Inveraray: Chapter 2 - Divide and Conquer
After a hard first half-day, the Storm won, sending us scurrying indoors. No evening efforts; it wasn't fit for man nor beast—or, more accurately, unfit for a sensible man who prefers not to be airlifted to safety, which we saw plenty of in out first visit here in 2023.
The next day, we were going big. Our host was drafting in a colleague, splitting us into two teams to blitz the estate and maximise opportunities.
Our mission: a Red Stag on The Hill. You know The Hill—the one that hands you your ass every single year, prompting the annual, utterly empty promise: “Next year, I’m doing more cardio.” (Spoiler: We never do.)
I was paired with our host, a man who has been scampering this ground since he was five. He genuinely seems to float over the tussocks and navigate bog myrtle like it's a pleasant floral arrangement. I, however, consider that ankle-twisting, grabbing shite my sworn nemesis. I gave up trying to match his pace two years ago; now, I just focus on keeping his boots vaguely in sight. The first year, I, a “reasonably fit” mid-30s chap, nearly expired trying to crest the main peak.
The high winds and rain had shoved the stags into the lower foothills. "A casual woodland stalk," I naively thought. How wrong I was.
Before first light, the thermals glowed with a stag rounding up hinds in the hardwoods, bellowing like a seasoned politician.
The plan: check the next block first to avoid scenting up the place. After spotting mostly sheltering hinds and calves, we pivoted back to our boy.
The approach meant threading a path through a hellish section of clear fell—another of my personal landscape dislikes—then into the oak. We pressed on, stopping to listen for the stags’ defiant roars, constantly backtracking as the swirling wind changed its mind every three minutes.
Then, the sun poked through. It seems our stag took the warmth as a sign, deciding it was time to move his harem up the hill where he could scoff at danger and laugh at lesser stags. “Up we go then,” my host sighed, with the enthusiasm of a man relishing the challenge.
We used a deep gorge as a highway, bypassing the straggler hinds, and then breached the oak line. Ahead lay a gauntlet: bracken, followed by acres of bog myrtle-strewn tussocks. (I still hate it.)
Hitting the heather line, I took a knee to suck air, a human bellows struggling for oxygen.
Adrenaline spiked as a large bodied 6 pointer crested the rise above us, but he was merely cruising for action. He hadn't seen or winded us; he was just doing what young stags do: looking for an unclaimed date.
On the ascent I often look back to take in the view and note how far we have come.
"What a place" I find myself remarking to no one more than once. As the sun is rising above Loch Fyne the shear glory of the landscape is revealed, what a place indeed, vast and wild.
Then, we heard it: a deep roar in the distance. “Got to be our boy.” Off we went, me doing my best to keep our host within 20 yards, while his three-year-old Lab bounded easily, the epitome of fitness. She’s the group’s morale officer, often dropping back to check on the human stragglers, giving that classic Lab “smile” that says, “Come on, you lazy sod, keep up!”
“There are a couple of big natural bowls up ahead,” my host informed me. “In this wind, that’s where they’ll be bunkered down.”
Cresting a rise toward the first bowl, my host dropped to his knees. “Stag,” he whispered. “Hinds bedded between us and him. We go around.”
We backed out slowly, executing a masterful arc to keep the wind in our favour.
I prepped the rifle—a 6.5 PRC, a new, flatter-shooting beast, replacing my trusty .308—and we dropped to a crawl, then our bellies, the Lab ghosting silently behind.
I nestled into a slight rise, giving the muzzle clearance over the heather. Perfect. The hinds, tucked away to our left, were oblivious.
One hind, however, lay directly between us and the stag, her gaze locked right on our location, perhaps alerted to the rustle of heather in the quiet bowl.
A quick range check,136 yards, this hard, well-thought-out stalk had rewarded us with a straightforward shot.
He was slightly quartering to us, but the angle was no concern. I didn't wait for a command. The trigger broke, in full confidence that our host was locked into his binos spotting.
The 6.5 PRC delivered its payload with authority; the stag dropped on the spot. "That rifle's quiet," my host remarked, as the remaining hinds filed out with surprising indifference.
We gave them a moment, then went to lay hands on our prize: a beautiful, even 8-pointer. He didn't have to be a monster to be memorable.
As we positioned him for the gralloch, my host shared a profound thought: “You’re the first human to ever lay hands on that animal. That’s something to be mindful of and appreciate.”
I pondered that on the long drag down, where my host, naturally, did about 80% of the work, even though we took turns. These chaps are built different!
Meanwhile, success had been called in from the other team! A young stag bagged via a close-range encounter. Their guide’s pointer/Lab cross had air-scented the beast tucked in a hollow, and a roar from the guide prompted the stag to stand—followed by a precise neck shot from my buddy’s .308.
The race was on: a good-natured "drag race" to the bottom!
After a hard first half-day, the Storm won, sending us scurrying indoors. No evening efforts; it wasn't fit for man nor beast—or, more accurately, unfit for a sensible man who prefers not to be airlifted to safety, which we saw plenty of in out first visit here in 2023.
The next day, we were going big. Our host was drafting in a colleague, splitting us into two teams to blitz the estate and maximise opportunities.
Our mission: a Red Stag on The Hill. You know The Hill—the one that hands you your ass every single year, prompting the annual, utterly empty promise: “Next year, I’m doing more cardio.” (Spoiler: We never do.)
I was paired with our host, a man who has been scampering this ground since he was five. He genuinely seems to float over the tussocks and navigate bog myrtle like it's a pleasant floral arrangement. I, however, consider that ankle-twisting, grabbing shite my sworn nemesis. I gave up trying to match his pace two years ago; now, I just focus on keeping his boots vaguely in sight. The first year, I, a “reasonably fit” mid-30s chap, nearly expired trying to crest the main peak.
The high winds and rain had shoved the stags into the lower foothills. "A casual woodland stalk," I naively thought. How wrong I was.
Before first light, the thermals glowed with a stag rounding up hinds in the hardwoods, bellowing like a seasoned politician.
The plan: check the next block first to avoid scenting up the place. After spotting mostly sheltering hinds and calves, we pivoted back to our boy.
The approach meant threading a path through a hellish section of clear fell—another of my personal landscape dislikes—then into the oak. We pressed on, stopping to listen for the stags’ defiant roars, constantly backtracking as the swirling wind changed its mind every three minutes.
Then, the sun poked through. It seems our stag took the warmth as a sign, deciding it was time to move his harem up the hill where he could scoff at danger and laugh at lesser stags. “Up we go then,” my host sighed, with the enthusiasm of a man relishing the challenge.
We used a deep gorge as a highway, bypassing the straggler hinds, and then breached the oak line. Ahead lay a gauntlet: bracken, followed by acres of bog myrtle-strewn tussocks. (I still hate it.)
Hitting the heather line, I took a knee to suck air, a human bellows struggling for oxygen.
Adrenaline spiked as a large bodied 6 pointer crested the rise above us, but he was merely cruising for action. He hadn't seen or winded us; he was just doing what young stags do: looking for an unclaimed date.
On the ascent I often look back to take in the view and note how far we have come.
"What a place" I find myself remarking to no one more than once. As the sun is rising above Loch Fyne the shear glory of the landscape is revealed, what a place indeed, vast and wild.
Then, we heard it: a deep roar in the distance. “Got to be our boy.” Off we went, me doing my best to keep our host within 20 yards, while his three-year-old Lab bounded easily, the epitome of fitness. She’s the group’s morale officer, often dropping back to check on the human stragglers, giving that classic Lab “smile” that says, “Come on, you lazy sod, keep up!”
“There are a couple of big natural bowls up ahead,” my host informed me. “In this wind, that’s where they’ll be bunkered down.”
Cresting a rise toward the first bowl, my host dropped to his knees. “Stag,” he whispered. “Hinds bedded between us and him. We go around.”
We backed out slowly, executing a masterful arc to keep the wind in our favour.
I prepped the rifle—a 6.5 PRC, a new, flatter-shooting beast, replacing my trusty .308—and we dropped to a crawl, then our bellies, the Lab ghosting silently behind.
I nestled into a slight rise, giving the muzzle clearance over the heather. Perfect. The hinds, tucked away to our left, were oblivious.
One hind, however, lay directly between us and the stag, her gaze locked right on our location, perhaps alerted to the rustle of heather in the quiet bowl.
A quick range check,136 yards, this hard, well-thought-out stalk had rewarded us with a straightforward shot.
He was slightly quartering to us, but the angle was no concern. I didn't wait for a command. The trigger broke, in full confidence that our host was locked into his binos spotting.
The 6.5 PRC delivered its payload with authority; the stag dropped on the spot. "That rifle's quiet," my host remarked, as the remaining hinds filed out with surprising indifference.
We gave them a moment, then went to lay hands on our prize: a beautiful, even 8-pointer. He didn't have to be a monster to be memorable.
As we positioned him for the gralloch, my host shared a profound thought: “You’re the first human to ever lay hands on that animal. That’s something to be mindful of and appreciate.”
I pondered that on the long drag down, where my host, naturally, did about 80% of the work, even though we took turns. These chaps are built different!
Meanwhile, success had been called in from the other team! A young stag bagged via a close-range encounter. Their guide’s pointer/Lab cross had air-scented the beast tucked in a hollow, and a roar from the guide prompted the stag to stand—followed by a precise neck shot from my buddy’s .308.
The race was on: a good-natured "drag race" to the bottom!
