For parts 1 & 2 see here:
Travels with my rifle.
and here:
Travels with my rifle, part 2: Going Solo
I’m up a tree again, but there’s a significant difference: This time it’s my tree. Well, not strictly my own, but it’s my name on the lease, my first proper stalking ground, so I do have a certain proprietorial feeling for it. The fallow season is drawing to a close and, while the past few months haven’t been entirely unproductive, the big boys have constantly eluded me. I’m not by nature a trophy hunter, but I do so much want to end the season with a reasonable buck!
Usually I stalk at dawn, but with useable daylight lengthening as we move into a belated spring I’ve decided to change my tactics: Having done a day’s work on the farm at home I’ve driven the sixty or so miles to my ground, arriving about an hour-and-half before sunset, planning to stalk at dusk, stay overnight, and then try again at first light.
As I turn off the road and follow the rough track down to my parking place I spot several groups of deer – all does, of course – feeding on the surrounding farmland. Although they’re on the neighbour’s ground I alter my plan slightly in order not to spook them, by parking in a different spot and following an alternative route as I stalk in to the highseat.
I inherited this seat from my predecessor. It’s in a good location, when the wind’s in the right direction, which usually it isn’t! Many times I’ve sat here cursing the gods of the weather, with a steady breeze blowing down the back of my neck. However, a bit of work with a saw and secateurs have rectified the situation, meaning I can now turn and shoot comfortably out behind if required, with a perfectly positioned crotch in the trunk providing me with a stable natural bipod.
With my rifle loaded, I settle down to wait. In addition to glassing the field and woodland margin that lies in front of me, I periodically crane my neck to scan the ground to the rear of the seat. Sure enough, it’s here that the deer first put in an appearance – a doe accompanied by two well-grown fawns, and a pricket. Not quite the big buck I was hoping for, but a worthwhile cull animal nonetheless.
Carefully, silently, I turn in the seat, well aware that the slightest metallic clink will give the game away, and poke the barrel of my rifle through the fork of the trunk. The deer are too far away to take a shot, but I’m hopeful that they’ll work their way down the field margin in my direction. However, they’re feeling skittish and won’t settle down to graze. After playfully prancing about in the corner of the field for a few minutes they leap back over the fence into the wood and are lost to sight.
As soon as I’m once again sitting comfortably I pour a cup of tea from my flask and check my watch. Sunset has been and gone, and realistically I’ve only got half-an-hour of shootable light left. Maybe the morning will bring better luck…
I take another look around, straining my eyes in the dusk. Movement… behind me… Through my binoculars I count seven does over by the fenceline. No, make that eight deer in total, for the buck I’ve been hoping for has just emerged from the shadows and settles down to graze, slightly apart from the others. Once again I turn and poise myself, one knee on the seat and one foot on the ladder, rifle at the ready.
The whole herd is grazing now, steadily moving from left to right across my field of vision, slowly but surely drawing further away, out of my safe shooting area and out of my sight. Suddenly, as one, they stop, some with heads up, alert, and others with their necks stretched out, curious. I realise that they’ve reached the line I took when I walked across the corner of the field on my way to the seat, and they’ve picked up my scent. For a moment, everything hangs in the balance – will they run, or won’t they? No. Satisfied that no threat remains, yet reluctant to cross the line, they turn and begin to graze back the way they came, towards the wood. Unwittingly, I had left a scent trail that’s worked in my favour.
Gradually the little herd spreads out across the corner of the field. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they’re moving in my direction. The buck retains his aloofness, and tosses his head warningly if any of the others dare invade his personal space. The does are grazing well ahead of him now, and it becomes a race against time – either I’ll run out of light, or the does will draw level with, and pass, my highseat, whereupon the game will be up. Each passing minute seems an hour as the buck draws closer… He’s within range now, but obscured by a cluster of small branches that somehow must’ve escaped the attention of my secateurs… I aim my rifle at the point where I know he must emerge, but it’s almost too dark, and I realise that this is going to be a “now or never” situation. Tantalisingly, inch by inch, still grazing, the buck begins to appear in my field of vision as I peer down my scope… just one more step will do it… first trigger pressure taken up… and then he’s there! Broadside on, about 130 yards away, with my crosshairs hovering over his heart, he pauses for a moment, raises his head, and I squeeze off the shot.
Momentarily I lose sight of him, but I’m rewarded by the sound of my bullet striking home. Glancing around I see him make a short run, then stand, swaying, desperately trying to maintain his proud posture as the bewildered does look on. Then down he goes, and his harem, now masterless, melts away into the dusk.
I reloaded my rifle, realising with a flush of shame that any experienced stalker would have done this immediately after taking the shot, then settled down to observe him through my binoculars. I could just make out his dark shape in the long grass, and twice I saw a faint movement, then he was still. It was all over. I continued to watch him until complete darkness descended, then, satisfied, relaxed and rolled myself a smoke.
As I climbed down from the seat I mentally patted myself on the back; It had had been a textbook outing, a classic shot, a typical reaction, and I’d got my buck. However, once on the ground I realised that locating the carcass in the dark wouldn’t be so easy. I thought I’d got my bearings pretty well, but still managed to walk right past him a couple of times, before almost tripping over him in the shin-high vegetation. I studied him for a while by the feeble light of my tiny pocket torch. His head was turned away from me, so I moved around for a better view. Dead.
And then he blinked. I swore, quietly, and began to fumble with my sticks, my rifle and my torch, with the deer, just a couple of paces away, watching my every move. My incompetence gave him the opportunity he sought, and in an instant he was up and away, out of the small circle of light and into the darkness, heading for the safety of the woods. Utterly deflated now, I could have wept, but I did at least have the presence of mind to plant my sticks firmly in the ground to mark the spot why he had lain, before despondently heading back to my vehicle in search of a more powerful torch.
Alone in the dark, in the middle of the field, I felt totally inadequate and completely out of my depth; The textbooks don’t really prepare you for the reality of what to do when things don’t go according to plan. In need of reassurance, I pulled out my ‘phone and called a stalker friend. I’m not in the habit of ringing people late at night, so he must have known something was wrong as soon my number popped up on his screen. “Come away” he advised. “If you go after him now he’ll keep on moving ahead of you, and you’ll lose him in the dark. Leave him, and he’ll stiffen up. He won’t go far. You’ll find him in the morning, guaranteed. I’ll meet you there at dawn and give you a hand”.
Wise words, which did a little to ease my anxiety, but I spent a sleepless night nonetheless, and arrived early for our rendezvous in the morning. I was somewhat relieved to find that the seven does were still in the area - for I felt sure that had the buck moved on then they’d have gone too – and I was still watching them when my friend turned up a few minutes later. It didn’t take us long to locate the spot where the buck had gone down – thanks to my sticks – but I was alarmed that there was so little blood to be seen. How could this be? He’d lain there for a good 20 minutes or more, yet had left so little evidence. Had I really messed up, big time?
The trampled grass showed clearly the route he’d taken, a dead straight line heading for the boundary of the field. Within 50 yards we found him, just inside the tree line, lying amongst the wild garlic where he’d clearly dropped in his tracks just a few seconds after that final burst of adrenaline caused him to flee my presence. A sense of relief flooded over me. Closer examination confirmed what I now suspected: No exit wound. The 100 grain bullet from my .243 simply hadn’t had enough clout to punch right through to give the rapid bleed-out required for a quick death. Had I remained in my highseat for just a few minutes more I doubt he’d have moved.
I gralloched the beast – a messy enough job at the best of times, but decidedly unpleasant when the animal has lain dead overnight – and together we dragged him over to my pickup and lifted him in. The day was still young, but somehow I didn’t feel like going stalking, so, after chatting for a while, my friend and I parted company and I headed for home.
Back at the farm I got the carcass onto the scales. At 120 lbs, and with his mismatched antlers (palmate on one side, branched on the other), he’d be a pretty mediocre animal for many people, but to me he’s a trophy – the first mature buck I’d taken off my own ground.
And the story doesn’t quite end there, for when I told my wife the sorry tale of my night’s adventure, and explained the reason why the deer had taken so long to die, she said, quite simply: “Better buy yourself a bigger rifle then!”
As a loving husband, how could I possibly refuse such a reasonable request…?
Travels with my rifle.
and here:
Travels with my rifle, part 2: Going Solo
I’m up a tree again, but there’s a significant difference: This time it’s my tree. Well, not strictly my own, but it’s my name on the lease, my first proper stalking ground, so I do have a certain proprietorial feeling for it. The fallow season is drawing to a close and, while the past few months haven’t been entirely unproductive, the big boys have constantly eluded me. I’m not by nature a trophy hunter, but I do so much want to end the season with a reasonable buck!
Usually I stalk at dawn, but with useable daylight lengthening as we move into a belated spring I’ve decided to change my tactics: Having done a day’s work on the farm at home I’ve driven the sixty or so miles to my ground, arriving about an hour-and-half before sunset, planning to stalk at dusk, stay overnight, and then try again at first light.
As I turn off the road and follow the rough track down to my parking place I spot several groups of deer – all does, of course – feeding on the surrounding farmland. Although they’re on the neighbour’s ground I alter my plan slightly in order not to spook them, by parking in a different spot and following an alternative route as I stalk in to the highseat.
I inherited this seat from my predecessor. It’s in a good location, when the wind’s in the right direction, which usually it isn’t! Many times I’ve sat here cursing the gods of the weather, with a steady breeze blowing down the back of my neck. However, a bit of work with a saw and secateurs have rectified the situation, meaning I can now turn and shoot comfortably out behind if required, with a perfectly positioned crotch in the trunk providing me with a stable natural bipod.
With my rifle loaded, I settle down to wait. In addition to glassing the field and woodland margin that lies in front of me, I periodically crane my neck to scan the ground to the rear of the seat. Sure enough, it’s here that the deer first put in an appearance – a doe accompanied by two well-grown fawns, and a pricket. Not quite the big buck I was hoping for, but a worthwhile cull animal nonetheless.
Carefully, silently, I turn in the seat, well aware that the slightest metallic clink will give the game away, and poke the barrel of my rifle through the fork of the trunk. The deer are too far away to take a shot, but I’m hopeful that they’ll work their way down the field margin in my direction. However, they’re feeling skittish and won’t settle down to graze. After playfully prancing about in the corner of the field for a few minutes they leap back over the fence into the wood and are lost to sight.
As soon as I’m once again sitting comfortably I pour a cup of tea from my flask and check my watch. Sunset has been and gone, and realistically I’ve only got half-an-hour of shootable light left. Maybe the morning will bring better luck…
I take another look around, straining my eyes in the dusk. Movement… behind me… Through my binoculars I count seven does over by the fenceline. No, make that eight deer in total, for the buck I’ve been hoping for has just emerged from the shadows and settles down to graze, slightly apart from the others. Once again I turn and poise myself, one knee on the seat and one foot on the ladder, rifle at the ready.
The whole herd is grazing now, steadily moving from left to right across my field of vision, slowly but surely drawing further away, out of my safe shooting area and out of my sight. Suddenly, as one, they stop, some with heads up, alert, and others with their necks stretched out, curious. I realise that they’ve reached the line I took when I walked across the corner of the field on my way to the seat, and they’ve picked up my scent. For a moment, everything hangs in the balance – will they run, or won’t they? No. Satisfied that no threat remains, yet reluctant to cross the line, they turn and begin to graze back the way they came, towards the wood. Unwittingly, I had left a scent trail that’s worked in my favour.
Gradually the little herd spreads out across the corner of the field. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they’re moving in my direction. The buck retains his aloofness, and tosses his head warningly if any of the others dare invade his personal space. The does are grazing well ahead of him now, and it becomes a race against time – either I’ll run out of light, or the does will draw level with, and pass, my highseat, whereupon the game will be up. Each passing minute seems an hour as the buck draws closer… He’s within range now, but obscured by a cluster of small branches that somehow must’ve escaped the attention of my secateurs… I aim my rifle at the point where I know he must emerge, but it’s almost too dark, and I realise that this is going to be a “now or never” situation. Tantalisingly, inch by inch, still grazing, the buck begins to appear in my field of vision as I peer down my scope… just one more step will do it… first trigger pressure taken up… and then he’s there! Broadside on, about 130 yards away, with my crosshairs hovering over his heart, he pauses for a moment, raises his head, and I squeeze off the shot.
Momentarily I lose sight of him, but I’m rewarded by the sound of my bullet striking home. Glancing around I see him make a short run, then stand, swaying, desperately trying to maintain his proud posture as the bewildered does look on. Then down he goes, and his harem, now masterless, melts away into the dusk.
**********
As I climbed down from the seat I mentally patted myself on the back; It had had been a textbook outing, a classic shot, a typical reaction, and I’d got my buck. However, once on the ground I realised that locating the carcass in the dark wouldn’t be so easy. I thought I’d got my bearings pretty well, but still managed to walk right past him a couple of times, before almost tripping over him in the shin-high vegetation. I studied him for a while by the feeble light of my tiny pocket torch. His head was turned away from me, so I moved around for a better view. Dead.
And then he blinked. I swore, quietly, and began to fumble with my sticks, my rifle and my torch, with the deer, just a couple of paces away, watching my every move. My incompetence gave him the opportunity he sought, and in an instant he was up and away, out of the small circle of light and into the darkness, heading for the safety of the woods. Utterly deflated now, I could have wept, but I did at least have the presence of mind to plant my sticks firmly in the ground to mark the spot why he had lain, before despondently heading back to my vehicle in search of a more powerful torch.
Alone in the dark, in the middle of the field, I felt totally inadequate and completely out of my depth; The textbooks don’t really prepare you for the reality of what to do when things don’t go according to plan. In need of reassurance, I pulled out my ‘phone and called a stalker friend. I’m not in the habit of ringing people late at night, so he must have known something was wrong as soon my number popped up on his screen. “Come away” he advised. “If you go after him now he’ll keep on moving ahead of you, and you’ll lose him in the dark. Leave him, and he’ll stiffen up. He won’t go far. You’ll find him in the morning, guaranteed. I’ll meet you there at dawn and give you a hand”.
Wise words, which did a little to ease my anxiety, but I spent a sleepless night nonetheless, and arrived early for our rendezvous in the morning. I was somewhat relieved to find that the seven does were still in the area - for I felt sure that had the buck moved on then they’d have gone too – and I was still watching them when my friend turned up a few minutes later. It didn’t take us long to locate the spot where the buck had gone down – thanks to my sticks – but I was alarmed that there was so little blood to be seen. How could this be? He’d lain there for a good 20 minutes or more, yet had left so little evidence. Had I really messed up, big time?
The trampled grass showed clearly the route he’d taken, a dead straight line heading for the boundary of the field. Within 50 yards we found him, just inside the tree line, lying amongst the wild garlic where he’d clearly dropped in his tracks just a few seconds after that final burst of adrenaline caused him to flee my presence. A sense of relief flooded over me. Closer examination confirmed what I now suspected: No exit wound. The 100 grain bullet from my .243 simply hadn’t had enough clout to punch right through to give the rapid bleed-out required for a quick death. Had I remained in my highseat for just a few minutes more I doubt he’d have moved.
I gralloched the beast – a messy enough job at the best of times, but decidedly unpleasant when the animal has lain dead overnight – and together we dragged him over to my pickup and lifted him in. The day was still young, but somehow I didn’t feel like going stalking, so, after chatting for a while, my friend and I parted company and I headed for home.
Back at the farm I got the carcass onto the scales. At 120 lbs, and with his mismatched antlers (palmate on one side, branched on the other), he’d be a pretty mediocre animal for many people, but to me he’s a trophy – the first mature buck I’d taken off my own ground.
And the story doesn’t quite end there, for when I told my wife the sorry tale of my night’s adventure, and explained the reason why the deer had taken so long to die, she said, quite simply: “Better buy yourself a bigger rifle then!”
As a loving husband, how could I possibly refuse such a reasonable request…?
