It is day two, of my latest venture North of the Wall.
Today I have a different Stalker; and not the vandal that covered my beautiful rifle in 'patina' yesterday. 'Scratches' is such a pejorative word.
I cannot bring myself to look too closely at the stock. I cannot bring myself to look at all, at the 'Vandal' from yesterday. He should thank his lucky stars that I am not an American guest (actually I should thank my lucky stars I am not American) and I do not sue his young arse.
I decide to be magnanimous, and to 'dine out' in my twilight years; on the stories of how he ruined my beloved rifle - and bore to tears, anyone foolish enough to ask me to shown them the 'war scars' of my beloved .275.
Today's Stalker has responsibility for what I think, is the most stunning Beat on the Estate.
Stunning to look at, but just brutal to Yomp over.
We drive around 'glassing' for deer; and I pray that this goes on for longer than it ever does. I always dread the moment when we have to de-bus, and am always slightly envious of the Gillie - who seems to me to have the 'easiest' job.
The Gillie turns the truck around on an incredibly tight road, with a sheer drop to the nearside, and heads back down towards sea level.
I try and forget the pain that is to come, and just relish the view.
The Stalker looks up at the hill and mutters what I feared he would...
"I hate this part. We need to drop down here (it is nigh on vertical) cross the river, and then get up above the clouds"
Up above the fcuking clouds! Jesus H. Christ.
He hates this part? He hates it? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? The bastard was born on the hill, and is half-goat - I almost passed out putting on my gaiters this morning!
We set off. He like an Olympian, and me like a truculent child. He is a smoker and yet it is soon me, who is wheezing and panting like a 40 a day man.
I have stalked with this lad before. In fairness to him, he has grown kinder with age. He frequently stops to 'glass' (there is nothing to see but I appreciate the charade).
We have discussed this topic in the bar. The ability of the Stalkers to tear up the hill, whilst leaving their 'guest' stumbling in their wake. Poorly managed in can ruin a trip.
One of the other guests (older than me if you thought that was possible) indicated a sagacity that comes with years of experience.
"I never try and keep up with the Stalker. Nothing is happening until I get there, so what is the point?"
It has a simplicity of truth that gives me a remarkable degree of comfort, and I promise myself to adopt that same mentality.
"Half-way there." says the Stalker.
I look down (good job I do not suffer from vertigo) and then up into the clouds. Christ my knees hurt.
Then the God of Hunting (or is it the God of Knees) smile down on me. The Stalker suddenly drops to his knees.
There about 70 yards up the hill, I can see antlers. We both use the binoculars to confirm. They are so still for so long, I ask him if the Stag who is wearing them. is actually dead.
He does not think so, but it is not moving. He gets my rifle out of the slip...
...and we set up. Arcs of fire are confirmed.
"Are you happy to take a Bib shot?"
I have no idea what a 'Bib shot' is.
"If you mean a 'Texas Heart Shot", then no I am not".
He goes to some length to explain what a 'Bib shot' actually is, and I confirm that I am happy to take that if it is presented.
There then follows about 45 minutes of 'Calling', 'Roaring' and 'Mewing" by the Stalker. Nothing. No response from the 'Antlers'. Perhaps he really is dead?
We are reduced to shouting "Up!" "Up!"
I have an 'out of body' experience, and can only think of the scene from the 1995 film of Rob Roy, when Rob Roy is trying to rouse the cattle thieves...
I am chuckling to myself, and the Stalker thinks I have gone mad. Perhaps I have.
Eventually, the antlers move, and out of the mist rises a Stag. He is 70 yards away. He looks in our direction and then charges in. He stops at 31 yards and the 'Bib shot' is on. It is the only shot, and the magnificent beast falls where he stands.
It was for me (unusual behaviour) and I am keen to look as his condition. What the Stalker initially thought to be 'Blue Eye" turns out to be bilateral cataracts. My best guess is that he was only seeing shadows and shapes out of his 'best' eye.
He is a decent weight, and aged about 8/9, but would not (we think) have made the winter.
He was obviously a warrior, and I was (always am), tinged with sadness, at the taking of such a magnificent life.
The Gralloch does not indicate any disease, although he does not have much food in his stomach - he will only have been feeding on what was in front of his nose. He was a good one to take off the hill.
The Stalker passes me my rife in his slip.
"It's better you carry your rifle off the hill. That way if you fall and break it, it's not my fault".
He makes a fair point.
He ties up the Stags head with a piece of rope attached to his stick, and heads off towards a ridiculously steep precipice. I watch in awe as he seems to float above the ground, dragging what is about 18 stones of deer.
Before many moments have past, he is out of sight, and I am left alone on the hill with my thoughts.
That magnificent animal (almost totally blind) was doing the best he could to survive. I am lost in admiration for its beauty and its fortitude and (always) racked with guilt at doing what needed to be done.
I am glad there is no one to see me wipe away a tear, as I begin to make my way down...
Today I have a different Stalker; and not the vandal that covered my beautiful rifle in 'patina' yesterday. 'Scratches' is such a pejorative word.
I cannot bring myself to look too closely at the stock. I cannot bring myself to look at all, at the 'Vandal' from yesterday. He should thank his lucky stars that I am not an American guest (actually I should thank my lucky stars I am not American) and I do not sue his young arse.
I decide to be magnanimous, and to 'dine out' in my twilight years; on the stories of how he ruined my beloved rifle - and bore to tears, anyone foolish enough to ask me to shown them the 'war scars' of my beloved .275.
Today's Stalker has responsibility for what I think, is the most stunning Beat on the Estate.
Stunning to look at, but just brutal to Yomp over.
We drive around 'glassing' for deer; and I pray that this goes on for longer than it ever does. I always dread the moment when we have to de-bus, and am always slightly envious of the Gillie - who seems to me to have the 'easiest' job.
The Gillie turns the truck around on an incredibly tight road, with a sheer drop to the nearside, and heads back down towards sea level.
I try and forget the pain that is to come, and just relish the view.
The Stalker looks up at the hill and mutters what I feared he would...
"I hate this part. We need to drop down here (it is nigh on vertical) cross the river, and then get up above the clouds"
Up above the fcuking clouds! Jesus H. Christ.
He hates this part? He hates it? What the hell am I supposed to make of that? The bastard was born on the hill, and is half-goat - I almost passed out putting on my gaiters this morning!
We set off. He like an Olympian, and me like a truculent child. He is a smoker and yet it is soon me, who is wheezing and panting like a 40 a day man.
I have stalked with this lad before. In fairness to him, he has grown kinder with age. He frequently stops to 'glass' (there is nothing to see but I appreciate the charade).
We have discussed this topic in the bar. The ability of the Stalkers to tear up the hill, whilst leaving their 'guest' stumbling in their wake. Poorly managed in can ruin a trip.
One of the other guests (older than me if you thought that was possible) indicated a sagacity that comes with years of experience.
"I never try and keep up with the Stalker. Nothing is happening until I get there, so what is the point?"
It has a simplicity of truth that gives me a remarkable degree of comfort, and I promise myself to adopt that same mentality.
"Half-way there." says the Stalker.
I look down (good job I do not suffer from vertigo) and then up into the clouds. Christ my knees hurt.
Then the God of Hunting (or is it the God of Knees) smile down on me. The Stalker suddenly drops to his knees.
There about 70 yards up the hill, I can see antlers. We both use the binoculars to confirm. They are so still for so long, I ask him if the Stag who is wearing them. is actually dead.
He does not think so, but it is not moving. He gets my rifle out of the slip...
...and we set up. Arcs of fire are confirmed.
"Are you happy to take a Bib shot?"
I have no idea what a 'Bib shot' is.
"If you mean a 'Texas Heart Shot", then no I am not".
He goes to some length to explain what a 'Bib shot' actually is, and I confirm that I am happy to take that if it is presented.
There then follows about 45 minutes of 'Calling', 'Roaring' and 'Mewing" by the Stalker. Nothing. No response from the 'Antlers'. Perhaps he really is dead?
We are reduced to shouting "Up!" "Up!"
I have an 'out of body' experience, and can only think of the scene from the 1995 film of Rob Roy, when Rob Roy is trying to rouse the cattle thieves...
I am chuckling to myself, and the Stalker thinks I have gone mad. Perhaps I have.
Eventually, the antlers move, and out of the mist rises a Stag. He is 70 yards away. He looks in our direction and then charges in. He stops at 31 yards and the 'Bib shot' is on. It is the only shot, and the magnificent beast falls where he stands.
It was for me (unusual behaviour) and I am keen to look as his condition. What the Stalker initially thought to be 'Blue Eye" turns out to be bilateral cataracts. My best guess is that he was only seeing shadows and shapes out of his 'best' eye.
He is a decent weight, and aged about 8/9, but would not (we think) have made the winter.
He was obviously a warrior, and I was (always am), tinged with sadness, at the taking of such a magnificent life.
The Gralloch does not indicate any disease, although he does not have much food in his stomach - he will only have been feeding on what was in front of his nose. He was a good one to take off the hill.
The Stalker passes me my rife in his slip.
"It's better you carry your rifle off the hill. That way if you fall and break it, it's not my fault".
He makes a fair point.
He ties up the Stags head with a piece of rope attached to his stick, and heads off towards a ridiculously steep precipice. I watch in awe as he seems to float above the ground, dragging what is about 18 stones of deer.
Before many moments have past, he is out of sight, and I am left alone on the hill with my thoughts.
That magnificent animal (almost totally blind) was doing the best he could to survive. I am lost in admiration for its beauty and its fortitude and (always) racked with guilt at doing what needed to be done.
I am glad there is no one to see me wipe away a tear, as I begin to make my way down...
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