Waiting in the international baggage claim bowels of LAX, our escort from Customs & Border Protection was getting a bit impatient. Most of our bags had popped out with little fanfare and my gun case had followed shortly after. Most notable was a massive skull and horns with 31 points and heavy palmation, completely shrouded in foam sheets, taped tightly, and then concealed in a large canvas bag.
Still unaccounted for was the Pelican case containing my hunting gear and a cooler filled to the brim with meat from that same red stag I had taken in the mountains above Glen Dene Station on New Zealand’s South Island.
“Meat? You mean to tell me you brought meat back with you?” the federal official asked incredulously.
“Yep, 46 pounds of it, all packaged and frozen,” I confirmed.
“You aren’t going to like this, but that will be a $10,000 fine. The ag guys are going to have a field day – I can’t believe you thought that was okay to do…” he shook his head.
“I’ve got all the documentation needed, I sure hope I’ve done everything right,” I conceded.
From across the cavernous room, I saw a side door open as more bags were ushered out, including my much-loved Pelican Air and the little cooler which now wore a massive clear trash bag, taped and zip-tied.
Perching everything precariously on our overladen trolley, we followed our retinue to the screening room for my belongings to be searched. Guns were pored over methodically as I produced 4457s documenting my temporary export of the Benelli Lupo and its Leupold VX-5HD, as well as the Benelli SBE3 that between the two had allowed me to take stag, ducks, pheasants, and pūkeko on our whirlwind trip.
“No ammo, you used it all?”
I had to chuckle.
“And then some…”
For a second I was transported back to the side of the mountain, the lugs of my Crispis clawing for traction on the muddy side hill as I double-timed it, crouched over with my rifle held horizontally in front of me. The vibrant green valley began to open up in front of us when my guide Bre hit the deck. Crawling up beside her, I poked my head over the ridge to steal a look – three massive stag were feeding their way uphill out in front of us.
Shrugging out of her pack, she slid it up in front of me and told me to get on the rifle while she looked them over.
All three were intent on gorging themselves, the roar having just ended and leaving any stag worth his salt worked down to flesh and bone from chasing ladies in the near-vertical terrain of New Zealand’s South Island. With winter on the way, adding a little fat was all they could think about.
About that time I realized one of them was looking right at me – the lush grass didn’t consume 100% of their attention. All three started moving as one, and Bre whispered without dropping her binos.
“The old one you’re after is second in line.”
A welcome bit of information, since between the fog of the mountain and the fog of adrenaline, I was more intent on finding a clear shot than the number of points and palmation in the rack above. Besides, my goal was age, not size, and Bre had infinitely more experience than I. Willing them to pause, I watched through my scope as the third brute caught up to the second and matched his pace, positioned directly behind him as they kept ascending the slope.
Within seconds they were gone – around and up the hill. Back on our feet and going as quickly as the slippery sloped surface would allow, we caught sight of them one more time before they ascended into the dense cloud above.
Scrambling up onto the broken remains of a shelf road we tried to make some distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the big bulls once more before they disappeared into the heights completely. Stopping just short of a babbling brook running down a crease in the mountain, suddenly there were two shapes in the fog above us.
Even with my blood pumping I could tell they weren’t the same stag – younger with less mass and length.
“Get ready, our three might be following behind them…” Bre whispered, sliding off a ridge and again setting her pack down for me to use as a rest.
Before I could make it over to her three massive bodies loomed in the fog above, just a football field away.
Dropping to my knee, I heard a hoarse whisper, “The second one!”
The reticle settling behind his shoulder, I stroked the Lupo’s trigger and it barked. An echoing ‘thwack’ was a joy to my ears as the bullet went through both lungs, and I racked in a second round. Seeing him hunched in my scope I sent another 178 gr. ELD-X, my haste allowing the shot to break as my trembling crosshairs were just over his back. Into the chamber went a third round – my years hunting elk in Idaho ingraining the desire to put as much lead as possible into animals infinitely more adept at traversing the mountains than an awkward human like me.
Settling my nerves, the third shot struck home just like the first, and the stag stiffened even more before tipping over, sliding and tumbling down the moisture-sodden hillside before crashing into the very creek we stood next.
I was shaken from my dream by the officer standing in front of me, staring holes in my cooler.
“Alright Mr. Hein, now we find out about your meat – please follow me.”
Pushing my trolley the short distance to the government gurus of fauna and flora, the scene laid out in front of me didn’t bolster my confidence. Sheet pan upon sheet pan of fresh vegetables and produce were arrayed along the central island of their station, obvious confiscations.
An agent stepped up to greet me as the CBP officer helped me hoist my skull onto the stainless inspection table, joined by the cooler.
“What do we have here – it looks massive!” the elder gentleman remarked.
“Not the biggest one we saw, but definitely the oldest and with the most palmation!” I beamed.
Producing a side-cutter, he snipped the heavy-duty zip ties that held the bag closed as I grimaced, wondering how I’d get it all bundled back up for our domestic flights. Peeling back the cloth, duplicate forms matching the ones in my hands spilled out, along with twice as many zip ties as were needed to close it back up – the Glen Dene crew back in New Zealand really knew what they were doing.
With the massive rack laid bare, he whistled softly, then called two names over his shoulder as more officials snuck a peek at the ivory-tipped antlers. With massive concave dishes where his crowns would have been in prior years, I didn’t dare tell them that the stag was past its prime – just touching on SCI Silver status when he met his end. He peeled back the bubble wrap and foam around the skull to reveal gleaming white bone.
“Processed? How was it cleaned?”
“Boiled and bleached, then treated with formaldehyde – here’s the certification letter,” I stated, handing him my copy of the document.
“Wonderful. And how was the hunt? Exciting?” our eyes met and I could see a gleam in his, a bare smile breaking his all-business facade.
“It was perfect, couldn’t have been better. Intercepted him on the side of a mountain in the clouds.”
He nodded, the smile dissipating into a slight frown.
“I haven’t hunted in a very long time. When I was a young man in the army in Egypt, I would hunt wild goats for food with another soldier. Big horns,” he said, sweeping both arms up over his head and backward. “I still think of the meat. We would leave it frozen for as long as possible – a year even. It got much better with time.”
“Ibex?” I guessed.
“Yes, ibex. Very good eating, I think of that often,” he said as his eyes focused far beyond the trophy in front of him.
Taking the opportunity, I shifted over to my cooler.
“So here is the meat we brought back from this stag, just under 50 pounds of it. All butchered, packaged in plastic, and frozen hard.”
“Superb, for personal use?” he asked, giving it a once-over and noting my affirmation before turning back to the skull to help repack it.
The CBP officer over my shoulder was puzzled and couldn’t contain himself, “That’s ok? Him bringing wild meat in?”
“Of course. It’s New Zealand, not Africa,” the official replied flatly, zipping the last tie tight and helping me hoist the trophy back over to my trolley.
“Their biosecurity is pretty strict – the list of things you don’t have to declare could probably be counted on your fingers. They want to know about everything from boots and hiking gear to medication and kid’s art supplies – it goes on and on and they take it all very seriously,” I added, remembering our entry into the island nation two weeks prior.
“Is it really worth all this trouble to bring back forty pounds of meat?” he shook his head.
“If you only knew – better than eland, better than elk. Worth the trouble to bring as much as possible back.”
An hour of stress and worry drained from my body as we found ourselves ushered out a door and back into the hustle and bustle of LAX. Thinking our worries were over, my wife and I instead found that our connecting flight had been re-booked and our 36-hour trip would ultimately stretch to 58 hours without our heads ever hitting a pillow.
Arriving home, I knew in my heart that the stag’s meat was gone. I hesitantly cracked open the cooler on the floor of our kitchen, dreading what I would find. Even after all the time and transfers the meat was still mostly frozen, the cuts at the very top and very bottom partially thawed but still cold.
Turning to my wife, I grinned ear to ear.
“Looks like we’ll have stag pies for dinner tomorrow – let’s have a party to celebrate!”
This article was originally published on Benelli USA by Zachary Hein.