Another day dawns in the Highlands, and I am once again out on the Hill.
When you are sat in your study contemplating your next trip north, or sat in your lounge staring into a log fire; the notion of a day on the Hill is evocative, romantic and attractive.
The reality is somewhat different.
It is physically lung-busting hard, it damages your knees, sets fire to your thighs and crushes your ego.
In short - it is dreadful.
Why then do we return year after year? I can only liken it to women who give birth more than once. We forget how awful the first time was, and so go on to have another go.
If women remembered how awful childbirth was, every family would only have the (except multi-births) one child.
If Stalkers remembers how awful the Hill was, no Stalker would ever return. It is just nature doing its thing, to ensure the population thrives and Stalkers remain impoverished.
Matters are not helped by the fact that most professional Guides/Stalkers/Gillies are not human. Most were born on the Hill, as were their Fathers, Grandfathers and Great-Grandfathers. I called my Stalker for the day Pan.
It is not his name, but the bastard was half mountain goat...
This monster dragged my sorry arse up and down the Hill all day. Going up was always a challenge. Going down was just agony. In between trying to control my asthmatic breathing, my buckling legs and aching shoulders, I silently prayed for death. It would have been a mercy.
At some stage during the day, I finally got some respite. A Stag was roaring and holding hinds. Somehow or other, we managed to crawl into position. I was just grateful to be laying down.
The Stag was standing (facing left) and roaring. He was 'protected' was a small hillock.
"Wait until he takes a step forward and then take him".
I settled in for the wait. I prayed it would take a while. My knees hurt, my back ached, and after about twenty minutes, my neck started to ache from looking through the scope so long. I mentally made the decision to take up golf.
After about thirty minutes, the Stag took a step - not forward but down. I lost sight of him, never to see him again. That I did not get a shot bothered me not. That this meant we would have to crack on, and do some walking grieved me immensely.
Towards the end of the day, we migrated to lower ground, and I was able to appreciate the majestic beauty of the place, which draws me back to the Highlands and Islands, time and time again...
Eventually we make it back to the truck, and I struggle into the passenger seat, delighted to be still and comfortable.
Wending our way out of the Estate, is both a relief and a visual treat. It is just stunning.
Then we stop.
I know why we stop (I have seen what the Stalker has seen), but I don't want to get out of the truck, I don't want to walk any more, and I certainly don't want to climb any more.
"There is a Stag at the top of that ride. He is holding hinds. If we reverse up to the plantation, get out, stalk through the plantation up to the top, cut across, we may be able to get onto him. Come on let's go"
My heart sinks.
We de-bus and set off.
The plantation is heavily wind-blown, and the going is slow, and awkward. The trees are an interesting change from the open-hill and it has a beauty all of its own.
We make progress and eventually, we are at the top of the ride.
There is a tree blown and the edge of the plantation, and the Stalker makes for the root plate to hide our advance.
The Stalker passes me his stick, whilst he sets up the rifle. I put both sticks in one hand and promptly drop them on a rock.
The noise feels deafening, but the wind favours, and the deer have not heard it. However, I have not got away with it, the small curl of my stick is snapped off in the fall. Later, back at the Larder, I will demonstrate how I dropped the sticks, and in so doing actually dropped my stick again and snapped the whole crook in half! Idiot.
Anyhoo.
Back to the stalk.
With the rifle resting on closed bipods and atop the root plate, I stand on the fallen tree, and take up the aim. The Stag is 125 yards away, and quartering away from me.
"Wait until he turns".
Eventually, he presents himself and I send the shot. The moment I squeezed of the trigger, I knew that the rifle had 'dipped' on the root plate. I knew I had messed up.
"Clean miss."
I knew I had missed, the instant the bullet left the barrel. Nothing to do about it, but own it.
My shot, my mistake.
I am grateful it is a clean miss, and watch the deer (seemingly not too bothered by the sound of the shot) wander off up the Hill and away. I offer my profuse apologies to the half-man, half-goat Stalker.
He is remarkable sanguine, and tells the lie that all clients miss, and not to worry about it, these things happen.
Then the sound of the Argo...
Having examined the shot site, and confirmed my post mortem on what went wrong (I will in any event re-check zero in the morning), we both wander out into the ride.
The Stalker tells me he will walk back to the truck. I suspect he cannot bear to be with me a moment longer.
The Argo and Gillie, makes its way up to me.
The Gillie is ex-military and was in the same game as I was. We are members of the same 'brotherhood'. We share a history. We are kindred spirits.
He pulls up level with me.
"Where's the Stag?"
"I missed".
He looked at me as only a military man can. He then uttered the words of comfort and consolation that only a military man can.
"You cnut!"
He was (of course) right.
"Get in. I'll take you back".
I was grateful for the lift.
I am even more grateful for his military humour.
When you are sat in your study contemplating your next trip north, or sat in your lounge staring into a log fire; the notion of a day on the Hill is evocative, romantic and attractive.
The reality is somewhat different.
It is physically lung-busting hard, it damages your knees, sets fire to your thighs and crushes your ego.
In short - it is dreadful.
Why then do we return year after year? I can only liken it to women who give birth more than once. We forget how awful the first time was, and so go on to have another go.
If women remembered how awful childbirth was, every family would only have the (except multi-births) one child.
If Stalkers remembers how awful the Hill was, no Stalker would ever return. It is just nature doing its thing, to ensure the population thrives and Stalkers remain impoverished.
Matters are not helped by the fact that most professional Guides/Stalkers/Gillies are not human. Most were born on the Hill, as were their Fathers, Grandfathers and Great-Grandfathers. I called my Stalker for the day Pan.
It is not his name, but the bastard was half mountain goat...
This monster dragged my sorry arse up and down the Hill all day. Going up was always a challenge. Going down was just agony. In between trying to control my asthmatic breathing, my buckling legs and aching shoulders, I silently prayed for death. It would have been a mercy.
At some stage during the day, I finally got some respite. A Stag was roaring and holding hinds. Somehow or other, we managed to crawl into position. I was just grateful to be laying down.
The Stag was standing (facing left) and roaring. He was 'protected' was a small hillock.
"Wait until he takes a step forward and then take him".
I settled in for the wait. I prayed it would take a while. My knees hurt, my back ached, and after about twenty minutes, my neck started to ache from looking through the scope so long. I mentally made the decision to take up golf.
After about thirty minutes, the Stag took a step - not forward but down. I lost sight of him, never to see him again. That I did not get a shot bothered me not. That this meant we would have to crack on, and do some walking grieved me immensely.
Towards the end of the day, we migrated to lower ground, and I was able to appreciate the majestic beauty of the place, which draws me back to the Highlands and Islands, time and time again...
Eventually we make it back to the truck, and I struggle into the passenger seat, delighted to be still and comfortable.
Wending our way out of the Estate, is both a relief and a visual treat. It is just stunning.
Then we stop.
I know why we stop (I have seen what the Stalker has seen), but I don't want to get out of the truck, I don't want to walk any more, and I certainly don't want to climb any more.
"There is a Stag at the top of that ride. He is holding hinds. If we reverse up to the plantation, get out, stalk through the plantation up to the top, cut across, we may be able to get onto him. Come on let's go"
My heart sinks.
We de-bus and set off.
The plantation is heavily wind-blown, and the going is slow, and awkward. The trees are an interesting change from the open-hill and it has a beauty all of its own.
We make progress and eventually, we are at the top of the ride.
There is a tree blown and the edge of the plantation, and the Stalker makes for the root plate to hide our advance.
The Stalker passes me his stick, whilst he sets up the rifle. I put both sticks in one hand and promptly drop them on a rock.
The noise feels deafening, but the wind favours, and the deer have not heard it. However, I have not got away with it, the small curl of my stick is snapped off in the fall. Later, back at the Larder, I will demonstrate how I dropped the sticks, and in so doing actually dropped my stick again and snapped the whole crook in half! Idiot.
Anyhoo.
Back to the stalk.
With the rifle resting on closed bipods and atop the root plate, I stand on the fallen tree, and take up the aim. The Stag is 125 yards away, and quartering away from me.
"Wait until he turns".
Eventually, he presents himself and I send the shot. The moment I squeezed of the trigger, I knew that the rifle had 'dipped' on the root plate. I knew I had messed up.
"Clean miss."
I knew I had missed, the instant the bullet left the barrel. Nothing to do about it, but own it.
My shot, my mistake.
I am grateful it is a clean miss, and watch the deer (seemingly not too bothered by the sound of the shot) wander off up the Hill and away. I offer my profuse apologies to the half-man, half-goat Stalker.
He is remarkable sanguine, and tells the lie that all clients miss, and not to worry about it, these things happen.
Then the sound of the Argo...
Having examined the shot site, and confirmed my post mortem on what went wrong (I will in any event re-check zero in the morning), we both wander out into the ride.
The Stalker tells me he will walk back to the truck. I suspect he cannot bear to be with me a moment longer.
The Argo and Gillie, makes its way up to me.
The Gillie is ex-military and was in the same game as I was. We are members of the same 'brotherhood'. We share a history. We are kindred spirits.
He pulls up level with me.
"Where's the Stag?"
"I missed".
He looked at me as only a military man can. He then uttered the words of comfort and consolation that only a military man can.
"You cnut!"
He was (of course) right.
"Get in. I'll take you back".
I was grateful for the lift.
I am even more grateful for his military humour.
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