It is Wednesday of our week away up on Harris, and I have (thus far) not exactly covered myself in glory.
A day's fishing produced a Smolt (doesn't count apparently), and a half-day shooting over Pointers demonstrated a complete absence of Grouse and my inability to hit Snipe.
Still onwards and upwards. Literally.
My Stalker for the day is the same lad who 'filled in' for the Dog-man yesterday. I make a mental note to look out for him stepping in front of the rifle.
The sun has put in (an all too brief) appearance as I am driven off to the range to 'check zero'.
Notwithstanding the usual 'performance' anxiety whenever anyone is watching me 'check zero' (or find the atlas joint on any deer come to think of it)
I manage to send a round 2" high from the bull.
My Stalker asks if he can also fire the rifle (he is left-handed) just in case there is a need for him to take a shot on the hill.
I have brought lead and non-lead ammunition (just in case), but am informed that lead is fine, and so I load up with the cheaper version. On a trip such as this, it is a little bit like Tesco's when it comes to saving money - every little helps.
His bullet hole touches mine.
"Zeroed 2" high at 100 yards sir?"
"You know it".
Happy we both know where the trigger is on the rifle (Sako 75 in .308 for those that care), we load up into his truck and head off.
We have not long entered the 'field of play' when we see a decent stag (it is all relative up here - they are smaller than elsewhere).
We are still in the truck on the track. The stag is about 180 yards away up on the hill and there is a knoll about 20 yards from the track.
"Not much of a stalk, but there if you want it." said the Stalker.
"No stalk at all". said the client.
There then followed a short conversation about what I was prepared to take, and we came to a better understanding of each other. I would by the end of the day have serious regrets about my stance on this...
We drove off and left the Stag in peace.
At the end of the track there was a fishing Bothy, and we stopped and spoke to the fisherman who was loitering outside. He explained that the wind was too strong to go out on his 'floating chair' (I know right!) and he was waiting for things to calm down.
Not being terribly experienced in fishing, I queried why it was he felt the wind was too strong. As I did so, I suddenly heard a train thundering past.
I span round to see where this train had come from, before I realised it was actually the wind gusting at the top of the hill.
I turned to look up a the hills. They looked imposing.
Wishing the fisherman 'tight lines', we got back in the truck and headed back from whence we came.
The stag we had seen, had moved off and was disappearing off into the distance into what looked like to me, as the "Glen of Death". It looked terrible.
Nothing ventured and all that - the decision was made to dismount and get after it.
There then followed two of the most strenuous hours on the hill that I can ever remember. Every time we seemed to make ground on the stag, it would just gently trot off, further into and further round the "Glen of Death".
It was not too long before my aged old body was regretting not shooting it from the roadside knoll. What is it they say?
"My ego is writing cheques my body can't cash".
My thighs were on fire, my lungs felt like they had been crushed to the size of two tangerines, and I could taste iron in my spit.
My stalker (aged 25) was a former professional rugby player, and consequently had no sense of his own mortality much less a sense of mine!
Somehow I kept up with him, and somehow we kept up with the ever disappearing stag.
Eventually, we caught up with the stag. We were deep in the "Glen of Death", steep inhospitable terrain, crisscrossed with a myriad of burns.
The stag fell on the other side of the Glen and over the other side of the biggest burn in the Glen. Bugger.
The reality of the situation slowly dawned on me. There was no Garron. There was no way an Argo could get in to where we were. This was going to be brutal and this was going to be 'old school'.
"Do you want the skull?"
Skull is weight. I have plenty of skulls. I tried to estimate how far the drag was going to be back to the truck. I looked at the ground, terrain and topography.
"No. No I don't want the bloody skull. Nor do I want the legs or the gralloch. I want this damn thing as light as we can make it!"
We set to work and did just that. The Stalker produced two long straps and we just leaned in.
Brutal. There is no other word for it. Just brutal.
On more than one occasion I found myself waist deep in the burns, pushing the beast whilst the Stalker pulled on the straps. I was also (of course) carrying my rifle and the Stalker's bins. (as well as my own). It was emotional, and more than once I had to stop and drink from a burn...
There were moments when I did not think we could make it, but slowly, painfully, we made ground...
As we finally crested the last summit before it was all 'downhill' to the track, the Stalker turned and said to me...
"Do you know sir. Most clients would have just walked off the hill and left me to it."
Now he fcuking tells me!
(Not a chance in Hell, I would ever do that).
A day's fishing produced a Smolt (doesn't count apparently), and a half-day shooting over Pointers demonstrated a complete absence of Grouse and my inability to hit Snipe.
Still onwards and upwards. Literally.
My Stalker for the day is the same lad who 'filled in' for the Dog-man yesterday. I make a mental note to look out for him stepping in front of the rifle.
The sun has put in (an all too brief) appearance as I am driven off to the range to 'check zero'.
Notwithstanding the usual 'performance' anxiety whenever anyone is watching me 'check zero' (or find the atlas joint on any deer come to think of it)
I manage to send a round 2" high from the bull.
My Stalker asks if he can also fire the rifle (he is left-handed) just in case there is a need for him to take a shot on the hill.
I have brought lead and non-lead ammunition (just in case), but am informed that lead is fine, and so I load up with the cheaper version. On a trip such as this, it is a little bit like Tesco's when it comes to saving money - every little helps.
His bullet hole touches mine.
"Zeroed 2" high at 100 yards sir?"
"You know it".
Happy we both know where the trigger is on the rifle (Sako 75 in .308 for those that care), we load up into his truck and head off.
We have not long entered the 'field of play' when we see a decent stag (it is all relative up here - they are smaller than elsewhere).
We are still in the truck on the track. The stag is about 180 yards away up on the hill and there is a knoll about 20 yards from the track.
"Not much of a stalk, but there if you want it." said the Stalker.
"No stalk at all". said the client.
There then followed a short conversation about what I was prepared to take, and we came to a better understanding of each other. I would by the end of the day have serious regrets about my stance on this...
We drove off and left the Stag in peace.
At the end of the track there was a fishing Bothy, and we stopped and spoke to the fisherman who was loitering outside. He explained that the wind was too strong to go out on his 'floating chair' (I know right!) and he was waiting for things to calm down.
Not being terribly experienced in fishing, I queried why it was he felt the wind was too strong. As I did so, I suddenly heard a train thundering past.
I span round to see where this train had come from, before I realised it was actually the wind gusting at the top of the hill.
I turned to look up a the hills. They looked imposing.
Wishing the fisherman 'tight lines', we got back in the truck and headed back from whence we came.
The stag we had seen, had moved off and was disappearing off into the distance into what looked like to me, as the "Glen of Death". It looked terrible.
Nothing ventured and all that - the decision was made to dismount and get after it.
There then followed two of the most strenuous hours on the hill that I can ever remember. Every time we seemed to make ground on the stag, it would just gently trot off, further into and further round the "Glen of Death".
It was not too long before my aged old body was regretting not shooting it from the roadside knoll. What is it they say?
"My ego is writing cheques my body can't cash".
My thighs were on fire, my lungs felt like they had been crushed to the size of two tangerines, and I could taste iron in my spit.
My stalker (aged 25) was a former professional rugby player, and consequently had no sense of his own mortality much less a sense of mine!
Somehow I kept up with him, and somehow we kept up with the ever disappearing stag.
Eventually, we caught up with the stag. We were deep in the "Glen of Death", steep inhospitable terrain, crisscrossed with a myriad of burns.
The stag fell on the other side of the Glen and over the other side of the biggest burn in the Glen. Bugger.
The reality of the situation slowly dawned on me. There was no Garron. There was no way an Argo could get in to where we were. This was going to be brutal and this was going to be 'old school'.
"Do you want the skull?"
Skull is weight. I have plenty of skulls. I tried to estimate how far the drag was going to be back to the truck. I looked at the ground, terrain and topography.
"No. No I don't want the bloody skull. Nor do I want the legs or the gralloch. I want this damn thing as light as we can make it!"
We set to work and did just that. The Stalker produced two long straps and we just leaned in.
Brutal. There is no other word for it. Just brutal.
On more than one occasion I found myself waist deep in the burns, pushing the beast whilst the Stalker pulled on the straps. I was also (of course) carrying my rifle and the Stalker's bins. (as well as my own). It was emotional, and more than once I had to stop and drink from a burn...
There were moments when I did not think we could make it, but slowly, painfully, we made ground...
As we finally crested the last summit before it was all 'downhill' to the track, the Stalker turned and said to me...
"Do you know sir. Most clients would have just walked off the hill and left me to it."
Now he fcuking tells me!
(Not a chance in Hell, I would ever do that).
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and it doesn’t get easier!
Well done on the stag, Amhuinnsuidhe produces really good quality stags in terms of meat and they are considered the best on the island among the "old hands" who might have not have been operating entirely legally, it is said.
