Witness the hunter. Inching low through grass and scrub only to stop now and again now as ears prick and eyes rove the ragged slope - pocked with rock fall and hollows in the dying light of a december afternoon. At the crest of a thin rise, the stalker motions for me to move into position. The rifle stands proud on solid ground above a rough bank of heather, glassing the plain and stand of pine below. As warm cheek meets the cooling embrace of damp stock I remember to breathe and begin to live each breath, guiding each one toward a steadiness I begin to feel that closes out the soft whistle of the wind over the rise, does not register the pin pricks of drizzle - brings into sharp focus what I see through the scope as the words come:
“Doe. 130 yards. About to come out from behind that stand of dead bracken…Now.’
“I have her broadside. Steady.”
“Take the shot.”
Climbing out of the argo that morning at twelve hundred feet, scanning the ridgeline for rumour or promise that the day might brighten yet I felt a familiar tug of belonging on the side of that hill in Perthshire. Injury had forced me out of any sporting action for the better part of a year and I was happy just to be out and roaming again. Having got my eye in on the range with the .308 we were to use that day - the head stalker, thankfully, thought me competent enough to be let loose in the wild and was ever-patient throughout the day in answering all the questions I had about his profession and the skills and strategies we were employing. His knowledge of the hill and the demographics of everything that lived there was consummate and far surpassed my own and I was aware that at times that we could have been doing more stalking were it not for my questions taking us down rabbit holes about predation by stoats and curlew habitat. I like to think that I knew instinctively when to keep quiet and focus on the matter at hand. He might suggest otherwise.
Glassing the heather-rocked hillside we quickly spotted a group of three red hinds lying down, protected in the lee of the hill from the steel edge of the wind blowing in our direction. They were four hundred yards of steep pull up and along the hill to the right of where we stood.
“Good fortune. It’s never this easy.” said the stalker.
“Do they seem like a potential target?”
“Yes, young. Definitely takeable. But it’s never this easy.”
It wasn’t that easy. As we discussed the route we would pick up through a notch in the hill to close the distance, we noted the murk beginning to roll down and unfurl upon us. The loch below us, glaucous and serried by wind, now rapidly disappearing. We crested and descended through several gulches and hollows until at last we came to the marker stone we had picked out from below that would signal us within reasonable range of the hinds. The stalker left me below in the heather and moved slowly but with purpose to survey the bank where we believed them to be. Gone. We walked on to assess if our route had taken us to where we wanted to be - the flattened grasses of the lee told us our course was good. We would see them a short while later ghosting over tussocks on a steep bank that would have been foolhardy for us to attempt with visibility waxing and waning as it was.
A new plan. Move toward a section of the hill that holds plenty of protection from this northerly and the damp fog dragging with it. The strange thing being that the wind didn’t blow it through - the clag persisted, bringing with it wraiths and whispers - playing tricks on the eye - was that…could that be…? The mocking alarm call of the black grouse follows us as we pull further up into the gloom. The stalker drops to a crouch. I follow suit. Deep in the heather I see only the bounding, disappearing haunches of what looks to be a sizeable red stag that we have stumbled upon. Right area. Foiled by conditions. We continue in a broad loop to cover some more likely spots, the sky brightening long enough to raise our hopes before darkening again just as quickly. We come up with nothing and so begin our descent back to the argo. Another new plan. Drop down to the pine forest near the foot of the hill for last light and hopefully an opportunity for roe. With around a hundred feet to descend before we reach the vehicle, visibility improves somewhat and I hear a stamp and bark and look up to see two hill roe hinds - skylined and amped as they register our presence. With balletic grace they leap and scatter and are gone. This does not augur well.
We leave the argo behind once more and glass the treeline for movement from around five hundred yards out - undulating yet rocky terrain ahead. Nothing moving. The breeze in our faces, we move slowly following the contours of the slope behind us to a point of vantage and when we reach it - almost as if someone had rung the dinner bell - in the fading light, they come. First in ones and twos, then does with followers and a small group of spikers - finally, an immense buck who strides out of the treeline - strapping and proud - surveying the surrounds with a fine sense of himself. We are still three hundred yards out and need to get closer. Crouching and sloping through dips and behind boulders we move with quiet consideration, Indian file until we reach the bottom of the rise that we set out for. The first target, a roe doe, picked out by the stalker moves behind a rock ledge and does not reappear. No matter. A young male momentarily appears, relaxed, broadside but by the time I change my position and settle he finds a better patch to browse and moves on out of sight. The stalker neatly adjusts the rifle position for me and then:
“Doe. 130 yards. About to come out from behind that stand of dead bracken…Now.’
“I have her broadside. Steady.”
“Take the shot.”
Through the scope I see her legs buckle and she drops very nearly on the spot before I become fully aware that I have squeezed the trigger. I chamber another round and keep the glass on her but there is no movement. The stalker later confirms an accurate heart shot. Above all else what I had hoped for - a clean kill. Grins all around and a firm handshake to recognise a job well done. Well, almost done. Suddenly, a small group of spikers appear heading uphill through the dip directly below us - at their head, the big buck. Only sixty yards away. They are juiced but are none the wiser as to the direction of the shot. Looking right at us - they have no idea we are there. The stalker almost imperceptibly retrains the rifle on the group for me:
“Don’t take the big one. The small one at the back. See him?”
“Yes, but no clear shot.”
“Give it a second.”
And they are moving, stepping, gliding - their sense of discord in the world serving them well as they continue to move, looking here and up and down and there and give me no clear shot and I take none. The spiker I had in my sights glances back from the brow of the hill one more time and then they are gone. I am awed by what we have just experienced. Their proximity to and awareness of us without seeing us. The other-worldliness of it in the ravening dark.
Between us, working hard, we dragged her fully intact about two hundred yards back up the hill over rough ground to the nearest extraction point for the argo. She was a very large doe and in excellent condition. When I considered the height of the lip above the argo bed and the lift we were about to have to perform - I must confess I was steeling myself for the very real possibility that yet another shoulder/ankle/earlobe would ping with the effort. That was until I saw the winch being unwound. Never even saw it there. Was bloody delighted.
I feel fortunate to have her in the freezer and she is providing fine fare for the family over the winter - she is also pushing me to extend my culinary capacities and find ever more interesting ways of cooking and presenting venison. It is the least I can do to show my appreciation.
Once, there were wolves in those hills and forests that loped long days and nights, their teeth flashing and popping at the haunches of unfortunates that could not keep pace with the herd - who yet jinked this way and that and would not surrender to the cold gleam of lupine sneer, succumbing only to the grinding pressure of will and of nature. On a winter’s evening you can feel their presence still - in the weakening light and lengthening shadows, in the thin lament through the trees, in the very bones of things.
“Doe. 130 yards. About to come out from behind that stand of dead bracken…Now.’
“I have her broadside. Steady.”
“Take the shot.”
Climbing out of the argo that morning at twelve hundred feet, scanning the ridgeline for rumour or promise that the day might brighten yet I felt a familiar tug of belonging on the side of that hill in Perthshire. Injury had forced me out of any sporting action for the better part of a year and I was happy just to be out and roaming again. Having got my eye in on the range with the .308 we were to use that day - the head stalker, thankfully, thought me competent enough to be let loose in the wild and was ever-patient throughout the day in answering all the questions I had about his profession and the skills and strategies we were employing. His knowledge of the hill and the demographics of everything that lived there was consummate and far surpassed my own and I was aware that at times that we could have been doing more stalking were it not for my questions taking us down rabbit holes about predation by stoats and curlew habitat. I like to think that I knew instinctively when to keep quiet and focus on the matter at hand. He might suggest otherwise.
Glassing the heather-rocked hillside we quickly spotted a group of three red hinds lying down, protected in the lee of the hill from the steel edge of the wind blowing in our direction. They were four hundred yards of steep pull up and along the hill to the right of where we stood.
“Good fortune. It’s never this easy.” said the stalker.
“Do they seem like a potential target?”
“Yes, young. Definitely takeable. But it’s never this easy.”
It wasn’t that easy. As we discussed the route we would pick up through a notch in the hill to close the distance, we noted the murk beginning to roll down and unfurl upon us. The loch below us, glaucous and serried by wind, now rapidly disappearing. We crested and descended through several gulches and hollows until at last we came to the marker stone we had picked out from below that would signal us within reasonable range of the hinds. The stalker left me below in the heather and moved slowly but with purpose to survey the bank where we believed them to be. Gone. We walked on to assess if our route had taken us to where we wanted to be - the flattened grasses of the lee told us our course was good. We would see them a short while later ghosting over tussocks on a steep bank that would have been foolhardy for us to attempt with visibility waxing and waning as it was.
A new plan. Move toward a section of the hill that holds plenty of protection from this northerly and the damp fog dragging with it. The strange thing being that the wind didn’t blow it through - the clag persisted, bringing with it wraiths and whispers - playing tricks on the eye - was that…could that be…? The mocking alarm call of the black grouse follows us as we pull further up into the gloom. The stalker drops to a crouch. I follow suit. Deep in the heather I see only the bounding, disappearing haunches of what looks to be a sizeable red stag that we have stumbled upon. Right area. Foiled by conditions. We continue in a broad loop to cover some more likely spots, the sky brightening long enough to raise our hopes before darkening again just as quickly. We come up with nothing and so begin our descent back to the argo. Another new plan. Drop down to the pine forest near the foot of the hill for last light and hopefully an opportunity for roe. With around a hundred feet to descend before we reach the vehicle, visibility improves somewhat and I hear a stamp and bark and look up to see two hill roe hinds - skylined and amped as they register our presence. With balletic grace they leap and scatter and are gone. This does not augur well.
We leave the argo behind once more and glass the treeline for movement from around five hundred yards out - undulating yet rocky terrain ahead. Nothing moving. The breeze in our faces, we move slowly following the contours of the slope behind us to a point of vantage and when we reach it - almost as if someone had rung the dinner bell - in the fading light, they come. First in ones and twos, then does with followers and a small group of spikers - finally, an immense buck who strides out of the treeline - strapping and proud - surveying the surrounds with a fine sense of himself. We are still three hundred yards out and need to get closer. Crouching and sloping through dips and behind boulders we move with quiet consideration, Indian file until we reach the bottom of the rise that we set out for. The first target, a roe doe, picked out by the stalker moves behind a rock ledge and does not reappear. No matter. A young male momentarily appears, relaxed, broadside but by the time I change my position and settle he finds a better patch to browse and moves on out of sight. The stalker neatly adjusts the rifle position for me and then:
“Doe. 130 yards. About to come out from behind that stand of dead bracken…Now.’
“I have her broadside. Steady.”
“Take the shot.”
Through the scope I see her legs buckle and she drops very nearly on the spot before I become fully aware that I have squeezed the trigger. I chamber another round and keep the glass on her but there is no movement. The stalker later confirms an accurate heart shot. Above all else what I had hoped for - a clean kill. Grins all around and a firm handshake to recognise a job well done. Well, almost done. Suddenly, a small group of spikers appear heading uphill through the dip directly below us - at their head, the big buck. Only sixty yards away. They are juiced but are none the wiser as to the direction of the shot. Looking right at us - they have no idea we are there. The stalker almost imperceptibly retrains the rifle on the group for me:
“Don’t take the big one. The small one at the back. See him?”
“Yes, but no clear shot.”
“Give it a second.”
And they are moving, stepping, gliding - their sense of discord in the world serving them well as they continue to move, looking here and up and down and there and give me no clear shot and I take none. The spiker I had in my sights glances back from the brow of the hill one more time and then they are gone. I am awed by what we have just experienced. Their proximity to and awareness of us without seeing us. The other-worldliness of it in the ravening dark.
Between us, working hard, we dragged her fully intact about two hundred yards back up the hill over rough ground to the nearest extraction point for the argo. She was a very large doe and in excellent condition. When I considered the height of the lip above the argo bed and the lift we were about to have to perform - I must confess I was steeling myself for the very real possibility that yet another shoulder/ankle/earlobe would ping with the effort. That was until I saw the winch being unwound. Never even saw it there. Was bloody delighted.
I feel fortunate to have her in the freezer and she is providing fine fare for the family over the winter - she is also pushing me to extend my culinary capacities and find ever more interesting ways of cooking and presenting venison. It is the least I can do to show my appreciation.
Once, there were wolves in those hills and forests that loped long days and nights, their teeth flashing and popping at the haunches of unfortunates that could not keep pace with the herd - who yet jinked this way and that and would not surrender to the cold gleam of lupine sneer, succumbing only to the grinding pressure of will and of nature. On a winter’s evening you can feel their presence still - in the weakening light and lengthening shadows, in the thin lament through the trees, in the very bones of things.
