX

• Texas Trophy Hunters Extravaganza – August 1, Houston, TX

• Texas Trophy Hunters Extravaganza – August 8, Fort Worth, TX

• Texas Trophy Hunters Extravaganza – August 15, San Antonio, TX

Each event was a buzzing hub of hunters, outfitters, and conservationists, and we were proud to represent New Zealand on the international stage.

Highlights

Sarah and Richard thoroughly enjoyed meeting so many passionate hunters and anglers during their time in Texas. From discussing Glen Dene’s red stags to our alpine hunting adventures and fishing opportunities, the conversations were a reminder of just how strong the global hunting community is.

We were thrilled with the turnout across all shows and want to sincerely thank everyone who stopped by our booth to learn more about Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing.

Stay Connected

If you met Sarah and Richard at one of the shows but haven’t yet received your follow-up email, please check your junk mail folder. If it’s not there, don’t hesitate to reach out directly at bookings@glendenehunting.com – we’d love to reconnect.

We’re excited to welcome many of you to New Zealand in the seasons ahead. Until then, happy hunting and fishing – and thank you again, Texas, for your incredible hospitality!

The post Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing at the 2025 U.S. Summer Hunting Shows appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.

In New Zealand, the Himalayan tahr faces a crisis. Population estimates peaked at 35,000 in the Southern Alps, far above the 10,000 target. The Department of Conservation responded with culls, approximately 12,000 tahr between 2019 and 2020, and an additional 7,000 more later.

The culls haven’t stopped rebounds in some areas, and meat and hides often go to waste. In one study area, the bull tahr population declined from 543 in 2019 to 141 by 2024; however, wide survey margins obscure the true impact.

That’s not conservation, it’s brute politics. In times like these, it’s clear that science and stewardship can easily get left behind, and as hunters, we must decide how to respond.

That’s why I support and am a member of the New Zealand Tahr Foundation (NZTF), and it’s why every serious hunter should find a conservation cause (or two), grab hold, and get involved.

The NZTF is fighting a different fight: seeking a Herd of Special Interest designation and pushing for science-driven management, where hunters help control populations and harvesting isn’t taboo. In supporting organizations like NZTF, we see that conservation can mean collaboration, not conflict. They aren’t anti-conservation, they’re pro-solutions.

But this isn’t just a tahr story; it’s a hunter’s story worldwide. Conservation and stewardship are themes that resonate throughout hunting communities worldwide.

In North America, organizations such as the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation, the Wild Sheep Foundation, the Mule Deer Foundation, and the National Wild Turkey Federation collaborate with wildlife agencies to replenish elk, sheep, deer, and turkey populations.

For waterfowl and wetlands, groups like Delta Waterfowl and Ducks Unlimited reinvest millions into habitat restoration.

Hunters fund this through license sales, taxes, and dedication. Pittman-Robertson’s 11% excise tax raised nearly $1 billion for conservation in 2024 and $12.5 billion since 1939.

We can’t just pay our tag and walk away. The future of hunting doesn’t hinge on silence or sidelines. It depends on stewardship, on speaking up, on showing up.

Our call to action is simple and urgent: get informed, get involved, and speak out. Because the most important hunt you’ll ever take isn’t for a buck, a bear, or a bull. It’s for the future of wild game, wild places, and the hunting tradition itself.

Get informed. Know the science. Understand the issues.

Get involved. Join a group. Support a project. Show up in the field.

Get vocal. Advocate before emotion outweighs science, and policy drowns out stewardship.

If we don’t, someone else will, and we won’t like where it leads.

This blog was originally published on The Hunting Wire. 

The post More Than the Hunt: Why Conservation Is Every Hunter’s Responsibility appeared first on Glen Dene Hunting & Fishing New Zealand.