Inveraray 2025 - Chapter 3: Into the Back of Beyond
After a successful morning on Day 2, we retreated to base camp for a quick shower and a change of gear before heading over to The George for lunch with our hosts. Over cold drinks and a hearty meal, we enthusiastically retold the tales of the morning's efforts.
The evening's plan was hatched: a stalk on some blessedly flatter ground (a collective sigh of relief was heard). This remote area is seldom stalked but is a known haunt for deer, with some impressive stags often spotted patrolling the deer fencing. With the plan set, we retired for a couple of hours of well-deserved rest and recovery before gearing up again.
The teams remained the same. The drive out was an adventure in itself, navigating rocky tracks and "green lanes" that eventually gave way to stunning, wide-open vistas. We decamped and set about the evening's pursuit.
My host and I stalked the alpine edges, heading into an area with heavy deer activity. It was a gentle walk, and we watched many deer—mostly young stags chasing less-than-willing hinds. We agreed it was like the deer version of "last orders" in that dingy nightclub we've all found ourselves in back in our local town—lots of hopeful enthusiasm, but very little success.
We sat and watched for a good while, catching a fleeting glimpse of a decent stag working the fence line away from us but heading toward our fellow hunters. We silently hoped their paths would intersect.
Suddenly, a resonant roar bellowed from the woods to our right. "Sounds promising," my host whispered.
A heat signature in the thermal spotter confirmed a stag working the edge, but he was stubbornly unwilling to break cover. We counted four young stags hunkered down in the lee of the woods, clearly not brave enough to enter when the big lad was around.
This frustrating scene carried on for a couple of hours. I was content, having bagged a stag that morning, but my host was determined.
"Look," I reminded him, "this is a thousand times better than work (and I love my job!). I'm happy, so there's absolutely no pressure!"
As we worked our way into a better vantage point to try and glass the elusive stag, we noticed an odd-looking beast standing and watching us. A red stag? Yes, and of a decent age and body size, but with no antlers—only tiny, flattened nubs of pedicles.
"Hummel," my host mouthed quietly. "If nothing decent shows, I may ask you to take him for me."
It was the first time I'd ever seen such an animal, though I’d read about them—a proper "everyday is a learning day" moment.
As the skies began to darken, a muffled shot rang out in the distance. We crossed our fingers, hoping that was another stag headed for the chiller.
Nothing, however, could coax the stag we had glimpsed out of the woodland edge. So, the Hummel became our focus. A good one to take, as is often said.
A quick, silent stalk back on ourselves put us into a good shooting position, just over 200 yards. The shot rang out, and the stag dropped immediately.
"Fair whack when it gets there, eh?" my host remarked.
To this, I nodded. I'd been thoroughly impressed with the terminal performance of the 6.5 PRC. "It's like the Creedmoor, but for grown-ups" I joked.
Our tireless Lab, rewarded for her patience, found the Hummel with little effort, barking happily as she arrived.
Looking back toward the tracks, we saw the headlights of a truck on the horizon. One of the other guys had headed back to offer recovery assistance. We waved him in.
"I was watching a deer there in the thermal and it just disappeared," he grinned. "Makes sense now!"
Our host executed a lightning-quick gralloch, and we loaded the Hummel into the pickup. The relief driver then passed on a crucial message: "They’ve got a fair stag down over the back—they'll need the quad. He’s almost on the boundary!"
With that, our host set out with the quad to recover stag number five of the trip. It turned out to be a nice 9-pointer, wide and dark—indeed, the beast we’d seen earlier working the deer fence, as they often do this time of year.
The shot was just shy of 300 yards. Good job we practiced, we all thought.
With the recovery complete, we called it a day, loaded everything up, and headed back to the digs to clean rifles, dry our gear, and prep for the final day!
(Sadly no accompanying photos)
After a successful morning on Day 2, we retreated to base camp for a quick shower and a change of gear before heading over to The George for lunch with our hosts. Over cold drinks and a hearty meal, we enthusiastically retold the tales of the morning's efforts.
The evening's plan was hatched: a stalk on some blessedly flatter ground (a collective sigh of relief was heard). This remote area is seldom stalked but is a known haunt for deer, with some impressive stags often spotted patrolling the deer fencing. With the plan set, we retired for a couple of hours of well-deserved rest and recovery before gearing up again.
The teams remained the same. The drive out was an adventure in itself, navigating rocky tracks and "green lanes" that eventually gave way to stunning, wide-open vistas. We decamped and set about the evening's pursuit.
My host and I stalked the alpine edges, heading into an area with heavy deer activity. It was a gentle walk, and we watched many deer—mostly young stags chasing less-than-willing hinds. We agreed it was like the deer version of "last orders" in that dingy nightclub we've all found ourselves in back in our local town—lots of hopeful enthusiasm, but very little success.
We sat and watched for a good while, catching a fleeting glimpse of a decent stag working the fence line away from us but heading toward our fellow hunters. We silently hoped their paths would intersect.
Suddenly, a resonant roar bellowed from the woods to our right. "Sounds promising," my host whispered.
A heat signature in the thermal spotter confirmed a stag working the edge, but he was stubbornly unwilling to break cover. We counted four young stags hunkered down in the lee of the woods, clearly not brave enough to enter when the big lad was around.
This frustrating scene carried on for a couple of hours. I was content, having bagged a stag that morning, but my host was determined.
"Look," I reminded him, "this is a thousand times better than work (and I love my job!). I'm happy, so there's absolutely no pressure!"
As we worked our way into a better vantage point to try and glass the elusive stag, we noticed an odd-looking beast standing and watching us. A red stag? Yes, and of a decent age and body size, but with no antlers—only tiny, flattened nubs of pedicles.
"Hummel," my host mouthed quietly. "If nothing decent shows, I may ask you to take him for me."
It was the first time I'd ever seen such an animal, though I’d read about them—a proper "everyday is a learning day" moment.
As the skies began to darken, a muffled shot rang out in the distance. We crossed our fingers, hoping that was another stag headed for the chiller.
Nothing, however, could coax the stag we had glimpsed out of the woodland edge. So, the Hummel became our focus. A good one to take, as is often said.
A quick, silent stalk back on ourselves put us into a good shooting position, just over 200 yards. The shot rang out, and the stag dropped immediately.
"Fair whack when it gets there, eh?" my host remarked.
To this, I nodded. I'd been thoroughly impressed with the terminal performance of the 6.5 PRC. "It's like the Creedmoor, but for grown-ups" I joked.
Our tireless Lab, rewarded for her patience, found the Hummel with little effort, barking happily as she arrived.
Looking back toward the tracks, we saw the headlights of a truck on the horizon. One of the other guys had headed back to offer recovery assistance. We waved him in.
"I was watching a deer there in the thermal and it just disappeared," he grinned. "Makes sense now!"
Our host executed a lightning-quick gralloch, and we loaded the Hummel into the pickup. The relief driver then passed on a crucial message: "They’ve got a fair stag down over the back—they'll need the quad. He’s almost on the boundary!"
With that, our host set out with the quad to recover stag number five of the trip. It turned out to be a nice 9-pointer, wide and dark—indeed, the beast we’d seen earlier working the deer fence, as they often do this time of year.
The shot was just shy of 300 yards. Good job we practiced, we all thought.
With the recovery complete, we called it a day, loaded everything up, and headed back to the digs to clean rifles, dry our gear, and prep for the final day!
(Sadly no accompanying photos)
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