Gorge Tops – A First, But Not the Last
ANZAC Sika Hunt, 23–27 April 2025
Owhaoko BD Trust Block – Kaweka / Kaimanawa Ranges
A first, but not the last. This is the story of how we finally succeeded in hunting Sika deer.
The Hut in the Clouds – Gorge Tops
Gorge Tops hut sits about 30 metres from the heli pad, perched at roughly 1360m where the Kaweka meets the Kaimanawa, separated by the Ngaruroro River. It’s a classic backcountry gem:
- 4 bunks with mattresses
- Stainless sink and bench
- 9kg gas bottle and two-burner cooker
- A gas heater with its own 9kg bottle – our favourite piece of “furniture” this time of year
There’s a good water tank and the obligatory long drop, just as you’d expect in the central North Island backcountry. One of the perks of private huts is the little luxuries: pots, pans, cutlery and the basics of a kitchen already in place.
Leftovers from previous parties fill the shelves: tinned goods, tea, salt, oil, candles, cards, toilet paper, matches. Instead of the DOC hut book, there are old maps of the block and boundaries, plus a healthy supply of hunting mags – more than enough for hut reading.
Thursday 24 April – In the Mist, Back with the Pen
I’m in the hut at Gorge Tops. One bar glowing on the heater. It’s 5°C outside and I can’t get any closer to this gas lifesaver. We’re in the clouds today, mist wrapped around the hut, the views below completely hidden.
And I am WRITING.
It’s been three years since I last put pen to paper – Antarctica in 2022. Life, kids, work, running – they’ve all filled the space. But with no cell service and time on our side, the words start to come. It’s 4:45pm on a Saturday afternoon. Chris slips quietly out the door, eager to chase that elusive Sika.
It hasn’t been long since our last visits to the Kaweka and Kaimanawa Forest Parks. Recently we’d headed in unarmed and at pace, pushing through a 100km off-track circuit to reach Makorako (1724m) – the North Island’s 6th highest peak and a complete pain in the arse to get to. That New Year trip, just shy of four days, deserves its own write-up.
Before that, there was a family mission with the three boys (7, 9, 11) via Heli Sika, into the Footy Field block – East Taupo Lands Trust land. Manuka faces, gullies, small grassy flats, a cableway across the river for those with decent arm strength, all set against the grand Mohaka River, cheeky trout included. The Sika were present and well onto our little crew of five, but we tried our luck on trout instead. No venison, no fish—but one of our most wholesome trips and a memory that’s here to stay.
Another adventure saw Chris and me swap trail shoes for rifle and heavy packs, this time into the North Arm hut (East Taupo Lands Trust block) via Clements Road, past Cascade Hut and onto private land (access granted). It’s about 8.5km from Cascade, with ~677m of climbing. An A-frame hut with open grassy river flats (expect wet feet), native beech slopes and, between December and February, a chance at those same cunning trout.
Again, Sika vs us… and Sika won.
We started to joke that maybe we should just stick to fast-packing. But the truth is, we’re stubborn. Our “extreme amateur hunter” status became motivation to get smarter:
- Ditch the black clothing and embrace camo
- Learn to stalk and sit
- Practice patience
- Read, learn, talk to others
- Then go again
We got very good at watching “fluffy white bums” bouncing off, accompanied by that classic bark, as if to say, “Snapped you!” Sika are notoriously cunning. We’d often see them between 9am–2pm, refusing to play by the dawn-and-dusk rulebook, or waiting until full darkness to move. Bloody Sika.
Joining the Roar Madness
So here we are: a private hut and a helicopter ride into Sika country during the roar – our first time hunting this period. We’re not necessarily chasing antlers; venison is the goal, along with playing our part in conservation and turning the long-held Sika dream into reality.
We roll into the Helisika hangar on Wednesday at lunchtime to find the carpark absolutely chocka. Roar madness. And now we’re officially part of it. We sign in, catch up with the crew, and laugh hearing that Chris and I are known as “the trail runners”. We’ll take that.
We weigh our gear and are quietly chuffed to be well within our limit. Other hunters look at our pile and go, “Geeeeez, you guys ain’t taking much.” To us, accustomed to 7–10kg fast-packing loads, the chilly bin, extra food and hunting paraphernalia feels excessive. Still, with everything – including the trolley – we tip the scales at 147kg. Crickey.
Choppers come and go. Camouflaged humans pile in and out, all chasing antlers, a few clearly battling hangovers. The pilots are efficient and organised, shuttling parties in and out with a Hughes 500 that we’ve come to know well.
Our turn finally comes. It’s a decent wind and the flight in is bumpy. I grip tight, planning my survival strategy if the whole thing goes sideways, while Chris chats easily with the pilot. As we near the tops, we’re thinking the same thing the pilot soon confirms:
“There’s no chance of getting in there, sorry team.”
Low cloud hangs stubbornly at about 1200m and we need it to lift another 100m. No dice. We head back to the hangar. It’s an anticlimax, sure, but that’s the risk when you’re relying on heli access. We do briefly wonder: Should we just head in on foot?
Instead, we re-check the weather with the team and postpone. Plan B leads us to the Sika Lodge on Clements Road – a hidden gem we’d never heard of. For $40pp, this old shearers’ quarters-turned-accommodation is full of character:
- Animal heads on the walls
- A big lounge with a roaring fire
- Communal kitchen
- Bunk rooms and, to our delight, a double bed
We quickly realise that if we’d known about this place earlier, we would’ve saved a lot of money on Taupo motels pre- and post-missions.
A Warm-Up Hunt – Clements Road
With evening approaching, we’re too keen to simply wait for tomorrow’s second flight attempt. So we decide to try our luck up Clements Road. At worst, it’s an armed hike.
Mid-roar, public holiday looming, weekend incoming – Clements is just as busy as the hangar. We park at the Te Iringa track entrance, knowing we’ve only got one to two hours of daylight. We hustle, then slip quietly off-track into promising deer country.
There’s sign everywhere: animal trails in all directions, black pellets (days old, but still encouraging). We move carefully, each step placed with intention, pressing ourselves against logs and trees. With two of us, we’ve got to work hard to stay undetected as the light fades.
God, it’s good to be out here. I feel myself dropping fully into the wild again.
Then Chris suddenly drops lower. I hold my breath. What has he seen? He points ahead, lowers his buff and mouths, “Hind.”
We’re almost hugging the ground. I check the wind using a little chalk-dust bottle – it’s in our favour, but the angle isn’t right for a clean head shot. We let her wander away.
We exhale and relax. As omens go, we’ll take it. It feels like a good sign for the days to come. And it’s a reminder: hunters don’t always need to head deep, deep into the backcountry. Sometimes, the deer really are just around the corner.
Thursday’s Flight – At Last
Fresh-eyed and bushy-tailed, we line up again for the morning flight. It’s a crisp, bluebird day – the first proper cold snap of the season. We’d heard our first Sika “hee-haw” behind the lodge that morning and our heart rates haven’t really come down since.
No wind, smooth air – I mentally celebrate the dreamy flight ahead. Fifteen minutes later, we dip and buzz over the Gorge Tops block. Sharp rock faces pierce the forest, with beech crowns clinging to ridgelines. Mammoth slopes fall from sky to river, sexy ridges stretching in every direction. It feels like the land is whispering, Come and explore.
We land in what feels like the world’s smallest clearing. The helipad. We’re here.
It’s cold. The southerly lingers. Layers go on, we grab a quick bite, another coffee (why not), and then dress for war.
We don’t want to stink up the whole block on day one, so we keep it close to home, scouting options and getting a feel for the place. Somewhere nearby, a red stag roars. To our delight, a local Sika stag answers in his own language. Even if luck doesn’t go our way, the unknown is half the thrill. This is why we’re here.
Friday 25 April – ANZAC Day Hind
ANZAC Day. The 6:00am alarm goes off. The horizon glows with promise, signalling a stunning day ahead.
We light a candle and tuck ourselves beside the heater – our first hut without a fireplace. We take a minute of silence for those who fought at Gallipoli, knowing that across New Zealand and Australia people are doing the same in their own way.
Then it’s game time:
- Camo
- Binos
- Knives
- Daypacks, snacks, meat sack
- AJ caller (with a Sika SD card)
- Gaiters, buffs, hats
- Chris’s Tikka T3 7mm-08 with suppressor (barrel cut down especially for bush hunting)
We leave the hut at 7:30am, accepting that we’ve probably missed some early movement, but we’re planning a full day out.
The wind has swung NE, perfect for dropping into catchments and sneaking off the usual routes. A party had left on Monday and we don’t know which lines they hammered or what they shot. We decide to go deep, into the untravelled bits – a decision that pays off later.
We slide down, down, down off the tops. After about 300m of descent, we decide to sidle and pick up the main ridge that runs to the river.
Right then, we hit nettle. Lots of it.
Among the nettle and matagouri-like scrub, something brown catches my eye. Then another flash of brown. In a shaft of sunlight: deer. No doubt.
I freeze, spin softly towards Chris and mouth, “Deer!” He drops behind a tree, quiet but quick. I’m only about 50m from three Sika hinds, lazily enjoying a late breakfast.
We wait. No stag. Chris eyes up a shot. Shoot, and we’ve got guaranteed venison – but we risk spooking the whole area. Is this our only chance this trip? Who knows.
We’ve already decided we’re not totally fixated on taking a head home. We want hunting wins – learning to read deer, to understand habits and habitat. That said, if a stag presents himself, we wouldn’t be arguing.
Chris mimics a trigger pull. I brace, eyes locked on the clearest hind.
BANG.
The sound echoes around the valley. The hind drops instantly. Relief and elation wash through me. Chris’s first deer – and a Sika hind. After so many failed attempts, his grin says it all.
It’s only 9:00am.
She’s a smaller animal, probably from a tough, dry summer with limited feed. We honour her by taking all the meat we can. Then, to my surprise, Chris takes the heart and lungs and hangs them in a nearby tree – a Māori custom, he explains, to show respect to the land and the animal. I like that. I think I’ll keep that practice going.
We climb back up to the ridge that leads to the Ngaruroro boundary, staying in full hunt mode: slow, quiet, pausing whenever it “feels right”. We spook a stag and hind, and he calls for her as they go. We hang around a while, but the wind has turned, our scent is on the trail, and it’s unlikely we’ll see them again.
One thing is clear: there are plenty of deer here.
The views are outrageous – vast forest park, tussock flats, red clay slips. It’s an absolute playground for anyone who finds joy in the outdoors. Mist still clings to the valley floor, making us feel as if we’re above the clouds. Totally and utterly alone in this magnificent place. This is home.
Lunch on the Ngaruroro
At the river, the temperature drops sharply. Layers come off as we settle into a surprisingly civilised riverside camp. Someone has built a proper setup: sink, bench, BBQ table on a flat above the stunning Ngaruroro.
She’s showing off today – deep blue-green, almost emerald. In another season I’d be straight in for a swim. Chris spots a good-looking trout, but like the Sika, these guys are cunning. As a Hawke’s Bay-born girl, I really want this Northlander to nail a trout one day. Today isn’t that day.
We share a Radix meal, a coffee, and check the time: 2pm. We plan to slowly climb the ~500m ridge back to the hut, stalking as we go.
About an hour later, we enter a scrub-clearing and spot a fresh rut pad – the ground churned where a stag has been working. Fresh droppings everywhere. It’s obvious we’ve stumbled into a local hangout; there’s been a full-on deer party here recently.
We set up with the AJ caller. Chris tucks himself out of sight. I perch about 5m away behind a lone tree, almost dead centre in the clearing. We start gentle: a hind mew, not wanting to intimidate anything nearby. Nothing. We wait, careful not to overcall, leaving long quiet patches between sounds.
4:15pm. We’ve been there for over an hour – a solid dose of “Sika patience”. We look at each other. “Shall we walk?” we whisper, starting to stand.
The second I straighten up, I lock eyes with a six-point Sika stag stepping out of the treeline, no more than 5m away.
I freeze. We stare at each other. It feels like forever but is probably only seconds. I turn to signal “stag!!!” to Chris, praying he’s already seen him. But there’s no chance to set up a shot. The moment I move, the stag wheels and bolts. I “mew” desperately, hoping he’ll stop or swing back.
He doesn’t. BUGGER.
There’s some colourful language. It’s heartbreak and awesomeness all at once. On one hand, we called in a stag for the first time. The method works. It really can take an hour or more. On the other hand, we blew it by not waiting 5 more minutes.
That’s hunting.
We buzz all the way back to the hut – Chris’s first Sika hind, a river lunch, and a six-point close encounter that we’ll be retelling for years.
Saturday 26 April – Lessons in the Mist
We wake to thick cloud cover. Visibility is poor, but mist can give deer a false sense of security. No way are we staying hut-bound.
We head back towards the catchment where the six-pointer lives. The bush reveals hidden “deer highways” – tunnels carved through thick scrub. We follow big prints and steaming fresh pellets, constantly one step behind, spooking animals we never quite see. It feels too still and we suspect our wet-weather gear sounds like a marching band.
By dark we’re back at the hut, hungry and cold. A very different day from yesterday, but still, a day in the hills is never a waste.
We’ve learned more about how deer use this block, the way they move with wind, terrain and cover. I go back to pen and paper. Chris heads out for one last glassing session in the fading light.
Our final night is bittersweet: craving a shower and a real bed, but already mourning the end of this simple, wild routine. The only comfort is knowing there’s always another trip to plan.
Sunday 27 April – The Stag
We wake to a perfect day: mist clinging to valleys, only the tops poking through. Birds sing. Dew drips steadily from the trees.
As usual, it’s 6am coffee, a quick breakfast, and layering up. But today we’re only planning a 3-hour hunt before the heli pick-up. The plan is to drop down to where we know the six-pointer lives; we’ve seen him there twice now.
We barely get 100m from the hut before we meet our first deer – a hind meandering up towards us at about 15m. How she hasn’t winded us after the last few days is beyond me. Maybe they’re less bothered than we think.
The wind is in our favour, and it all feels right. We debate it, then decide not to shoot. We don’t want to blow the area when there’s still a chance of seeing that stag.
Eventually she catches our scent, sees us, and takes off. We push on. Fresh sign keeps us motivated – they’re here, and they’re close.
About a kilometre from the hut, we start quietly descending from the top. I’m in front when I catch the backside of a big hind. Before I can fully turn to alert Chris, he’s already locked onto her.
He doesn’t shoot. It’s 8:30am. The looming heli pick-up weighs on the decision: take a solid hind for the freezer and pest control, or hold out and hope a stag appears.
We choose to follow her instead.
We stalk tree to tree, each step deliberate, avoiding sticks. Even the drip of water onto our jackets sounds like it might give us away.
The hind moves out of my sightline, but Chris still has her. I go to move up to the next tree for a better view when he signals again: “Stag.”
I freeze.
Twenty metres from Chris, a four-point Sika stag steps out to meet the hind. I still can’t see what’s happening, only imagining them disappearing into thicker cover. Then:
BANG.
The Tikka roars and the spell of the quiet forest lifts. We’re suddenly full volume – eyes wide, hearts thumping.
On our last morning. On pick-up day. Not far from the hut. Just over an hour into the hunt. Chris has taken his first Sika stag.
We exchange a few breathless “did that just happen?” whispers, then step forward.
It’s a clean, ethical shot. The stag hasn’t suffered and likely never knew what hit him. Chris takes his time, doing right by the animal. I leave him in peace to process and appreciate everything that led to this moment.
I take the rifle and slip away to see if the six-pointer might still be around, thinking he might not have been close enough to be spooked by the shot. Twenty minutes later, I’m in his territory again. I start calling. Something big moves higher up. I silently beg that it isn’t him leaving for good.
I sit for 30 minutes, calling and waiting, but he never shows. Chris catches up. It’s 9:30am. With a decent climb back to the hut and meat and a head to carry, we call time on this adventure.
Express Pick-Up & Back to Reality
We reach the hut, confirm a lunchtime pickup and feel pretty pleased with ourselves. Time for coffee, a proper breakfast and a bit of processing. We fry up bacon, eggs, tomato and toast, brew two plunger coffees and collapse into that perfect hut satisfaction.
Then we hear it: the thud-thud-thud of the Hughes 500 echoing up the valley.
No way.
We look at each other – insert swear word here – and launch into full scramble mode. Breakfast is abandoned, coffee tipped, hut cleaned at race pace.
The pilot lands, laughing. “Express pickup,” he jokes, as if we’d ordered an Uber.
In minutes we’re airborne, looking down on the block we’ve come to know intimately on foot. The ridges, gullies and slips we sweated over now slide past beneath the skids, the whole landscape re-framed in one sweeping view.
Hours later, after a long drive back to Northland, that first shower is everything we hoped it would be.
And now, pen in hand, I get to relive it all – step by step – our ANZAC Hunt. A first, but definitely not the last.
— Helz
Postscript & Notes
- We later learn from far more experienced hunters that you never hunt the morning of pick-up day. Noted.
- On closer inspection, our Sika stag has a twisted nose – a condition called campylognathia, a maxillary jaw distortion. Our special stag, with his bent nose, now has pride of place on the wall.
- Next up: Mangaroa Block honeymoon escape.
- Still to come:
- Kaweka DOC hut mission
- Makorako 100km circuit write-up
- North Arm block – access by foot
- Footy Field block – the kids take over
Helz Adventures 
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