(For part 1, see Travels with my rifle.)
Same Suffolk woodland, same tree, but six months have elapsed since my first visit, and there’s no-one in the highseat beside me this time. I’m in position early – there’s almost half-an-hour to go before first light – but find myself able to view the world in greyscale, thanks to a bright moon and a clear sky. There’s more than a touch of frost in the air, so I pull on a pair of gloves and huddle down into my coat for warmth as I prepare for a long wait. Somewhere in the distance I hear a dog whining – an expression of combined boredom and impatience – and recognise the sound as coming from my own, shut in the back of the pickup I’d left parked at the woodland edge. Crossing my fingers, I mentally plead with him to keep quiet, which he does. Nothing else disturbs the silence…
I’d arrived in East Anglia fairly late the previous afternoon, having hauled my big livestock trailer the 320 miles over from North Wales. I needed a beer and I needed some sleep, but my host had other ideas as he immediately bundled me into his vehicle and whisked me off for a tour of the woods before it got dark. Initially I completely failed to appreciate the significance of his actions – I’d been there before, I knew the score, why not let me rest and unwind after my journey? Nothing much could have changed in six months, surely? However, it transpired that my previous mentor wasn’t available this time, so I’d be “going solo”, and, what’s more, the landscape of the woodland had changed a lot during the past few months, with a considerable area of felling having been carried out due to ash dieback, new tracks created for machinery access, and large piles of timber awaiting extraction. Suddenly I was all attention… Somehow I was going to have to navigate my own way through this unfamiliar territory and locate my allotted highseat in the pre-dawn darkness…
I wanted to be in position about half-an-hour before the earliest legal shooting time, so with sunrise due at 6.20am I set my alarm for 4.00. That allowed me half-an-hour to get up, dressed, check equipment and gulp down a mug of tea, and another 20 minutes to drive to the wood, park up and walk in. Despite it having been a glorious spring day I noticed the first inklings of a frost before I turned in, and was grateful that I’d had the foresight to pack my longjohns!
Several times I awoke, finding myself mentally checking through all my gear, and more than once during the night I got out of bed just to double check that I hadn’t forgotten some vital piece of kit. Needless to say I was already alert when the alarm went off, and it wasn’t long before I crept out of the house, trying not to set the dogs barking. So far I’d managed to adhere to my schedule, but precious minutes were wasted scraping a thick layer of ice off the vehicle windscreen, with the result that it was almost five o’clock by the time I finally slipped into the silent wood and carefully closed the gate behind me.
I paused for a while, allowing my eyes and ears to become attuned to the surroundings, then set off along the track. Forestry machinery had churned this into a morass during the preceding winter, and the current spell of unseasonably dry weather had baked the heavy clay soil as solid as concrete. In the darkness I tripped and stumbled over the hard rutted earth, cursing the sound of my own boots. At last I turned off the main track into a grassed ride, and was able to proceed more stealthily. Threading my way through the maze of paths and clearings, I began to think I’d missed the highseat: Was I supposed to have turned off at the second telegraph pole, or should it have been the third? I hesitated, unsure whether to retrace my steps or go forward, and in doing so found myself at the foot of the very ladder I was searching for. I wasted no time, and was soon seated some 10 feet or so above the ground, slipping slightly on the frosty woodwork of my eyrie.
Having the whole highseat to myself I took a moment to familiarise myself with the various shooting positions I could make use of, and to determine where best I should sit to give me the optimum arc of fire. It was at this point I discovered that a recent wrist injury prevented me from gripping my rifle in quite the usual fashion, but a few minutes of experimentation soon furnished me with an alternative steady and comfortable hold. Then, with the rifle loaded, I settled down to wait…
By the light of the moon the forest took on a fairyland aspect, and my eyes played tricks as the shadows appeared to dance before me, every one potentially a deer, mocking my lack of nocturnal senses. I blinked several times to steady my vision, but one shadow, somewhat darker than the rest, did indeed continue to move. Straining my binoculars to the utmost limit of their low light capability I could just make out the rounded back of a small deer – presumably a muntjac – as the animal browsed in and around a clump of low vegetation away to my left. It was far too early to even contemplate a shot, but I watched it for a while is it randomly shifted into and out of my line of sight, until eventually it faded away altogether, into the deeper darkness of the woods at my rear…
Almost imperceptibly, daylight began to supersede the cold moon, and a few wisps of vapour swirled in the clearings. I consulted my watch. 5.20am, and, right on cue, a muntjac doe appeared, ghostlike, from the woodland edge some 70 metres away, and made her way slowly across the ride, browsing as she went. Sliding my rifle into position, I gently eased off the safety catch and prepared for the shot. A moment of panic ensued when I realised I’d caught the thumb of my right glove under the catch, effectively immobilising my hand. No amount of tugging seemed able to break it free, so, carefully resting the rifle on the rail of the seat I re-operated the catch with my other hand, thus freeing the trapped fold of material. The little deer, unconcerned, continued her sedate progress, but with each step taken in the direction of sanctuary my chance of a shot was growing ever less. Settled into position once again, I picked her up in my ‘scope, poised my finger over the trigger, and barked. She appeared not to hear me, so I repeated the sound, louder and more urgently. Her head came up, ears alert, staring in my direction. The wreaths of early morning mist enhanced her spirit-like appearance as she stood motionless, poised ready for flight. In that instant I killed her.
Quickly reloading, I focussed on the spot where she’d been standing. I’d heard stories about muntjac being tough little beggars, and I fully expected to have to administer a coup de grâce. Nothing. I panned across to the edge of the wood, thinking that the wounded animal may have made it that far, but still nothing, not a flicker of movement anywhere. In keeping with the spirit that she had seemed, she’d apparently vanished into thin air. Lowering my rifle I raised my binoculars, and again studied the shot site. That pale smudge – could it be the underside of her tail? And that small twig nearby – surely a leg? A passing hare stopped, and also studied the spot I was scrutinising, before loping on his way. This was all beginning to feel a bit surreal…
With daylight strengthening by the minute I was soon able to ascertain that my deer had indeed dropped dead on the spot, but was now almost completely obscured by a wheel rut. Relieved, I turned my attention to the possibility that her mate may be following her.
Sure enough, within half-an-hour, a much larger buck came into view, about 30 metres further down the ride from where I’d first seen the doe. Like her, he was heading steadily across the clear ground, browsing as he went. I was ready for him, stopping him in his tracks using the same tactic. However, the thick wire stay of a nearby electricity pole unfortunately passed directly in front of my point of aim, rendering the shot unsafe. I waited for him to move forward, which he did, but no amount of barking on my part could persuade him to pause a second time. Alarmed, but not excessively so, he turned and headed purposely away from me up the ride, before disappearing into an area of clearfell.
It would’ve been nice to have nailed a brace, but I wasn’t unduly disappointed at having had to pass up the shot: It’s a privilege to be able to help ourselves from nature’s store cupboard from time to time, but it doesn’t do to be greedy under these circumstances. Content with my lot, I unloaded and climbed down from the seat, picked up my spent case from the long grass under the bottom rung of the ladder, and headed out to retrieve my diminutive deer – a far cry from the big fallow buck I’d shot from the same vantage point some six months previously.
Laying out my toolkit on the trunk of a fallen tree, I gralloched her at the edge of the ride. On examination I found that my projectile had been perfectly placed, having split the top of her heart into two pieces. Then, with my rifle over my shoulder, the deer in one hand and her liver in the other, I walked out. I could’ve made things easier by bringing the pickup in, but it seemed more fitting, more respectful, somehow, to bear the load myself…
Back at the farmhouse in time to join my friends for breakfast. Around the kitchen table I regaled them with the tale of my exploits, whereupon they all toasted my success in mugs of tea before heading off about their daily business, leaving me to search out a cool enough place to hang the little carcass.
But that’s not the end of this episode, for I returned to the wood later that day, just after dusk, in the company of the landowner and my 14-year-old daughter (“Mouse” on this site). Within the boundary of the woodland there are a number of small arable fields, sown with crops for game cover and stockfeed. During our brief reconnaissance the previous evening we’d spotted numerous rabbits in these areas, and now we had them in our sights. This was Mouse’s outing – her first experience of shooting at night, from a vehicle. With our host in the driving seat of his mule she sat alongside him with her .22lr, resting the bipod on the bonnet, while I rode up aloft to operate the lamp. It took a couple of shots for her to get her eye in, but thereafter the pile of corpses in the back of the buggy steadily mounted up, all of them clean headshots (including a memorable two rabbits with one bullet) out to a maximum range of just under 100 metres. We completed two full circuits of the ground before calling it a night and heading back to the yard. By the time we’d finished skinning and paunching it was close on midnight, which, when you consider my 4.00am start, made it a hell of a long day. A long day, yes, but well worthwhile, and one that we’ll both still be talking about in years to come.
Same Suffolk woodland, same tree, but six months have elapsed since my first visit, and there’s no-one in the highseat beside me this time. I’m in position early – there’s almost half-an-hour to go before first light – but find myself able to view the world in greyscale, thanks to a bright moon and a clear sky. There’s more than a touch of frost in the air, so I pull on a pair of gloves and huddle down into my coat for warmth as I prepare for a long wait. Somewhere in the distance I hear a dog whining – an expression of combined boredom and impatience – and recognise the sound as coming from my own, shut in the back of the pickup I’d left parked at the woodland edge. Crossing my fingers, I mentally plead with him to keep quiet, which he does. Nothing else disturbs the silence…
I’d arrived in East Anglia fairly late the previous afternoon, having hauled my big livestock trailer the 320 miles over from North Wales. I needed a beer and I needed some sleep, but my host had other ideas as he immediately bundled me into his vehicle and whisked me off for a tour of the woods before it got dark. Initially I completely failed to appreciate the significance of his actions – I’d been there before, I knew the score, why not let me rest and unwind after my journey? Nothing much could have changed in six months, surely? However, it transpired that my previous mentor wasn’t available this time, so I’d be “going solo”, and, what’s more, the landscape of the woodland had changed a lot during the past few months, with a considerable area of felling having been carried out due to ash dieback, new tracks created for machinery access, and large piles of timber awaiting extraction. Suddenly I was all attention… Somehow I was going to have to navigate my own way through this unfamiliar territory and locate my allotted highseat in the pre-dawn darkness…
I wanted to be in position about half-an-hour before the earliest legal shooting time, so with sunrise due at 6.20am I set my alarm for 4.00. That allowed me half-an-hour to get up, dressed, check equipment and gulp down a mug of tea, and another 20 minutes to drive to the wood, park up and walk in. Despite it having been a glorious spring day I noticed the first inklings of a frost before I turned in, and was grateful that I’d had the foresight to pack my longjohns!
Several times I awoke, finding myself mentally checking through all my gear, and more than once during the night I got out of bed just to double check that I hadn’t forgotten some vital piece of kit. Needless to say I was already alert when the alarm went off, and it wasn’t long before I crept out of the house, trying not to set the dogs barking. So far I’d managed to adhere to my schedule, but precious minutes were wasted scraping a thick layer of ice off the vehicle windscreen, with the result that it was almost five o’clock by the time I finally slipped into the silent wood and carefully closed the gate behind me.
I paused for a while, allowing my eyes and ears to become attuned to the surroundings, then set off along the track. Forestry machinery had churned this into a morass during the preceding winter, and the current spell of unseasonably dry weather had baked the heavy clay soil as solid as concrete. In the darkness I tripped and stumbled over the hard rutted earth, cursing the sound of my own boots. At last I turned off the main track into a grassed ride, and was able to proceed more stealthily. Threading my way through the maze of paths and clearings, I began to think I’d missed the highseat: Was I supposed to have turned off at the second telegraph pole, or should it have been the third? I hesitated, unsure whether to retrace my steps or go forward, and in doing so found myself at the foot of the very ladder I was searching for. I wasted no time, and was soon seated some 10 feet or so above the ground, slipping slightly on the frosty woodwork of my eyrie.
Having the whole highseat to myself I took a moment to familiarise myself with the various shooting positions I could make use of, and to determine where best I should sit to give me the optimum arc of fire. It was at this point I discovered that a recent wrist injury prevented me from gripping my rifle in quite the usual fashion, but a few minutes of experimentation soon furnished me with an alternative steady and comfortable hold. Then, with the rifle loaded, I settled down to wait…
By the light of the moon the forest took on a fairyland aspect, and my eyes played tricks as the shadows appeared to dance before me, every one potentially a deer, mocking my lack of nocturnal senses. I blinked several times to steady my vision, but one shadow, somewhat darker than the rest, did indeed continue to move. Straining my binoculars to the utmost limit of their low light capability I could just make out the rounded back of a small deer – presumably a muntjac – as the animal browsed in and around a clump of low vegetation away to my left. It was far too early to even contemplate a shot, but I watched it for a while is it randomly shifted into and out of my line of sight, until eventually it faded away altogether, into the deeper darkness of the woods at my rear…
Almost imperceptibly, daylight began to supersede the cold moon, and a few wisps of vapour swirled in the clearings. I consulted my watch. 5.20am, and, right on cue, a muntjac doe appeared, ghostlike, from the woodland edge some 70 metres away, and made her way slowly across the ride, browsing as she went. Sliding my rifle into position, I gently eased off the safety catch and prepared for the shot. A moment of panic ensued when I realised I’d caught the thumb of my right glove under the catch, effectively immobilising my hand. No amount of tugging seemed able to break it free, so, carefully resting the rifle on the rail of the seat I re-operated the catch with my other hand, thus freeing the trapped fold of material. The little deer, unconcerned, continued her sedate progress, but with each step taken in the direction of sanctuary my chance of a shot was growing ever less. Settled into position once again, I picked her up in my ‘scope, poised my finger over the trigger, and barked. She appeared not to hear me, so I repeated the sound, louder and more urgently. Her head came up, ears alert, staring in my direction. The wreaths of early morning mist enhanced her spirit-like appearance as she stood motionless, poised ready for flight. In that instant I killed her.
Quickly reloading, I focussed on the spot where she’d been standing. I’d heard stories about muntjac being tough little beggars, and I fully expected to have to administer a coup de grâce. Nothing. I panned across to the edge of the wood, thinking that the wounded animal may have made it that far, but still nothing, not a flicker of movement anywhere. In keeping with the spirit that she had seemed, she’d apparently vanished into thin air. Lowering my rifle I raised my binoculars, and again studied the shot site. That pale smudge – could it be the underside of her tail? And that small twig nearby – surely a leg? A passing hare stopped, and also studied the spot I was scrutinising, before loping on his way. This was all beginning to feel a bit surreal…
With daylight strengthening by the minute I was soon able to ascertain that my deer had indeed dropped dead on the spot, but was now almost completely obscured by a wheel rut. Relieved, I turned my attention to the possibility that her mate may be following her.
Sure enough, within half-an-hour, a much larger buck came into view, about 30 metres further down the ride from where I’d first seen the doe. Like her, he was heading steadily across the clear ground, browsing as he went. I was ready for him, stopping him in his tracks using the same tactic. However, the thick wire stay of a nearby electricity pole unfortunately passed directly in front of my point of aim, rendering the shot unsafe. I waited for him to move forward, which he did, but no amount of barking on my part could persuade him to pause a second time. Alarmed, but not excessively so, he turned and headed purposely away from me up the ride, before disappearing into an area of clearfell.
It would’ve been nice to have nailed a brace, but I wasn’t unduly disappointed at having had to pass up the shot: It’s a privilege to be able to help ourselves from nature’s store cupboard from time to time, but it doesn’t do to be greedy under these circumstances. Content with my lot, I unloaded and climbed down from the seat, picked up my spent case from the long grass under the bottom rung of the ladder, and headed out to retrieve my diminutive deer – a far cry from the big fallow buck I’d shot from the same vantage point some six months previously.
Laying out my toolkit on the trunk of a fallen tree, I gralloched her at the edge of the ride. On examination I found that my projectile had been perfectly placed, having split the top of her heart into two pieces. Then, with my rifle over my shoulder, the deer in one hand and her liver in the other, I walked out. I could’ve made things easier by bringing the pickup in, but it seemed more fitting, more respectful, somehow, to bear the load myself…
Back at the farmhouse in time to join my friends for breakfast. Around the kitchen table I regaled them with the tale of my exploits, whereupon they all toasted my success in mugs of tea before heading off about their daily business, leaving me to search out a cool enough place to hang the little carcass.
But that’s not the end of this episode, for I returned to the wood later that day, just after dusk, in the company of the landowner and my 14-year-old daughter (“Mouse” on this site). Within the boundary of the woodland there are a number of small arable fields, sown with crops for game cover and stockfeed. During our brief reconnaissance the previous evening we’d spotted numerous rabbits in these areas, and now we had them in our sights. This was Mouse’s outing – her first experience of shooting at night, from a vehicle. With our host in the driving seat of his mule she sat alongside him with her .22lr, resting the bipod on the bonnet, while I rode up aloft to operate the lamp. It took a couple of shots for her to get her eye in, but thereafter the pile of corpses in the back of the buggy steadily mounted up, all of them clean headshots (including a memorable two rabbits with one bullet) out to a maximum range of just under 100 metres. We completed two full circuits of the ground before calling it a night and heading back to the yard. By the time we’d finished skinning and paunching it was close on midnight, which, when you consider my 4.00am start, made it a hell of a long day. A long day, yes, but well worthwhile, and one that we’ll both still be talking about in years to come.
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