Prologue:
Once upon a time, PM’s granny had a house right at the end of the Munster Valley in Alsace, just before the goat pastures started. In the river Fecht next to the house, PM caught his first trout which started him on a slippery slope. Coincidentally, she died the year the Simson drilling that features in this tale was made in Suhl. In the intervening years, the Internet was invented with its’ hunting forums enabling new friends to be made in a way that was impossible before, the house at the end of the valley crumbled and was demolished, but online rentals came along, and so PM’s family returned to the village for a holiday which, for the first time, included hunting.
The village, the two churches, the darker hills at the back right being the setting for this adventure.
Episode 1: the old “Platzbock”.
It was the second morning of my much anticipated holiday in Alsace, and therefore I had set the alarm for 4.30am. I crept out of the side door of the chalet into the darkness all dressed up in my finest green, laced up my boots and grabbed my Simson drilling which had yet to be used on deer. In the absolute silence, I heard my friend D’s Land Rover at the end of the lane and we set up further down the valley, past the last village which used to be a lumberjack and charcoal burners’ settlement, and up the slope on the forest tracks towards the crest, just under the skiing pistes 1000m up in the Vosges. It wasn’t August yet so only roe bucks and boar were in season. Before dawn, around 5.30am, we sat in a wooden hut on stilts overlooking a steep dip on the mountainside, hoping boar would come to the automatic feeder that drops a kilo of maize every day. This is partly done to keep them away from the crops below the forest, partly to offer more chances of actually staying on top of the numbers in these dark, dense woods.
The sun rises 1000m up.
The sun rose, the boar didn’t oblige, so we set off on a stalk on a rising forest path round the mountain, glassing in front and up and down the slopes between the fir and the ash trees. Around 6.30, we spotted a doe around 50m up a 30 degree slope, who was soon joined by a decent six pointer slightly higher up. “If you can, take that one, he’s fine” whispered D. “Do you think you can shoot him from here?”. I declined and opted to stalk in closer, so we went down the track, and started quietly climbing diagonally up, hiding behind a slight ridge in the terrain. The buck spotted something was up, barked, ran further up the slope, turned, barked again, a few more steps. I reached a diagonal tree trunk which with the sticks provided a solid rest for the drilling. I calmed my breathing from the climb and excitement, slid the manual cocking lever forward, found the buck in the crosshairs (the red dot battery is dead!). He ran up a little more, turned again, BANG! Off went the 7x65R round, and the buck vanished. D had been watching him through his binoculars. He turned to me and with a huge smile said “Waidmannsheil! I saw him roll over, congratulations on your first Alsatian buck!”. “Waidmannsdank, and thanks for making this possible”. We gave the buck ten minutes then went along the path round the mountain to retrieve it from above. D broke a branch off a tree, snapped it in two, placed one in the deer’s mouth, gave one to me. The church bells rang through the woods from the village below: 7am. Whatever else happened that fortnight, this experience was already enough to make it an unforgettable holiday. We placed the tag on the bug, gralloched it, and examined its teeth: worn completely flat, probably ten years old, D was very happy with the result. He gave me the kidneys, heart and liver which traditionally go to the hunter in Alsace, the carcass being sold to help finance the association that has the hunting lease for 9 years at a time. This is a completely different setup from everywhere else in France as it's derived from the legislation in place when Alsace was part of the German Empire before WW1. Because as Eric Cantona says, things are different here.
A first note on bullet placement though: although the buck was stone dead, the shot was high and had smashed the spine. It was my first time shooting on a steep slope and I forgot to aim lower than I do on flat ground. Lesson learned for another time.
Once upon a time, PM’s granny had a house right at the end of the Munster Valley in Alsace, just before the goat pastures started. In the river Fecht next to the house, PM caught his first trout which started him on a slippery slope. Coincidentally, she died the year the Simson drilling that features in this tale was made in Suhl. In the intervening years, the Internet was invented with its’ hunting forums enabling new friends to be made in a way that was impossible before, the house at the end of the valley crumbled and was demolished, but online rentals came along, and so PM’s family returned to the village for a holiday which, for the first time, included hunting.
The village, the two churches, the darker hills at the back right being the setting for this adventure.
Episode 1: the old “Platzbock”.
It was the second morning of my much anticipated holiday in Alsace, and therefore I had set the alarm for 4.30am. I crept out of the side door of the chalet into the darkness all dressed up in my finest green, laced up my boots and grabbed my Simson drilling which had yet to be used on deer. In the absolute silence, I heard my friend D’s Land Rover at the end of the lane and we set up further down the valley, past the last village which used to be a lumberjack and charcoal burners’ settlement, and up the slope on the forest tracks towards the crest, just under the skiing pistes 1000m up in the Vosges. It wasn’t August yet so only roe bucks and boar were in season. Before dawn, around 5.30am, we sat in a wooden hut on stilts overlooking a steep dip on the mountainside, hoping boar would come to the automatic feeder that drops a kilo of maize every day. This is partly done to keep them away from the crops below the forest, partly to offer more chances of actually staying on top of the numbers in these dark, dense woods.
The sun rises 1000m up.
The sun rose, the boar didn’t oblige, so we set off on a stalk on a rising forest path round the mountain, glassing in front and up and down the slopes between the fir and the ash trees. Around 6.30, we spotted a doe around 50m up a 30 degree slope, who was soon joined by a decent six pointer slightly higher up. “If you can, take that one, he’s fine” whispered D. “Do you think you can shoot him from here?”. I declined and opted to stalk in closer, so we went down the track, and started quietly climbing diagonally up, hiding behind a slight ridge in the terrain. The buck spotted something was up, barked, ran further up the slope, turned, barked again, a few more steps. I reached a diagonal tree trunk which with the sticks provided a solid rest for the drilling. I calmed my breathing from the climb and excitement, slid the manual cocking lever forward, found the buck in the crosshairs (the red dot battery is dead!). He ran up a little more, turned again, BANG! Off went the 7x65R round, and the buck vanished. D had been watching him through his binoculars. He turned to me and with a huge smile said “Waidmannsheil! I saw him roll over, congratulations on your first Alsatian buck!”. “Waidmannsdank, and thanks for making this possible”. We gave the buck ten minutes then went along the path round the mountain to retrieve it from above. D broke a branch off a tree, snapped it in two, placed one in the deer’s mouth, gave one to me. The church bells rang through the woods from the village below: 7am. Whatever else happened that fortnight, this experience was already enough to make it an unforgettable holiday. We placed the tag on the bug, gralloched it, and examined its teeth: worn completely flat, probably ten years old, D was very happy with the result. He gave me the kidneys, heart and liver which traditionally go to the hunter in Alsace, the carcass being sold to help finance the association that has the hunting lease for 9 years at a time. This is a completely different setup from everywhere else in France as it's derived from the legislation in place when Alsace was part of the German Empire before WW1. Because as Eric Cantona says, things are different here.
A first note on bullet placement though: although the buck was stone dead, the shot was high and had smashed the spine. It was my first time shooting on a steep slope and I forgot to aim lower than I do on flat ground. Lesson learned for another time.
And having ridden through sleet and snow in June in the Vosges Mountains, I must apologise for the misnomer! Beautiful photo of the Drilling
