Of all the trips I've done this year, this was the one I was most excited about, and the one I least knew what to expect - a bit of research throws up all sorts of things about Sika - they are tough and shot placement is key, they are hyper-stealthy and will appear from nowhere, and much more... there's so much noise in fact, I still have no idea what to expect as I drive down, and urban sprawl gives way to villages, and finally forest.
I arrive and jump in the truck with my guide "B" for the first of three outings, and we drive to the edge of a dense wood and get ready. B is a vastly experienced stalker who knows the area well and I can just tell right away we are going to get on. Stalking through in late afternoon light, we start to cross a patch of open ground heading towards a small copse facing a large bog when I hear a piercing whistle echoing through the fog ahead, it's unlike anything I've ever heard in the UK and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. To our left we see a heavily built 6 pointer gliding in and out of the reeds, but he's about 300 metres away and we move on into the trees, and a high seat. Once up, we have a commanding view across the bog and I can see a pricket snaking along the trees ahead of us; the first stag has gone but there's something big calling in the woods across from us, three sharp whistles to signify he's getting up to begin his rut! The pricket is suddenly almost underneath us, out of nowhere, and I catch myself holding my breath as it's so quiet. Luckily he wanders back into some gorse ahead of us and is blocked from view.
Breaking cover in front of us is a big stag, and when we glass him for a closer look I can see a monumental head.. he's clearly an older boy and is walking somewhat stiffly into the bog, where a hind appears (also from nowhere). In a move that brought back fond memories of my twenties, he sidles up to her (200 metres from us), leaps on her back, throws his head back in a roar less than 2 seconds later, and starts ambling away, towards us. There are some small banks that he moves in and out of, and I'm conscious that this is a cracking stag, but am a bit nervous about taking a shot at this distance (I haven't shot from a high seat before). He closes to 170 metres and I decide I can do it; I can hear my heart beating in my head as I get onto him and so I take a minute to breathe and make sure I'm not moving about so much. With a sharp crack I see him go down right away, and I reload but he stays down and isn't moving.
After a few minutes we get down and slowly approach over a bridge into the bog; wading in deep black water (at this point I wish I had wellies). As we approach, B exhales slowly and I stumble behind him to get a first glimpse. A dark, older stag, he's lying dead, a ten pointer! On the left side of his face is a long-healed gash, which looks like someone has taken a shot at him and bodged it with a small calibre rifle - It almost feels wrong to have started with such a fantastic beast, and I put my hand on him for a quick thank you before we set to work dragging him out (which, in water and thick mud over the ankles, is not the easiest). We physically carry the sledge out over some bits and it's turning pitch black as we set him down by the truck drenched in sweat. There's always a strange combination of jubilation and quiet contemplation for me after a kill, and I'm usually quiet on the ride back.
An excellent start to the trip, with 2 more outings to follow!
I arrive and jump in the truck with my guide "B" for the first of three outings, and we drive to the edge of a dense wood and get ready. B is a vastly experienced stalker who knows the area well and I can just tell right away we are going to get on. Stalking through in late afternoon light, we start to cross a patch of open ground heading towards a small copse facing a large bog when I hear a piercing whistle echoing through the fog ahead, it's unlike anything I've ever heard in the UK and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. To our left we see a heavily built 6 pointer gliding in and out of the reeds, but he's about 300 metres away and we move on into the trees, and a high seat. Once up, we have a commanding view across the bog and I can see a pricket snaking along the trees ahead of us; the first stag has gone but there's something big calling in the woods across from us, three sharp whistles to signify he's getting up to begin his rut! The pricket is suddenly almost underneath us, out of nowhere, and I catch myself holding my breath as it's so quiet. Luckily he wanders back into some gorse ahead of us and is blocked from view.
Breaking cover in front of us is a big stag, and when we glass him for a closer look I can see a monumental head.. he's clearly an older boy and is walking somewhat stiffly into the bog, where a hind appears (also from nowhere). In a move that brought back fond memories of my twenties, he sidles up to her (200 metres from us), leaps on her back, throws his head back in a roar less than 2 seconds later, and starts ambling away, towards us. There are some small banks that he moves in and out of, and I'm conscious that this is a cracking stag, but am a bit nervous about taking a shot at this distance (I haven't shot from a high seat before). He closes to 170 metres and I decide I can do it; I can hear my heart beating in my head as I get onto him and so I take a minute to breathe and make sure I'm not moving about so much. With a sharp crack I see him go down right away, and I reload but he stays down and isn't moving.
After a few minutes we get down and slowly approach over a bridge into the bog; wading in deep black water (at this point I wish I had wellies). As we approach, B exhales slowly and I stumble behind him to get a first glimpse. A dark, older stag, he's lying dead, a ten pointer! On the left side of his face is a long-healed gash, which looks like someone has taken a shot at him and bodged it with a small calibre rifle - It almost feels wrong to have started with such a fantastic beast, and I put my hand on him for a quick thank you before we set to work dragging him out (which, in water and thick mud over the ankles, is not the easiest). We physically carry the sledge out over some bits and it's turning pitch black as we set him down by the truck drenched in sweat. There's always a strange combination of jubilation and quiet contemplation for me after a kill, and I'm usually quiet on the ride back.
An excellent start to the trip, with 2 more outings to follow!
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