Victorian High Country – alpine deer country

With only a single point in the system, I never expected to see my name attached to a successful draw. When the confirmation finally loaded, I refreshed the page more than once, convinced it had to be wrong. It took a few minutes before it really settled in. Then the messages started coming through.

Drawing a tag like this changes everything. Advice came from all directions — mates, old contacts, people I barely knew — all offering hard-earned knowledge. That mattered, because a heavy fire season had shut down most summer access. Scouting wasn’t an option. This hunt would be built on maps, planning, and trust in the process. The area wasn’t known for producing record animals, and I knew early on this hunt would be about more than just antlers.

I put together a crew I trusted without hesitation. My old man was in straight away. A close mate joined, bringing along his father — both experienced in steep country with decades of bush time behind them. A couple more solid hands rounded out the group. We were going in unguided, and we all knew what that meant.

In early April, we rode deep into the Victorian High Country before splitting off on foot to work a long alpine loop. None of us had hunted this specific section before. Everything we knew came from topo lines, satellite imagery, and past seasons elsewhere.

Within the first hour of glassing, we spotted hinds feeding along a timber edge. Not long after, we picked up our first stags moving through the scrub well over a kilometre out. I’d prepared myself for days of empty glass, so seeing animals early lifted a lot of pressure. Just being there felt right.

A couple of stags looked mature, but wind and distance made judging hard. Something didn’t sit right. Chasing them would also pull us away from the country we wanted to cover, so we passed. Not everyone agreed, but patience is part of hunting this terrain.

Less than a kilometre later, we found ourselves pushed into steep, broken country and made camp wherever we could flatten a patch of ground. That night, strong alpine winds hammered the ridgeline. Sleep came in short bursts. At first light, careful movement and a bit of scrambling got us through terrain that demanded respect. This was real high-country ground.

In the next basin, we came across the remains of a stag — likely taken by age or a fall. Seeing that at elevation is always sobering. It’s a reminder of how unforgiving these places are. Later that day, we glassed more deer, again mature but not quite what I was holding out for. I stayed committed to waiting.

Late in the afternoon, we picked up movement lower in the drainage. We couldn’t see antlers clearly, but body size stood out. By morning, they were still there. One battered old stag earned a nickname, but another stood apart — darker, heavier through the chest, clearly dominant. That one felt different.

By the time we broke camp, they’d vanished. We searched until dark with no sign. Then, right at last light, one of the boys quietly called out that he had eyes on deer again. They were moving through timber, lower than expected. I rushed to set up.

And missed.

Twice.

It was the first time I’d ever missed a big game animal. On a hunt that mattered. Watching them disappear back into the timber hit hard.

We camped right there, carving out space on the side of the mountain with whatever we had. No one said much. We waited for morning.

At first light, we found them again, higher this time. Food and water were running low. The wind wasn’t ideal, but there were no second chances left.

I cut a fresh track near the ridge. Moments later, I spotted the battered stag bedded below. Two others were nearby, partially hidden. When one lifted his head, I knew immediately — the heavy one. I settled in and took the shot.

He was everything I hoped for. The earlier miss made it mean more. Messages went out. The rest of the crew met us lower on the spur. Late that night, someone pulled out a bottle that had clearly been carried through a few seasons. We shared a quiet drink, packed up, and kept moving.

Some hunts are about measurements.
Others are about earning a second chance.

This one was both.

— Bush Range Field Stories