A Tale of Two Rams: an account of wild sheep hunting in New Zealand
Sprinkled along the shores and slips above certain rivers in the central North Island of New Zealand you can find, in discrete little pockets, feral Merino sheep...
Sprinkled along the shores and slips above certain rivers in the central North Island of New Zealand you can find, in discrete little pockets, feral Merino sheep. One of the rarer game animals in New Zealand, these sheep are the remnants of herds which were farmed in a free-range manner in the 1800’s and allowed to graze right up onto the open alpine tops. Once farming became more disciplined in the early 1900’s, most of these sheep were mustered back into properly fenced stations.
However, the wiliest of these sheep were left behind, and these formed small flocks which have sustained themselves to this day (their populations were likely supplemented in early 20th century when many farms were abandoned during the depression). They now haunt the shores, forests, and scrubland in small, secretive groups. They traverse scree slips and rocky bluffs above river gorges; the kind of country which would make a Chamois dizzy.
I had no idea about any of this until my older brother, Dan, got the opportunity to do some work on a Station that had a small herd of these wild Merino roaming its farthest reaches. He got permission to hunt them while he was there and shot a big, beautiful ram and a few ewes.
As soon as I saw his ram–and even more so once I tasted some of the meat he shared with me–I was obsessed. Not only is lamb and mutton some of my favourite meat, but his big ram called to mind the mystical game sheep of the Americas-like Dall’s sheep or the Bighorn sheep. I not only wanted to get a big old ram, but a supply of wild lamb and mutton would be a great addition to my primarily wild-game diet. I had been living purely on wild venison for a few years at this point, and was getting a little bored of it.
I knew it might be a big ask, as their numbers are quite low (especially on public land), and they can be surprisingly hard to hunt. As Jack O’Connor, America’s greatest wild sheep hunter, said “A deer that has been shot at will go around the side of a hill and lie down… A ram will leave the country”.
The problem was, Dan’s private land hunt was likely a one-time thing (or at least we didn’t want to be greedy and ask for access again so soon) so we set about researching where we might find some sheep on public land. Dan already had some idea where they were located, and with his knowledge and my research we came up with a plan, and thus we found ourselves heading into public land on a scorcher of a day in early Jan.
I had stupidly decided to buy a new pair of boots the day before our hunt, and to break them in on the hill. They were a style of boot I don’t typically wear, and within the first hour I could feel blisters growing on both heels. The journey in to the area only took around three hours, but it required some miles and a considerable descent, which did destroyed our quads (we had heavy packs!).
As we meandered along the final flat towards camp on shaky legs, we spooked two sheep from under a small terrace in the bush, not 50 metres from where we would be sleeping!
We dropped our packs in camp and pursued the fleeing sheep, but within half an hour we found ourselves corralled by the unbelievably dense and frustrating bush, pushed out onto a bluff above the river. Having made an absolute racket of swearing and bush-bashing, we gave up and returned to camp.
That evening saw us ascended a short but very steep 300 metres to a lookout we had discovered on the edge of a moderately sized rocky slip, which had a good amount of summer feed on it. At this point my heels felt like they had worn to the bone in my new boots, and it was only the first day. Though we watched the slip above which we sat, mostly our attention was drawn across the valley to a giant face which had multiple scree chutes and scrubby spurs broken by patches of bush, bluffs, and rocky outcroppings. There we saw quite a few sheep, including three mature rams.
The face that held the rams was so steep, and was composed of so many shutes, slips, folds, spurs, and little bluffs that we were unsure how exactly we were supposed to hunt it. Not to mention we were both already incredibly sore and my blisters were beginning to pose a real problem when it came to climbing. On such unsteady legs, climbing the opposite face could easily end in disaster.
As we sat and talked about how we might hunt that face over the next few days, we heard a quiet bleat not far off, and within half an hour a ewe and a lamb poked out onto a spur not 100 yards below us. It being our first day, we decided not to shoot them–the meat would not keep well in the heat, and we wanted to get more of an idea of what the area was like in terms of animal numbers, both deer and sheep.
The next few days passed in much the same manner. We would climb to the lookout, me on raw heels taped with electrical tape (yes, I forgot to bring good plasters), we would see the rams (and a few red stags) on the far side–in a new spot each time–and we would have a few ewes and lambs coming out around us, almost always within 100 yards.
Our game plan was to wait and hope a ram came out on our side, and if we had no luck, to shoot a couple of ewes and lambs on the last day. Unfortunately for us, no rams appeared, and on the last day we saw no sheep! So, we were faced with a considerable hike home with empty–but still heavy–packs. We weren’t too phased, it was mostly a reconnaissance trip anyway, and we knew that hunting a new spot and trying to find and learn about new animals often requires a few “unsuccessful” trips. Mostly we were just super excited to have seen a good number of animals.
Dan wasn’t available for any hunting for a while, but I was determined to get a ram, or at least a lamb, hogget, or something! So I returned with a new crew, my other older brother, Reon, and a friend of mine, Ride.
The trip felt cursed from the beginning. The weather was much worse than forecasted. It poured with rain and the river was swollen—not ideal for crossing—and travelling downriver would be difficult. Also, the Westerly wind was hammering our little lookout, which was supposed to be our main hunting base for the trip. Overall, it sucked. We were alternatively hot, cold, soaking wet, and constantly being whipped in the face and eyes by wind-blown dust and rocks.
So we spent most of our time stalking in the bush instead. Reon and I ran into three sheep heading towards us on a game trail not 100 meters from camp. It was a comical scene; the confused sheep and I locked eyes, equally surprised to see each other, maybe only 40 yards separating us. My rifle wasn’t even loaded yet, we had barely left camp. I slowly loaded and raised my rifle, but the sheep were in a gaggle, and I didn’t want my bullet to pass through the first sheep and wound the one behind it, so I had to wait. Just as they were about to bolt Reon bleated at them in an attempt to try to pique their curiosity, but it only reassured the sheep that we weren’t to be trusted. They bolted.
One morning before sunrise, Ride took the toilet shovel and went to take care of business. As he set to digging his hole, he spooked a nearby sheep from its bed and it ran up into camp, right past me and Reon enjoying our morning coffee.
Turned out, the only fine night to be had up at our lookout was the last night of the trip. It was all riding on this hunt. As we climbed the rocky face to our pozzy, we heard an alerted lamb in the bush bordering our slip, bleating for its mother.
In my head I heard the Mexican Captain from Blood Meridian: “When the lambs is lost in the mountains, they is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.” I readied myself to be the wolf today, a conflicting proposition for an animal lover like myself. I really didn’t want to shoot a cute lamb. It continued to cry for a while but soon went silent, and they never showed. That might have been our last chance for some wild sheep.
Regardless, we settled in for an evening of glassing. Reon faced down and across our slip–the direction from which all the sheep had approached–and I decided to face backwards for a while so my face was out of the scorching sun, and I watched the very top of the slip, over his shoulder.
After an hour, out of the corner of my eye I saw a slow flash of white. It looked like something slowly swinging its head, looking from left to right in a cautious scanning motion. It vanished again.
I said “Reon don’t move. I think there’s a sheep up behind you”. I saw another flash and knew it was a sheep. Reon turned and got a glimpse of it in his binos, too. Each of us was now prickling with cautious excitement. The animal was now travelling downhill, following the bush edge we were sitting on; it was coming directly for us! I told Reon, “just shoot it, even if it’s a ram, you just shoot it, you’re all set up”. I didn’t want to go home empty handed again, and getting meat is priority over a personal desire for a trophy for memorabilia.
Right then it walked between two trees, and we got a clearer view of it—a ram, a big one! Reon (who wasn’t particularly attracted to the sheep as a game species) backed off his rifle, gesturing at me and saying “na bro, you wanted a ram, it hasn’t seen us, you shoot it!”. We switched places and I got behind his rifle. The ram stepped out from behind the final few trees and into the open. Not 50 yards from us, he looked huge, both in body and horn. He was a beautiful sight. As he paused to graze for a second, I shot him in the hilar region, and he dropped instantly, rolling off the edge and down onto the scree slip. He tumbled for a bit, but got caught against a small rocky outcrop with some kanuka scrub on it. I could tell by the way he fell that the shot had knocked him unconscious instantly, and he died in seconds, essentially unaware of his own demise.
It’s a strange feeling. After days tip-toeing around the mountains, speaking mainly in hushed tones, to fire a rifle feels sacrilegious. The boom of the rifle rolls up and down the valley and it makes you cringe. It’s almost as if to finally reveal your location to the ecosystem in this way is to wake something huge which, until now, hadn’t known you were there. It feels like the whole world has suddenly turned its eyes on you.
So there is always a moment of pause, the rifle cracks, the animal falls, you watch and wait. Nothing happens. And then a wave of relief rushes over you. The animal is not wounded—it died quickly. All your hard work, discomfort, blood, and sweat has paid off. You and your family will have healthy, free-range meat for weeks.
But you have killed something. Likely the only other creatures to exist in all the known universe are here on this planet with us. Life is miraculous, and you have just ended one. It feels good to be successful, but also feels bad. But you know that, no matter what, for you to live is for other creatures, large and small, to die. The only choice you have is whether to take responsibility for that, or not. And it brings into sharp relief the fact that, one day soon, you too will die—and something will eat you.
I was shaky with adrenaline, and we all just stood and marveled at what had happened. If I hadn’t been facing backwards, looking up behind us, that ram would have walked right up behind us, given us all a fright, and most likely have gotten away. It was just pure luck that I happened to see him while he was still a ways out.
We scrambled over and down to him. It was even better than I hoped.
He was clearly an old ram, having lived a full life. He bore scars, old and new, across his face. An old battler, doing it hard in this rough country. He wore thick fleece only about his neck, shoulders, and back; he was strangely bare on his underside. His horns had nicks and notches taken out—from what, who knows.
Everyone I talked to said not to bother with ram meat. Apparently its tough and gamey, but I always take the meat. It’s the reason I hunt, even if I do occasionally specifically target a trophy animal for sentimental reasons. If his meat is tough, well, I guess I’ll have tough meat for a few meals—doesn’t bother me! Though he looked huge on the hoof he was surprisingly small bodied, especially once butchered. We took his two hind-quarters, a shoulder, and his back steaks–one shoulder and his heart was ruined by the bullet. Though I usually take them, I wouldn’t keep the liver or kidneys of such an old animal.
Interestingly, he had quite a few sheep Keds burrowing around in his wool. Keds are type of wingless fly, creepy little things which resemble a tick. They live on sheep and parasitize them, just like a tick. They don’t pose a risk to humans from what I understand, but they are quite off-putting, especially because you don’t often see such parasites on other game animals in New Zealand.
These wild sheep might just be my new favourite game animal, perhaps only because they are new to me. But there is something so unique about them. They were once semi-domesticated but free range, and they escaped re-imprisonment only by making their home in some seriously inhospitable spots and quickly turning wild. In the 100 or so years since they went rogue they have probably changed a lot, behaviorally and genetically, from their farmed ancestors—for example, in the fact that they now only seem to grow long thick wool on their backs, and have bare undersides.
So, after ten days in the mountains, I finally got my ram, and what a ram he is! Dan measured him, and he went for an unofficial Douglas score of 72. Dan’s private-land ram was about 74, so he has me beat there. When comparing our rams, you can clearly see the difference in quality of life between the public vs private land animals. My ram displays all the indicators of a brutal life, with scars on his face and big chunks taken out of his horns.
The great American sheep hunter Jack O’Connor wrote “The mountain sheep keeps his horns as long as he lives, and on them he writes his autobiography. He records his age, his species, his good years and his bad—and his battles”. And what a story this old Ram tells!
Follow up note: We ate the meat, and it was delicious. We roasted a hind-quarter the way you would roast a younger lamb’s leg, and honestly, I couldn’t tell the difference between it and normal mutton. It was tender and delicious. Further proof to support the suspicion I have that “gamey” meat is not real. Or, more specifically, that all meat, even farmed beef, is “gamey”, and that the gaminess ascribed to wild animals is more of a mental thing by people unaccustomed to the thought of wild game.