The Highs and The Lows of Rusa in the Brush

By the time we reached the South Island of New Zealand, I already had five days of hunting behind me in the North Island. The South Island felt different immediately. Lush vegetation, thicker cover, and a quiet understanding that whatever happened here would be earned the hard way.

We were fortunate to be staying with an incredible outfitter. They spoke honestly about the challenge ahead. Rusa deer, they told us, were tough, wary, and perfectly suited to terrain that seemed determined to hide them.

The terrain was some of the densest I’d ever hunted. Thick, tangled brush swallowed visibility and made every step deliberate. Movement was slow and careful, sound carried easily and mistakes were punished quickly. This was country built for animals that survive by disappearing.

After a few hours the first morning we finally spotted a mature rusa stag. He was feeding in the clear on a hillside in the warmth of the sun. He was a perfect specimen of a rusa, heavy-bodied and alert. The wind was light—just enough to matter. I settled in behind my rifle. My husband read me the range, and I dialed.

Just before I took the shot, the stag shifted. I’m convinced the wind carried our scent to him. I broke the shot anyway and knew instantly it wasn’t perfect—just a little far back. The stag bolted hard and vanished into the thickest brush on the hillside.

At first, we celebrated. Congratulations were exchanged, hands shaken. We packed up our gear and headed toward where we’d last seen him, expecting to find good sign.

But as we approached, the excitement faded.

There wasn’t much blood. We searched for broken branches, disturbed ground—anything to show us where he’d entered the brush. We spread out and searched harder. Slower. Longer.

My heart began to sink.

The brush swallowed everything. No trail. No rusa.

The outfitter made the call to bring in the helicopter, hoping to separate the dense cover from above and spot the deer. Everyone searched—on foot and from the air—for hours. Still nothing. One of the guides, Sean, told me he had never lost a rusa deer, and he wasn’t about to start now. I wanted to believe him more than anything.

That night, we returned to camp and sat down to an incredible dinner, but I barely tasted it. The thought that I might have wounded and lost an animal was crushing. Hunting carries responsibility, and that weight sat heavy on my chest. The idea that the rusa might be suffering because of my shot was heartbreaking, and it followed me into the night.

The next morning, we woke to hunt sika deer.

I wasn’t in good spirits. The excitement I normally felt before a hunt just wasn’t there. I told my husband I didn’t want to hunt—that he could take the opportunity instead. He didn’t hesitate.

“Nope,” he said. “You’re going to redeem yourself, and you’re taking the sika.”

We headed out, and slowly my focus returned. I took my time, did everything right, and when the moment came, I made it count. I took a sika deer that morning. I was proud and relieved—but even in that moment, part of my heart was still back in the brush with the rusa.

As we headed back to camp, the guide suddenly stopped the vehicle. The outfitter wanted to speak with my husband. I stayed in the truck, watching the two of them talk off to the side. Minutes passed, and irritation crept in. If there was an issue—especially one involving my rusa—I felt like I should be part of the conversation.

When my husband returned, he said everything was fine. The outfitter had just wanted to talk about the next hunt. I tried to let it go.

Back at camp, all I wanted to do was to relax. We took a shot of Fireball, laughed a little, and finally let the tension ease. I sat down, pulled off my boots, and felt like I could breathe again.

Then my husband said, “The outfitter’s doing some tricks with the helicopter. Come out and look.”

I didn’t really care about helicopter tricks. But I walked outside anyway, still in my socks, and stood on the deck. I heard the chopper before I saw it, the familiar thump growing louder as it came into view. At first, I thought, Okay, he’s flying—nothing special.

Then the helicopter rounded the top of the house.

Hanging beneath it was a rusa deer.

For a moment, my brain couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Then it hit me all at once.

“They found my rusa?!” I said, turning to my husband.

The emotion came crashing down like a wave. I cried. My husband cried. Even the guide cried. All the guilt, doubt, and heartbreak I’d been carrying released in that single moment. The relief was overwhelming—unlike anything I’d ever felt. The rusa stag was only 50 yards from where I shot it, but the thick brush concealed it.

That hunt took me from the highest of highs, to the lowest of lows, and then to something even higher than where it all began. It reminded me that hunting isn’t just about the shot or the success—it’s about responsibility, perseverance, and the people who refuse to quit on doing the right thing.

I will never forget that rusa deer.

And I will never forget the emotional roller coaster that led me back to him. – Bonnie Jo Justice