It’s last minute and it’s ramshackle but we are squeezing another day into the Does.
One of the lads has been waiting for a hip replacement for a wee while now.
A couple of weeks ago he wrote to his Consultant complaining about the delay and cc’d his MP into his missive.
On the way down to the shoot (driven by a Guest/Carer/Deer-Dragger) he was phoned by his Consultant.
“We have a slot suddenly available. Are you free next Wednesday?”
Coincidence?
I reminded my friend of the first operation (in as previous life) that I ever assisted in. It was (you’ve guessed it) a hip replacement. There is nothing subtle about it. It is a cross between carpentry and masonry. Still I am delighted that things are finally moving for the bloke – it has been a rough couple of years for him.
Any hoo.
Back at the barn we are four blokes sat around a table – drinking coffee and talking tosh. Our host had five locals from the village around last night, to celebrate the easing of “you know what” and had a Covid compliant “open air” meeting of six. It is amazing the damage that half a dozen blokes can do to a keg of ale, a crate of wine and ten cigars (only four of whom smoke). I was secretly jealous that it was not a “Rule of seven”. The evidence of their “gathering” lies all around us.
Our host (as always) appears unaffected by the previous night’s jollities. The bastard always does. Constitution of a Cape Buffalo.
Our host will be stalking on foot, Hip-Boy and Carer will be in adjoining seats, I have been sent to the far side of a ground I have never stalked before, on land I have not visited for two years and on which there are not seats. What is going on?
I follow Hip-Boy and Carer in theirambulance car and Hip-Boy gets out at every gate to give me the lay of the land. It is hard to watch him struggle as he does so. They drive on to their seats.
I park up, kit up and set off. It is warm. The wind today is from the South. I do not take my Vorn. This is a mistake. I am carrying two small drinks. This is not enough. I leave my refs. in the Vorn – another mistake.
Making my way over three big fields, I am heading to the “Pylon Field”. This field has a pylon in the middle of it – utterly inspiring names we come up with. The field is a big depression with a copse to the left, game cover to the front and a thin shaw to the right.
There is a solitary tree out in my field. If I can make this tree it “gains” me about 75 yards on the “kill zone”. I make the tree and settle down to wait.
Lying prone. OK for about ten minutes. However, if your BMI is anything over that of a Super Model, your abdomen slowly pushes up against your diaphragm, occluding your lungs and bringing about your untimely (but thoroughly deserved) death. If like me, you risk death every time you bend over to put your socks on or lace up your boots – excessive prone is not for you.
As I approached the solitary tree, I see a Buck and two against the skyline. Nice healthy looking animals. I make the tree and settled in to wait for my lungs to occlude.
It did not take long. I was forced to stand and began glassing the ground. Ironically, standing gave me a better view of the game crop and I could make out a Doe therein. Back on the ground and I get behind the rifle. She is about 200 yards away. That is a long shot for me. However, I am prone, relaxed, on bipods and know the DOPE for the scope.
There is a reaction to the shot – but not much, and she turns into the shaw. I wait the customary amount of time and go forward. The shot site is marked by an upturned feeder. I find bright red blood and follow its sort trail. She is in the shaw and down about twenty yards away. It is still early. I suspend and grallock. I am gasping for fluids. I have left my drinks back the firing point. It is a schoolboy error to separate oneself from one's refs. Schoolboy. Page one of the Bumper Book of Basic Survival -page bloody one.
I mark the deposition site with a bit of pink tape. This is an old trick I learnt from “Tam the Tape”.
Tam was a wise old hermit, who lived in a cave on the Outer Hebrides. He would run Stalking Retreats where one could go and become one with the Deer, think like the Deer, become the Deer.
It is from Tam, that I learned the ancient art of “Hanging tape in a tree” to mark the site of a downed deer. It is a gift that is not received by all. No matter how well you think you will recall where you left your deer, come the changing/failing light, it all looks the bloody same without a piece of bright tape. Take Tam's advice, use a bit of tape.
Although I make a pretence of continuing with my evening , truth be told, I am done.
I get to enjoy half an hour watching a fine looking Buck and smile as I know that he will be nowhere to be seen come Thursday.
I haul the Doe over my shoulders and hoof it back to the truck. It is a long heavy yomp and I take it slowly. As I arrive at the vehicle, a boom echoes out across the Estate and Hip-Boy is in. I am delighted. It was his last chance for a Doe this season and he has scored.
All things being equal, he and he new hip will be out for the rut.
It has (apparently) been one of warmest days in March for years. The lockdowns are easing, slowly, oh so very slowly, but I do get a feeling of optimism in the air.
Here's hoping.
One of the lads has been waiting for a hip replacement for a wee while now.
A couple of weeks ago he wrote to his Consultant complaining about the delay and cc’d his MP into his missive.
On the way down to the shoot (driven by a Guest/Carer/Deer-Dragger) he was phoned by his Consultant.
“We have a slot suddenly available. Are you free next Wednesday?”
Coincidence?
I reminded my friend of the first operation (in as previous life) that I ever assisted in. It was (you’ve guessed it) a hip replacement. There is nothing subtle about it. It is a cross between carpentry and masonry. Still I am delighted that things are finally moving for the bloke – it has been a rough couple of years for him.
Any hoo.
Back at the barn we are four blokes sat around a table – drinking coffee and talking tosh. Our host had five locals from the village around last night, to celebrate the easing of “you know what” and had a Covid compliant “open air” meeting of six. It is amazing the damage that half a dozen blokes can do to a keg of ale, a crate of wine and ten cigars (only four of whom smoke). I was secretly jealous that it was not a “Rule of seven”. The evidence of their “gathering” lies all around us.
Our host (as always) appears unaffected by the previous night’s jollities. The bastard always does. Constitution of a Cape Buffalo.
Our host will be stalking on foot, Hip-Boy and Carer will be in adjoining seats, I have been sent to the far side of a ground I have never stalked before, on land I have not visited for two years and on which there are not seats. What is going on?
I follow Hip-Boy and Carer in their
I park up, kit up and set off. It is warm. The wind today is from the South. I do not take my Vorn. This is a mistake. I am carrying two small drinks. This is not enough. I leave my refs. in the Vorn – another mistake.
Making my way over three big fields, I am heading to the “Pylon Field”. This field has a pylon in the middle of it – utterly inspiring names we come up with. The field is a big depression with a copse to the left, game cover to the front and a thin shaw to the right.
There is a solitary tree out in my field. If I can make this tree it “gains” me about 75 yards on the “kill zone”. I make the tree and settle down to wait.
Lying prone. OK for about ten minutes. However, if your BMI is anything over that of a Super Model, your abdomen slowly pushes up against your diaphragm, occluding your lungs and bringing about your untimely (but thoroughly deserved) death. If like me, you risk death every time you bend over to put your socks on or lace up your boots – excessive prone is not for you.
As I approached the solitary tree, I see a Buck and two against the skyline. Nice healthy looking animals. I make the tree and settled in to wait for my lungs to occlude.
It did not take long. I was forced to stand and began glassing the ground. Ironically, standing gave me a better view of the game crop and I could make out a Doe therein. Back on the ground and I get behind the rifle. She is about 200 yards away. That is a long shot for me. However, I am prone, relaxed, on bipods and know the DOPE for the scope.
There is a reaction to the shot – but not much, and she turns into the shaw. I wait the customary amount of time and go forward. The shot site is marked by an upturned feeder. I find bright red blood and follow its sort trail. She is in the shaw and down about twenty yards away. It is still early. I suspend and grallock. I am gasping for fluids. I have left my drinks back the firing point. It is a schoolboy error to separate oneself from one's refs. Schoolboy. Page one of the Bumper Book of Basic Survival -page bloody one.
I mark the deposition site with a bit of pink tape. This is an old trick I learnt from “Tam the Tape”.
Tam was a wise old hermit, who lived in a cave on the Outer Hebrides. He would run Stalking Retreats where one could go and become one with the Deer, think like the Deer, become the Deer.
It is from Tam, that I learned the ancient art of “Hanging tape in a tree” to mark the site of a downed deer. It is a gift that is not received by all. No matter how well you think you will recall where you left your deer, come the changing/failing light, it all looks the bloody same without a piece of bright tape. Take Tam's advice, use a bit of tape.
Although I make a pretence of continuing with my evening , truth be told, I am done.
I get to enjoy half an hour watching a fine looking Buck and smile as I know that he will be nowhere to be seen come Thursday.
I haul the Doe over my shoulders and hoof it back to the truck. It is a long heavy yomp and I take it slowly. As I arrive at the vehicle, a boom echoes out across the Estate and Hip-Boy is in. I am delighted. It was his last chance for a Doe this season and he has scored.
All things being equal, he and he new hip will be out for the rut.
It has (apparently) been one of warmest days in March for years. The lockdowns are easing, slowly, oh so very slowly, but I do get a feeling of optimism in the air.
Here's hoping.
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