I had not long returned from a (fruitless) trip up North on the Sika Stags.
Don't ask.
However if you really want to know, a quick search on this site will enthral you, with the staggering lack of success I achieved.
Happenstance dictates that I had no longer arrived back home (just over 1,500 miles), than I had just enough time to change my socks, before turning the old Jalopy around again, and heading back up the M6.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate the M6.
As motorways go, it is a fine motorway, it's just that you can have too much of a good thing, I had already had about a 1,000 miles of it - it turns out I was to have another 1,000 miles of the damn thing.
Anyhoo.
Rifle of choice this time is my .275.
Whilst she is 'new' to me, she is a Lady with some pedigree. She is based on a 1912 7x57 Action, and other than 'checking zero' with her, she is 'unused' as far as I am concerned. She is my favourite rifle and I love her. She wears a Schmidt & Bender 1.5-6 x 42.
Now I know what you are thinking, (especially if you have read my drivel on the Sika trip).
Another 6 power scope.
I know.
But this time it will be on the Hill. Not in some shitty Highland forest, with leg-stepping "baby-heads", dark, horrible, shitty, shitty forest.
This time it will be different. A x6 magnification will be plenty. You'll see...
Let's not even mention the fact that this rifle is not fitted with a bipod.
I did say not to mention it...
Ammunition for the trip is homelands.
Rigby brass, 124gr @Yew Tree Fieldsports bullets, 45gr of RS60. Original NP primers (been sat in that brass for at least fifteen years. What could possibly go wrong?
My Stalker for the day is a young lad (fairly sure my boots are older than him). He is young. He looks fit. He looks nimble. I decide there and then to hate him.
Because he is young, he uses a Vorn. Because he uses a Vorn, the other Stalkers (all much older than him) also hate him.
We drive over to the range; where I manage to send three rounds into a target such that I am not immediately sent home. This rifle is unmoderated. Now everyone hates me.
We pile into the trucks, and head on out to what I always think is the nearest thing to Heaven on Earth. The Highlands. Dear God I love the place.
I am always amazed at the old crofts that litter the vast lands of Scotland. What is their history?
How were they built? Who built them? What happened to them?
The Stalker and I set off. He has my beautiful rifle in his Vorn. Good. It is nice and safe in there. It should have stayed in there.
We can hear a wee bit of roaring.
I can see the Stag who is roaring, holding Hinds away off to the right. He is an option. We track away in the other direction, working the wind.
The forecast is about 30% rain, but it seems to be holding off.
Then through the binoculars we see Stags. They are 370 yards away.
"The only way to get into him is to crawl. Are you OK to crawl?"
I did say I hated him right?
"Yes. Of course" I lied...
He then took my rife out of his Vorn, silently chambered a round, and slithered away like something out of a Harry Potter film.
I fell onto my face, and made after him. I was dragging his Vorn through the peat hags, the deer shite and the mud. He was returning the favour by doing the same with my beautiful rifle.
I kept half a body length behind him, so I would 'arrive' at my rifle, just in time to see him drag it the next yard. This went on for (I sh*t you not) 300 yards. It was without doubt the longest crawl I have ever done.
Fun fact.
I had my 'piece' in a Tupperware box, jammed into my jacket pocket; flaps down and buttoned tight. I also had several packs of sweets about my person. When I arrived at our final destination I had lost the lot. My cheese and pickle sandwich (not to mention my wife's Tupperware box) is still on the shagging Hill, along with a 'bread crumb' tail of confectionaries.
Somehow we arrive at our destination. The deer are now 70 yards away...
I check through the binoculars for confirmation that the mammoth crawl was worth it...
The Stalker whispers for his Vorn, and places what is left of my rifle onto it...
Satisfied that we have given ourselves a sporting chance, I settle in behind the rifle.
I then spent the next thirty minutes, wishing the rifle had a bipod on it.
Looking through the scope I also wish there was more magnification - hey ho.
"If I knew how to roar, now would be a good time to do it" said my young Stalker.
I have seen the 'patina' he has inflicted onto the stock of my rifle, and so I am ignoring him.
"Can you see the antlers through your scope?" he asks.
I am having trouble seeing anything through the tears when I think of the damage he has done to my beloved rifle.
Eventually, the Stag stands.
He is facing to my left. He is 70 yards away.
The rifle if resting on a Vorn rucksack. The magnification is half what I would like.
However. I am settled (apart from the constant sobbing about the stock) and take the shot when it presents.
Whilst the rifle is unmoderated, I do not hear the shot (I never do) but every deer in front of us does, and they take off to our left.
The Stalker immediately stands to watch the deer, and to see what happens to the one I shot (at).
He says, "It's leg is swinging".
I am still struggling to get to my feet, but eventually manage to do so.
I am confidant (arrogant) in my shot.
"He is dead" - I tell him.
We walk about twenty yards, and there about one hundred yards from the shot site is our Stag.
He is dead. The shot was good and that rifle has been 'bloodied' - in more ways than one.
Don't ask.
However if you really want to know, a quick search on this site will enthral you, with the staggering lack of success I achieved.
Happenstance dictates that I had no longer arrived back home (just over 1,500 miles), than I had just enough time to change my socks, before turning the old Jalopy around again, and heading back up the M6.
Don't get me wrong. I don't hate the M6.
As motorways go, it is a fine motorway, it's just that you can have too much of a good thing, I had already had about a 1,000 miles of it - it turns out I was to have another 1,000 miles of the damn thing.
Anyhoo.
Rifle of choice this time is my .275.
Whilst she is 'new' to me, she is a Lady with some pedigree. She is based on a 1912 7x57 Action, and other than 'checking zero' with her, she is 'unused' as far as I am concerned. She is my favourite rifle and I love her. She wears a Schmidt & Bender 1.5-6 x 42.
Now I know what you are thinking, (especially if you have read my drivel on the Sika trip).
Another 6 power scope.
I know.
But this time it will be on the Hill. Not in some shitty Highland forest, with leg-stepping "baby-heads", dark, horrible, shitty, shitty forest.
This time it will be different. A x6 magnification will be plenty. You'll see...
Let's not even mention the fact that this rifle is not fitted with a bipod.
I did say not to mention it...
Ammunition for the trip is homelands.
Rigby brass, 124gr @Yew Tree Fieldsports bullets, 45gr of RS60. Original NP primers (been sat in that brass for at least fifteen years. What could possibly go wrong?
My Stalker for the day is a young lad (fairly sure my boots are older than him). He is young. He looks fit. He looks nimble. I decide there and then to hate him.
Because he is young, he uses a Vorn. Because he uses a Vorn, the other Stalkers (all much older than him) also hate him.
We drive over to the range; where I manage to send three rounds into a target such that I am not immediately sent home. This rifle is unmoderated. Now everyone hates me.
We pile into the trucks, and head on out to what I always think is the nearest thing to Heaven on Earth. The Highlands. Dear God I love the place.
I am always amazed at the old crofts that litter the vast lands of Scotland. What is their history?
How were they built? Who built them? What happened to them?
The Stalker and I set off. He has my beautiful rifle in his Vorn. Good. It is nice and safe in there. It should have stayed in there.
We can hear a wee bit of roaring.
I can see the Stag who is roaring, holding Hinds away off to the right. He is an option. We track away in the other direction, working the wind.
The forecast is about 30% rain, but it seems to be holding off.
Then through the binoculars we see Stags. They are 370 yards away.
"The only way to get into him is to crawl. Are you OK to crawl?"
I did say I hated him right?
"Yes. Of course" I lied...
He then took my rife out of his Vorn, silently chambered a round, and slithered away like something out of a Harry Potter film.
I fell onto my face, and made after him. I was dragging his Vorn through the peat hags, the deer shite and the mud. He was returning the favour by doing the same with my beautiful rifle.
I kept half a body length behind him, so I would 'arrive' at my rifle, just in time to see him drag it the next yard. This went on for (I sh*t you not) 300 yards. It was without doubt the longest crawl I have ever done.
Fun fact.
I had my 'piece' in a Tupperware box, jammed into my jacket pocket; flaps down and buttoned tight. I also had several packs of sweets about my person. When I arrived at our final destination I had lost the lot. My cheese and pickle sandwich (not to mention my wife's Tupperware box) is still on the shagging Hill, along with a 'bread crumb' tail of confectionaries.
Somehow we arrive at our destination. The deer are now 70 yards away...
I check through the binoculars for confirmation that the mammoth crawl was worth it...
The Stalker whispers for his Vorn, and places what is left of my rifle onto it...
Satisfied that we have given ourselves a sporting chance, I settle in behind the rifle.
I then spent the next thirty minutes, wishing the rifle had a bipod on it.
Looking through the scope I also wish there was more magnification - hey ho.
"If I knew how to roar, now would be a good time to do it" said my young Stalker.
I have seen the 'patina' he has inflicted onto the stock of my rifle, and so I am ignoring him.
"Can you see the antlers through your scope?" he asks.
I am having trouble seeing anything through the tears when I think of the damage he has done to my beloved rifle.
Eventually, the Stag stands.
He is facing to my left. He is 70 yards away.
The rifle if resting on a Vorn rucksack. The magnification is half what I would like.
However. I am settled (apart from the constant sobbing about the stock) and take the shot when it presents.
Whilst the rifle is unmoderated, I do not hear the shot (I never do) but every deer in front of us does, and they take off to our left.
The Stalker immediately stands to watch the deer, and to see what happens to the one I shot (at).
He says, "It's leg is swinging".
I am still struggling to get to my feet, but eventually manage to do so.
I am confidant (arrogant) in my shot.
"He is dead" - I tell him.
We walk about twenty yards, and there about one hundred yards from the shot site is our Stag.
He is dead. The shot was good and that rifle has been 'bloodied' - in more ways than one.
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