By Jay Pinsky
The author with his first Himalayan tahr.
Outside of duck hunters and umbrella salesmen, few folks I know enjoy working in the rain. But last week, I flew to New Zealand to hunt at Glen Dene Station, owned by Richard and Sarah Burdon, and I loved every minute of it.
Most of my hunting didn't happen in the rain. But the bull tahr hunt? That one did. And it was a doozy.
Picture this: you claw your way up above the clouds, only to get sandwiched between another layer of them, clouds that somehow manage to throw rain at you from every direction. The southern hemisphere hurls its cold breath at you, a breath I swear carried the faint scent of penguin poop drifting up from Antarctica. It hits you so hard that you hold onto whatever air you keep after climbing, only because exhaling feels like surrender.
I was soaked. My Blaser R8? Soaked. The optic? Drenched. My guide, Oscar Goodman, a tall, lanky Kiwi, looked like he swam there. And the bull tahr? He was soaked too, 225 yards away, bedded down in the rain, unfazed, and I'd bet good money he liked it.
If you're unfamiliar with it, the Himalayan tahr (Hemitragus jemlahicus) is a goat-like ungulate originally introduced to New Zealand from the Himalayas in 1904. Over the years, they've adapted remarkably well to the harsh alpine environment of the Southern Alps. Mature bulls can weigh over 300 pounds and are known for their striking manes, which ripple in the wind like something out of a medieval tapestry. Agile, tough, and stubbornly resilient, they're ideally suited for the steep, unforgiving country they now call home in New Zealand.
I wiped my scope, then again, and again. The last swipe was pointless. The blur wasn't on the lens; it was in my own eyes, flooded from cold and wind. I slammed my eyelids shut and squeezed out enough water to drown in.
The Blaser R8, topped with Blaser's B1 series optic, was chambered in 308 Winchester and fed Hornady's 178-grain ELD-X ammo, which worked perfectly earlier in the week on a red deer stag at 275 yards.
When I opened them, I could finally see. The tahr was clear. The illuminated dot in my Blaser optic burned like a lighthouse through the fog, the rain, and my constant shivering, guiding my eye to where I'd send the shot.
Oscar leaned in, voice low and steady.
"When he stands up, shoot him."
I made y'all wait a week for the next part, and there's a reason. That's how long it felt for that bull tahr to stand up, move from behind the brush, and present an ethical shot.
While Oscar and I waited, I kept wiping the optic and my eyes as the rain fell steadily. I also thought about the day before, when I'd traveled with Oscar and my senior guide, Bree Lewis, to Glen Dene's tahr camp to shoot at a fine bull tahr.
Bree Lewis and Oscar Goodman glass the mountainside at Glen Dene's Tahr Camp.
I say at because folks, I missed one at 450 yards the day before. No rain. No wind. The rifle was dialed. Ammo was money. No excuses. I made a mistake, or maybe a few, which certainly gave that tahr a case of PTSD, but nothing more. Missing happens. I've missed plenty in my life, but this one stung. The Glen Dene team had worked hard to get me on that bull. And I'd worked hard, too. While no one will ever mistake me for a mountain goat, I climbed where I needed to, slowly, and sometimes comically, but I showed up. I did the work. And missed.
I felt terrible, like I had let myself, my guides, and The Hunting Wire down. I imagined walking into the next SHOT Show with a glowing "I Missed" hologram on my forehead.
The truth? Missing sucks. But it doesn't make me special. It makes me human, and it's a rite of passage that the most ethical and successful hunters I know have all experienced.
But today? Today was a new day. And this was a new bull tahr.
So why wasn't Bree next to me for the redemption shot? Because she'd injured herself a few days earlier. In another story, I'll tell you more about Bree Lewis, one of the best damn guides I've ever hunted with. On this hunt, though, she was impatiently waiting at the bottom of the mountain for Oscar and me to bring down a bull tahr.
Bree continued to guide us from the bottom of the mountain in her truck. Make no mistake, Oscar and I had those crosshairs on a mature bull tahr because of Bree's brilliance. She knew I was a slow climber. She understood the bull tahr's early rut patterns, the terrain, and how they move. So, she made a plan, based not just on the animals, but on me. Despite her fitness level being so good that she could run a lucrative side hustle teaching newborn goat how to scale mountains, her brilliant mind ultimately separates her from most other guides I'd ever had. Bree plays chess, not checkers. She's always ten steps ahead. So, we climbed hours earlier than the tahr were expected to move. Hours earlier than most would have bothered. And lay in waiting longer than some hunters would in good weather, and most hunters in this weather. But it paid off. When the tahr did move, we were ready. Ambush style. That was all, Bree. Oscar and I just followed instructions.
Oscar Goodman glasses the mountainside for bull tahr.
Lying prone sounds easier than it is, especially on uneven rocks, neck craned up, motionless, and soaked. But we waited. So did the bull tahr.
During that wait, the only thing I did more than get wet was overthink my miss from the day before. Both the rain and the memory soaked me. Oscar knew I was in my own head. So, we went back to the basics. I welcomed it. I can shoot at 450 yards and beyond; a little mountainside remedial was good medicine. I dry-fired a few times before the crosshairs landed on the bull. It helps. Dry firing doesn't just rehearse a shot; it erases the past.
The rain kept falling. The wind never let up. My Sitka gear worked, but I wasn't moving, and eventually got cold. Water pooled on my back, and a decent fly fisherman could've pulled a trout out of the pond forming there by the end of our hunt.
The tahr didn't seem to mind.
Until he did.
Finally, it stood! But the brush blocked a clean shot. Tahr have a lot of fur, which can trick you into thinking you're aiming at vitals when you're not. We waited. He turned, showed me his southern hemisphere, and disappeared behind the brush again.
The wind and rain weren't nearly as shy.
Then, the bull moved again. Right to left. His head emerged. Then his chest. And then, yep, his rear. But this time, he quartered to my left just enough to give me the shot.
Oscar whispered anatomy cues. I tightened up on the rifle. The red dot glowed. My finger squeezed. The suppressed Blaser R8 barked, sending a single 178-grain Hornady ELD-X bullet straight to the bull's vitals.
The author used a Blaser R8 chambered in 308 Winchester, quieted by a Sauer Suppressor, and topped with a Blaser B1 Series optic. We used Hornady factory-loaded 178-grain ELD-X bullets.
"That's one dead tahr," Oscar announced.
The author's bull tahr gets prepped for Euro-mounting at Glen Dene's Expediting Department.
And, just like that, a ton of guilt and disappointment rolled off that mountain with the rain. I smiled. Oscar smiled. We stood up, high-fived each other, and I hugged him.
Oscar dressed the bull, an 8+ year-old warrior, and carried the meat and hide. I carried the head. When we got back down, Bree greeted us with a grin.
"You guys were up there a while," she said. "I should've brought a book."
Editor’s Note - Glen Dene is one of New Zealand's premier free-range hunting destinations, located on the shores of Lake Hawea in the South Island. Family-owned and operated, the station offers guided hunts for red stag, fallow deer, chamois, tahr, and more across stunning high-country terrain. With access to private land and adjacent public hunting blocks, Glen Dene caters to hunters of all skill levels, from first timers to serious mountain veterans. The operation is rooted in conservation, fair chase ethics, and a deep commitment to preserving New Zealand's alpine hunting heritage.