The biting mountain wind swept across the open ridges, carrying the sharp, earthy scent of damp tussock and sub-alpine scrub. My fingers were starting to go numb inside my camo gloves, and my eyes were watering from staring through the binoculars for hours. Dad and I had been sitting tucked into a sheltered saddle since daybreak, methodically glassing the massive, shadowed faces of the valley. Every creek bed, every clay face, and every patch of scrub was searched. Just as the repetitive motion of glassing was starting to make my eyelids heavy, Dad froze. He lowered his binoculars, blinked, and slowly raised them again to double-check. After glassing for a while longer, Dad looked over a small, clay-scarped knob just a few hundred meters away from our position. He tapped my shoulder sharply, his face lighting up.

There it was—the big, mature red stag we had been looking for all season. He was a magnificent beast, standing proud against the skyline. His dark, heavily pearled antlers crowned a massive, thick-necked frame that showed he was the king of this particular valley.

As soon as we locked eyes on the big red stag, a massive wave of adrenaline hit my system, instantly wiping away the morning cold. My heart started hammering against my ribs. Dad gave me a quick nod, and without needing a single word, we began planning our approach. We checked the wind—it was blowing steadily in our faces, which was perfect. Crouching low into the golden tussock, keeping our profiles broken against the ridge line, we started making the stalk down the steep face toward him. Every single step required absolute concentration. The face was littered with loose, rattling shale and brittle, dry twigs that threatened to give away our position with one wrong placement of a boot.

As we started closing the gap, descending into a shallow gut, disaster almost struck. Out of absolutely nowhere, the ground exploded with movement just five meters in front of us. We had bumped right into a red hind that had been completely concealed, bedded down in a hidden hollow! She bolted with a sharp, terrified snort. Her hooves pounded like a drumbeat against the hard earth as she spooked straight into the thick, tangled matagouri bushes. The sudden, violent crash of breaking branches and tearing thorns made my heart leap straight into my throat. We instantly dropped to our knees, freezing like statues, holding our breath. I was terrified that her panicked retreat would alert the big stag and send him running over the next ridge line.

We waited in total silence, letting the valley settle. Once the echoes of the crashing hind died down, we carried on. We moved at a snail's pace, trying our absolute hardest not to make a single sound. We ducked beneath the sharp, clutching thorns of the matagouri, scanning the ground to avoid stepping on dry leaves, desperately trying to close the remaining gap to get a clean shot.

As we kept getting closer, the terrain flattened out into a small terrace. We crept up to the edge of a little clay knob that overlooked the open clearing where we hoped the stag was still feeding. It was the ultimate shooting platform. Dad gestured with his hand for me to crawl forward on my stomach. I slithered up to the crest, pushing my rifle ahead of me. After finding a comfortable, flat spot for me to lie down, I extended the bipod legs into the dirt and dug my elbows in to get completely rock-solid. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. All that was left to do now was re-locate the big stag in the broken cover below.

I settled my cheek firmly against the stock, breathing slowly to calm my racing pulse. As I moved the scope of the gun across the clearing, dialing in the magnification, the crosshairs panned across the dark green scrub. Then, a patch of deep brown winter coat filled the lens. I rolled the scope back slightly, and there he was. The big stag was standing completely broadside, totally unaware of our presence.

I took one last deep breath and pinned the illuminated crosshairs right behind his heavy shoulder. I whispered, “Ready, Dad.” Dad whispered back, “Go when you're ready.”

I slowly squeezed the trigger. BOOMFA! The rifle kicked hard against my shoulder, the loud report echoing fiercely off the valley walls. Through the recoil of the scope, I watched the impact. He dropped right in his tracks, collapsing instantly into the tussock.

“Yes, he's down!” Dad yelled, his voice breaking the silence of the hills.

Pure, unadulterated happiness instantly flooded my brain. The immense pressure of the stalk vanished, replaced by total euphoria. After knowing for a fact that he was safely down, the excitement completely took over. I jumped straight up out of the dirt, entirely forgetting about the cold. I started running in circles around the top of that clay knob, doing a massive happy dance, pumping my fists into the sky, and shouting at the top of my lungs, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Dad was standing there with a massive grin split across his face, laughing and clapping me on the back, just as stoked as I was.

After finally finishing my happy dance and catching my breath, the hard work began. We slung our rifles, hoisted our empty packs, and started making our way down the steep, rocky face. We crossed the boggy creek at the bottom of the gut and climbed all the way back up the steep, slippery opposite hill to where the big beast lay.

When we finally walked up on him, he took my breath away. He was even bigger and more impressive up close than he had looked through the scope. His coat was thick, and his antlers had beautiful, long tines. We sat down beside him for a long moment, admiring the magnificent animal and talking through every second of the stalk. We took a bunch of awesome photos from different angles to lock in the memory of this day forever. With the afternoon sun starting to dip behind the peaks, casting long shadows across the valley, we pulled out our hunting knives and got to work butchering him, carefully skinning him out and taking the backstraps, hind quarters, and all the prime meat.

After getting him completely butchered up, we loaded the heavy meat into our canvas packs until they were solid and heavy against our shoulders. We turned around and started the long, grueling walk out of the hills. We navigated carefully back down the steep slopes, our knees aching under the weight, splashed through the freezing water of the creek bed, and dug our boots in for the final, exhausting climb back up the clay track to where the buggy was parked.

We heaved our heavy packs into the tray, loaded the gear, and hopped into the seats. We ended an absolutely perfect, unforgettable trip with a bumpy, wind-in-your-face ride all the way down the mountain track back to the main truck, the sunset painting the hills in shades of gold and orange. My absolute favorite part of the whole journey was the unmatched thrill of tracking down both the wild pig and the massive red stag, but most of all, just being out there experiencing the true peace and quiet of the rugged hills with my dad.