This is the story of my third outing with a new (to me) rifle. It’s a Parker-Hale Safari Deluxe, in .270 calibre – a logical step-up from the .243 (also a P-H SD) with which I’ve enjoyed variable degrees of success over the past few years. It’s unencumbered by either moderator or bipod, which I have to say feels quite liberating.
The first two outings brought mixed results: Initially, I spectacularly missed a large fallow buck while trying not to shoot my own feet, as he appeared unannounced directly beneath my highseat at dusk. This was followed a couple of weeks later by a nice little muntjac in my favourite Suffolk woodland: He dropped like a stone at around 90 yards.
So, the score stood at one-all, and I had hopes that this evening’s stalk would swing the balance in my favour.
I arrived on the ground at 3.15 pm, about 3 hours before sunset, planning to stalk the woods on one bank of the river for a couple of hours, before crossing over to my highseat on the other side, aiming to be in position at least three quarters of an hour before the sun went down. I’d spotted a couple of does in the vicinity of the seat just after I arrived, so was fairly hopeful that there might be a buck about.
My walk through the woods proved uneventful. A persistent light drizzle added to the general air of gloom beneath the trees, and the only sign of movement came from the numerous squirrels that seemed oblivious to the miserable weather as they went about their business. Coming to the end of the track, I stalked in carefully to a position overlooking a small sheltered meadow that’s been left ungrazed this year. Generally I can be sure of spotting at least a couple of does here, and there’s always the chance of a buck, but today the field looked cold, uninviting and empty.
I retraced my steps, forded the river (with difficulty), and struck out boldly across the middle of a large silage field towards my highseat at the edge of the woods on the far side. In anticipation of climbing the ladder I didn’t load my rifle, but had a few rounds safely tucked away under the bolt. The rain had stopped at last, but the grass was wet and the ground squelched slightly underfoot. About 50 yards into my walk I heard the distinctive sound of a mature buck grunting, so I stopped to listen, trying to pinpoint exactly where the noise was coming from. I’m glad I did, or I wouldn’t have spotted a deer lying down by the far boundary, directly opposite me. One of the does I’d seen earlier I presumed, as I raised my binoculars. However, one glance through the binos had me down on my knees. It was a pricket! Just what I was looking for! My mind raced. Ahead of me stretched 300 yards of grass stubble, the aftermath of a late cut, offering about as much cover as a billiard table. For a moment I contemplated setting my rifle up on the sticks, but quickly dismissed the idea. I know my limits. A shot at that range would be beyond my capabilities. Somehow I had to close the gap…
Taking another look around, I noticed a slight undulation in the ground that had previously escaped my notice – an almost imperceptible saucer-shaped depression, maybe 10 yards in diameter by six inches deep – approximately midway between myself and the deer. If I could get that far, I thought, I might be in with a chance. I shoved in my earplugs, chambered a round and started to crawl. It was at this point I realised that the field had recently been spread with lime, which, together with the mud, made a sticky paste with which I was soon covered from head to toe.
With painstaking slowness, yet acutely aware of the need for speed, I eased my way across the field towards the relative security of that small dip in the ground. It seemed so far away! Eventually, with my heart thudding, I snaked into the hollow and paused for a while to get my breath back. Raising my head cautiously, I observed that the deer remained undisturbed. So far so good, but he still looked an awfully long way off! I had to get closer…
At this point I jettisoned my sticks and my backpack, and continued with just the rifle and monkey pod*. Inch by filthy inch, with my nose quite literally in the dirt, I dragged myself along on my belly, until I dared not push my luck any further. Somehow, against all the odds, I’d made it almost two thirds of the way across the field in plain sight of my quarry (and, incidentally, in plain sight of any other deer that may have been in the area, ready to raise the alarm at any moment).
I set up my rifle and peered down the scope. The deer was still lying down, and from my position on the ground I couldn’t quite see his body. However, the back of his head and his neck looked temptingly large through my scope! A more experienced stalker may have taken the shot that presented itself, but I realised that this wasn’t the time for heroics – the landowners had been making less-than-subtle noises about the lack of venison in their freezer, so I simply couldn’t afford to risk a miss. Besides, the deer was bound to stand up at some point, so I waited…
…and waited…
I gave it half-an-hour, and then shouted. I whistled. I grunted like a buck. Everything, in fact, short of standing up and waving my hat in the air, but all to no avail. So I waited some more…
Suddenly, without warning, in one graceful movement, the deer was on his feet, as if lifted from above by the strings of a celestial puppeteer. Clearly contemplating a leap over the fence and into the adjoining woodland, he stood facing almost directly away from me. Almost, but not quite. More than 30 years experience of killing and cutting up my own livestock has given me a good understanding of the internal layout of large ruminant animals, so I was confident I could hit the vital spot despite the awkwardness of the angle. I aimed just a couple of inches or so in front of the last rib on his left side, and squeezed off the shot. The deer simply crumpled on the spot. Result!
With the memory of an earlier disaster still fresh in my mind (Travels with my rifle, part 3: A Journeyman no longer) I quickly reloaded, but I needn’t have worried – he gave just one cursory twitch of a hind leg, and that was it. Relief flooded over me, but still I didn’t want to rush in too soon, so rolled myself the customary cigarette and lost myself for a while in contemplation of the stalk and the life of the deer I had just killed.
I was awoken from my reverie by the sound of a helicopter, and lifted my head in time to see the air ambulance cresting the treeline directly above the carcass of my deer. Passing low overhead, it reached the end of the field before banking into a turn preparatory for landing. ****! I thought to myself. There’s going to be some drama now! Bearing in mind that I’d been lying motionless in the middle of a relatively inaccessible field for the better part of an hour, overlooked – from a distance – by the windows of at least three properties, it wasn’t inconceivable that someone might have reported me as some kind of casualty. However, after completing a wide turn, the chopper doubled back and dropped down a couple of fields away. I turned my attention back to the deer…
Rising stiffly to my feet I retrieved my sticks and rucksack and made my way slowly across the field to where the carcass lay. I gave it a tap with the sticks, just to be sure, but this time there was no doubt: The small entry wound was exactly where I expected it to be, oozing a steady trickle of clean blood, and the animal was stone dead. What’s more, I still had a few minutes of daylight left! A luxury!
Having got thus far without a hitch, the last thing I wanted to do was spoil the carcass by botching the gralloch. I didn’t fancy cutting him open on the ground – I always seem to make a mess of it that way – so, faced with the option of either dragging him across the wet ground to the nearest suitable tree, or lifting him whole into the back of the pickup and taking him over to the landowners’ barn, I choose the latter option. Fetching the pickup from where I’d parked it by the ford, I noticed with alarm that the water level in the river had risen considerably during the past hour or so, presumably on account of the rain that had fallen upstream earlier in the day. Getting over had been tricky enough. The return crossing was likely to be touch and go. I sped across the field, heaved the deer into the back, and raced back to the river’s edge, beginning to feel a little panicky now. With water over the door sills, and my heart in my mouth, I nosed out into the centre of the river and steadily ploughed across the swift current. It’s only a little river really, but it seemed like a long time before I felt the tyres biting into the gravel for the climb up the further bank.
As I pulled up from the valley bottom and topped the rise I was confronted by a sea of blue lights, and saw the helicopter taking off. Wrapped up in my own little world, so intent on stalking that deer, I had been totally oblivious to the fact that while I lay flat on my face in the field a fairly serious road accident had occurred nearby!
With the deer hanging up from a hook in a beam, it was with a degree of trepidation that I opened his abdomen. Given the angle of the shot I knew that there was some risk of gut spillage, but thankfully everything was clean and healthy inside. The course that my bullet had taken could clearly be seen: Travelling slightly upwards, and entering from behind, it had pulverised a lung before hitting the underside of his spine at the base of the neck, just in front of the shoulder blades. A clean kill with minimal meat damage.
A quick cup of tea with the landowners, and then I hit the road for home. With a bit of luck there’d still be some dinner for me when I got there!
As I pulled out of the lane I had to run the gauntlet of a couple of police roadblocks, but they had more serious things to worry about than a happy, muddy stalker with a tell-tale trickle of blood running out of the back of his vehicle.
And that’s about all there is to tell, really. I replayed the stalk over and over in mind during the drive home, with an ever growing sense of satisfaction and achievement, and the first thing I did when I got into the house was to clean the mud off my precious (£175) rifle. It deserves to be well looked after.
* Monkey pod:
A variation on the theme of the popular monkey sticks, the pod comprises two short lengths (about 14 inches) of the thinner diameter B&Q cane, joined using a piece of old inner-tube. Keeps the rifle free of the encumbrance of a fixed bipod, but is rapidly (and silently) deployable when required. If you’re a wellie wearer, the monkey pod is easily carried by stuffing it down the leg of a boot. Otherwise hang it from your belt, or put it in your backpack. Total cost measured in pence. Harris eat your heart out!
The first two outings brought mixed results: Initially, I spectacularly missed a large fallow buck while trying not to shoot my own feet, as he appeared unannounced directly beneath my highseat at dusk. This was followed a couple of weeks later by a nice little muntjac in my favourite Suffolk woodland: He dropped like a stone at around 90 yards.
So, the score stood at one-all, and I had hopes that this evening’s stalk would swing the balance in my favour.
I arrived on the ground at 3.15 pm, about 3 hours before sunset, planning to stalk the woods on one bank of the river for a couple of hours, before crossing over to my highseat on the other side, aiming to be in position at least three quarters of an hour before the sun went down. I’d spotted a couple of does in the vicinity of the seat just after I arrived, so was fairly hopeful that there might be a buck about.
My walk through the woods proved uneventful. A persistent light drizzle added to the general air of gloom beneath the trees, and the only sign of movement came from the numerous squirrels that seemed oblivious to the miserable weather as they went about their business. Coming to the end of the track, I stalked in carefully to a position overlooking a small sheltered meadow that’s been left ungrazed this year. Generally I can be sure of spotting at least a couple of does here, and there’s always the chance of a buck, but today the field looked cold, uninviting and empty.
I retraced my steps, forded the river (with difficulty), and struck out boldly across the middle of a large silage field towards my highseat at the edge of the woods on the far side. In anticipation of climbing the ladder I didn’t load my rifle, but had a few rounds safely tucked away under the bolt. The rain had stopped at last, but the grass was wet and the ground squelched slightly underfoot. About 50 yards into my walk I heard the distinctive sound of a mature buck grunting, so I stopped to listen, trying to pinpoint exactly where the noise was coming from. I’m glad I did, or I wouldn’t have spotted a deer lying down by the far boundary, directly opposite me. One of the does I’d seen earlier I presumed, as I raised my binoculars. However, one glance through the binos had me down on my knees. It was a pricket! Just what I was looking for! My mind raced. Ahead of me stretched 300 yards of grass stubble, the aftermath of a late cut, offering about as much cover as a billiard table. For a moment I contemplated setting my rifle up on the sticks, but quickly dismissed the idea. I know my limits. A shot at that range would be beyond my capabilities. Somehow I had to close the gap…
Taking another look around, I noticed a slight undulation in the ground that had previously escaped my notice – an almost imperceptible saucer-shaped depression, maybe 10 yards in diameter by six inches deep – approximately midway between myself and the deer. If I could get that far, I thought, I might be in with a chance. I shoved in my earplugs, chambered a round and started to crawl. It was at this point I realised that the field had recently been spread with lime, which, together with the mud, made a sticky paste with which I was soon covered from head to toe.
With painstaking slowness, yet acutely aware of the need for speed, I eased my way across the field towards the relative security of that small dip in the ground. It seemed so far away! Eventually, with my heart thudding, I snaked into the hollow and paused for a while to get my breath back. Raising my head cautiously, I observed that the deer remained undisturbed. So far so good, but he still looked an awfully long way off! I had to get closer…
At this point I jettisoned my sticks and my backpack, and continued with just the rifle and monkey pod*. Inch by filthy inch, with my nose quite literally in the dirt, I dragged myself along on my belly, until I dared not push my luck any further. Somehow, against all the odds, I’d made it almost two thirds of the way across the field in plain sight of my quarry (and, incidentally, in plain sight of any other deer that may have been in the area, ready to raise the alarm at any moment).
I set up my rifle and peered down the scope. The deer was still lying down, and from my position on the ground I couldn’t quite see his body. However, the back of his head and his neck looked temptingly large through my scope! A more experienced stalker may have taken the shot that presented itself, but I realised that this wasn’t the time for heroics – the landowners had been making less-than-subtle noises about the lack of venison in their freezer, so I simply couldn’t afford to risk a miss. Besides, the deer was bound to stand up at some point, so I waited…
…and waited…
I gave it half-an-hour, and then shouted. I whistled. I grunted like a buck. Everything, in fact, short of standing up and waving my hat in the air, but all to no avail. So I waited some more…
Suddenly, without warning, in one graceful movement, the deer was on his feet, as if lifted from above by the strings of a celestial puppeteer. Clearly contemplating a leap over the fence and into the adjoining woodland, he stood facing almost directly away from me. Almost, but not quite. More than 30 years experience of killing and cutting up my own livestock has given me a good understanding of the internal layout of large ruminant animals, so I was confident I could hit the vital spot despite the awkwardness of the angle. I aimed just a couple of inches or so in front of the last rib on his left side, and squeezed off the shot. The deer simply crumpled on the spot. Result!
With the memory of an earlier disaster still fresh in my mind (Travels with my rifle, part 3: A Journeyman no longer) I quickly reloaded, but I needn’t have worried – he gave just one cursory twitch of a hind leg, and that was it. Relief flooded over me, but still I didn’t want to rush in too soon, so rolled myself the customary cigarette and lost myself for a while in contemplation of the stalk and the life of the deer I had just killed.
I was awoken from my reverie by the sound of a helicopter, and lifted my head in time to see the air ambulance cresting the treeline directly above the carcass of my deer. Passing low overhead, it reached the end of the field before banking into a turn preparatory for landing. ****! I thought to myself. There’s going to be some drama now! Bearing in mind that I’d been lying motionless in the middle of a relatively inaccessible field for the better part of an hour, overlooked – from a distance – by the windows of at least three properties, it wasn’t inconceivable that someone might have reported me as some kind of casualty. However, after completing a wide turn, the chopper doubled back and dropped down a couple of fields away. I turned my attention back to the deer…
Rising stiffly to my feet I retrieved my sticks and rucksack and made my way slowly across the field to where the carcass lay. I gave it a tap with the sticks, just to be sure, but this time there was no doubt: The small entry wound was exactly where I expected it to be, oozing a steady trickle of clean blood, and the animal was stone dead. What’s more, I still had a few minutes of daylight left! A luxury!
Having got thus far without a hitch, the last thing I wanted to do was spoil the carcass by botching the gralloch. I didn’t fancy cutting him open on the ground – I always seem to make a mess of it that way – so, faced with the option of either dragging him across the wet ground to the nearest suitable tree, or lifting him whole into the back of the pickup and taking him over to the landowners’ barn, I choose the latter option. Fetching the pickup from where I’d parked it by the ford, I noticed with alarm that the water level in the river had risen considerably during the past hour or so, presumably on account of the rain that had fallen upstream earlier in the day. Getting over had been tricky enough. The return crossing was likely to be touch and go. I sped across the field, heaved the deer into the back, and raced back to the river’s edge, beginning to feel a little panicky now. With water over the door sills, and my heart in my mouth, I nosed out into the centre of the river and steadily ploughed across the swift current. It’s only a little river really, but it seemed like a long time before I felt the tyres biting into the gravel for the climb up the further bank.
As I pulled up from the valley bottom and topped the rise I was confronted by a sea of blue lights, and saw the helicopter taking off. Wrapped up in my own little world, so intent on stalking that deer, I had been totally oblivious to the fact that while I lay flat on my face in the field a fairly serious road accident had occurred nearby!
With the deer hanging up from a hook in a beam, it was with a degree of trepidation that I opened his abdomen. Given the angle of the shot I knew that there was some risk of gut spillage, but thankfully everything was clean and healthy inside. The course that my bullet had taken could clearly be seen: Travelling slightly upwards, and entering from behind, it had pulverised a lung before hitting the underside of his spine at the base of the neck, just in front of the shoulder blades. A clean kill with minimal meat damage.
A quick cup of tea with the landowners, and then I hit the road for home. With a bit of luck there’d still be some dinner for me when I got there!
As I pulled out of the lane I had to run the gauntlet of a couple of police roadblocks, but they had more serious things to worry about than a happy, muddy stalker with a tell-tale trickle of blood running out of the back of his vehicle.
And that’s about all there is to tell, really. I replayed the stalk over and over in mind during the drive home, with an ever growing sense of satisfaction and achievement, and the first thing I did when I got into the house was to clean the mud off my precious (£175) rifle. It deserves to be well looked after.
* Monkey pod:
A variation on the theme of the popular monkey sticks, the pod comprises two short lengths (about 14 inches) of the thinner diameter B&Q cane, joined using a piece of old inner-tube. Keeps the rifle free of the encumbrance of a fixed bipod, but is rapidly (and silently) deployable when required. If you’re a wellie wearer, the monkey pod is easily carried by stuffing it down the leg of a boot. Otherwise hang it from your belt, or put it in your backpack. Total cost measured in pence. Harris eat your heart out!
