LIFE WELL LIVED — REMEMBERING DAVE DRANGSHOLT

HOME FROM THE HILL Brian Boyle

At 89 years of age, a great hunter, bushman and mate, Dave Drangsholt has taken his final walk in the long gully. Though his body had slowed in the twilight of his life, his mind remained as sharp and curious as ever — filled with stories, memories, and a deep love for the wild country that shaped him. Dave was, to his core, a man who pursued his passion and lived his dreams. And that passion was always the same: deer, deer hunting, and the wild places where we hunt them.

Born in 1937 in Melbourne, Dave grew up in the forests of Victoria’s Central Highlands, near Buxton, a rugged, beautiful part of the world that nurtured his lifelong love of nature. The son of a Norwegian forester, he grew up surrounded by timber camps and mountain streams, learning early to fish, trap and hunt with his brother Bernhard. He was just seven when he went on his first hunt with his father, and by twelve he had his own rifle — a .22 — and was already earning a few shillings selling rabbit and fox skins.

School never much suited Dave; the bush was his classroom, and the lessons it offered lasted a lifetime. By his mid-teens, he was working hard by day on dairy farms around Labertouche, and chasing sambar with hounds on weekends, long before they were as plentiful as they are today. He became part of that pioneering generation of hunters exploring new ground — the Upper Yarra, Bunyip, Aberfeldy — places that today echo with the legacy of men like Dave.

In 1961, he followed the call of adventure across the Tasman to New Zealand, beginning what would become one of the great hunting careers of his era. Over the next two decades, Dave worked as a professional deer culler, venison shooter and possum trapper in the mountains of the South Island. His book, A Deer Culler’s Tale, stands as a historical record of that golden era, a time when men lived hard, hunted hard, and carved out a living in the backcountry.

By his own estimation, Dave shot some 10,000 deer, chamois, and tahr on foot during his culling days and thousands more during the commercial meat hunting boom that followed. Yet for all those numbers, Dave never measured success in antlers or trophies. As he once said:“It was never about the heads. It was about pitting yourself against the elements and the country. That’s what kept me fit, kept me going.” He was a crack shot and it used to make me laugh; he was given a heap of reloaded 270s at one stage and used to decide if they were good for a close shot or a long shot by shaking them close to his ear and deciding how much powder they had!

That simple philosophy defined him. The mountains, the rivers, the tussock slopes, the cold dawns — that was where Dave felt most alive. And even when time began to slow his body, his heart remained in the hills.

Through the 1970s and beyond, Dave’s life continued to be a tapestry of adventure: hunting, trapping, working in forestry and later with Parks Victoria as a ranger where I met him. We worked out that we had worked in the same park in NZ – Lake Sumner Forest Park – but two decades apart. He moved easily between Australia and New Zealand, always finding his way back to the bush. Whether it was fox control in Victoria or goat work in Marlborough, he brought with him the same grit, humour and no bullshit approach that earned him the respect of those who knew him.

In later years, as the rifle gave way to the camera, Dave remained deeply connected to the hunting world — a mentor, a storyteller, and a living link to an extraordinary chapter in the history of deer and deer hunting across both countries. He often reflected that“maybe the days of the old hunter-gatherer are done,” but he took comfort in knowing there were still men and women out there doing it the old way, “ fly camping, roughing it, and living it.”

Dave Drangsholt lived a life few can imagine and even fewer could match. He followed his dreams into the mountains and back again, and in doing so, left behind not just memories but a legacy of honesty, endurance and a deep respect for wild places and the creatures that inhabit them.

As one of the lucky ones who shared a campfire and a beer with him, he had a conviction and passion that few have and most only dream of. He was a good man to share a camp with. On one trip to the Moroka Junction in the late 90s, I was looking for stags and came back to camp and said I had seen a hind near camp, but had let her go. He said,“What the hell did you do that for, I want some meat”. So next day I shot two on some flats about half an hour from camp and lugged the legs and backstraps back for him over two trips. When he got back to camp and saw the six legs hanging in the tree – he said“What the hell did you shoot two for?”. Some men are hard to please, but he still enjoyed the meat.

So here’s to you, Dave: a true bushman, a hunter and a deer man in the finest sense of the word, and a man who lived his life on his own terms. The hills will remember your boots, the rivers your reflection, and those who knew you will remember your quiet strength, forever.

Rest easy, mate. The mountains have called you home: home is the hunter.