Inveraray 2025 - Chapter 4: The Finale
After a day two that ended with a well-earned oven pizza (the height of sophistication) and an early lights-out, I was up before the alarm for the final day of stalking! We stuck to our routine, meeting at the agreed-upon time and place. To streamline our escape later, we’d pre-packed all the non-essentials into the truck—the little bedsit had served us well, even if it’s a miracle three men and all their gear for three days of stalking didn't make the walls bulge.
We rolled into the yard, and as before, teams were chosen. A friendly slap on the arm and a "Come on big man, you're with me" sealed my fate: a third day in a row with a man I'm now certain is at least fifty percent mountain goat. I was more than happy, though. We’d gotten on like a house on fire, and for me, the core of any shooting trip is the like-minded people you meet along the way. The "crack" and absolute shower of "**** banter" were flowing perfectly.
Our first mission was the woods, where Sika stags had been heard whistling during the night. Fantastic—another shot at those notoriously elusive creatures! I was pumped and ready to make the most of this last day.
We worked the timber, carefully "calling in" to those classic deer-holding spots. Flashes on the thermal confirmed deer were nearby, but getting a clear view through the dense trees was like trying to thread a needle in the dark.
Still, every time my guide whispered for me to steady on the sticks and gave a subtle call, my blood was absolutely pumping with anticipation.
This tactical game of peek-a-boo carried on until we reached a perfect vantage point. We’d spotted mature Sika hinds with calves—surely a stag couldn't be far behind. A fleeting chance at a small Sika spiker proved fruitless, but no matter; I'd seen more Sika this trip than ever before.
Suddenly, a small group of Red deer came crashing into the wood, barely fifteen metres from where we sat, pursued by a zealous young stag! They completely spooked the resident Sika, pushing them into the thickest cover.
"Go up?" my guide asked.
The Hill stretched above us, vast and looming. I knew from painful experience that the summit I could see was almost certainly a false summit. But there was only one reply: "I'm here now, let’s go."
Due to the wind remaining constant over the three days, we were forced to approach the hill up its steepest side. At times, the incline was so severe you had to literally engage 4x4—hands and feet, clinging to the side of the earth. I watched my guide, a seasoned pro, masterfully zig-zagging to avoid fatigue while still covering ground—a technique I was finally learning to emulate.
We used a block of scrubby trees for cover, both to mask our approach from any "marauding" deer and to escape the hellish bog myrtle. We hit the heather line and pushed on.
"The deer will be held up on the other face of the hill, out of the direct wind," my guide explained. I managed a strained nod. The black lab gave me a knowing look that only a lab could before bounding back to her master’s heel. My calves were on fire, a feeling matched only by the burning in my lungs, worsened by gusts of wind that snatched the very breath from my body.
I muttered to myself, "Why can't I just have a normal hobby?" I knew the answer, of course; nothing else could placate the instinctive need for the wild I crave.
We crested a point—it felt like the very edge of the world—and crawled to a well-placed rock. Our reward: seven hinds and what looked like a minibus on four legs. It was a tank of a Red stag. The antlers were good—ten points plus—but his body size was what truly struck us.
"Right, too much dead ground and more hinds bedded between us and him and his ladies," my guide whispered. "We need to go up, and round... drop into a valley, and from there we should be able to get into shooting distance."
"Sounds good," I lied, fully aware of the extra vertical metres this would cost me, but my enthusiasm was still swelling.
We pushed on, back up and over the top of the hill, where we were greeted by wind gusts that nearly took your feet out from under you; even the bonnie black lab bitch seemed to struggle. A quick peek over the precipice: "Still there. Let's go."
We dropped into a gully, which quickly turned into a deep ravine cut by fast-flowing runoff. This was going well. We reached our chosen firing point. I prepped the rifle, steadied my breathing. This was going to be some end to a cracking trip.
"Bastard," I heard from my host as he crested the rise just before me. "I can’t believe it. Why has he done that?"
In the space of ten minutes, "old minibus" had decided to ditch his harem of seven hinds in favour of one, and followed her straight down into the hard woods, covering about half a mile in minutes.
"He's obviously a romantic and wants some privacy," I joked.
By this time, we’d heard back that our hunting compadres had had success—an even more close-range stag. A young stag had spotted them at their vantage point and came charging in. At twelve metres, one free-hand shot saw an end to him.
We decided to see if we could locate "mini-bus" in the woods, giving him a few minutes of "privacy" first. Unfortunately, he bettered us and we didn't see him again. But that’s stalking—the biggest part of it is luck, and I’d had plenty of that this trip.
On our way down through the woods, the amount of deer sign was staggering: Sika bore-scoring in trees, wallows galore, and Red deer had been thrashing and snapping tree limbs as thick as my wrist—pure, raw power.
This is all part of stalking for me. Pulling the trigger is easy. The field craft, the reading of sign, the things you see that ninety percent of people will simply never experience—it’s all-encompassing, and that's why I love it.
We bumped into a few more Sika hinds and calves on the descent. We tried a few more calls, but to no avail. We simply sat, watched, and took it all in.
We reached the vehicles, and everyone was there waiting. We each recounted our experiences of the half-day. My hunting buddies burst out laughing at the image of myself and my host cresting the highest peak of the hill, as they'd been sitting in the trucks far below on the forestry track, watching us through their binos.
"Fair play mate, that's a trek," was my reward.
And with that, after more chat, plenty of ****-taking, many thanks, and firm handshakes, we headed for home.
6 stags in less than "optimum" conditions; a named storm no less, trees down and flooding. That's pure testament to our hosts and guides.
My smart watch tells me we've covered just over 37 kilometres whilst stalking, the aches in my body are conformation of that.
Until next year... my legs are still sore & I'm thrilled to be back home with my wife and boy but I absolutely cannot wait to return.
After a day two that ended with a well-earned oven pizza (the height of sophistication) and an early lights-out, I was up before the alarm for the final day of stalking! We stuck to our routine, meeting at the agreed-upon time and place. To streamline our escape later, we’d pre-packed all the non-essentials into the truck—the little bedsit had served us well, even if it’s a miracle three men and all their gear for three days of stalking didn't make the walls bulge.
We rolled into the yard, and as before, teams were chosen. A friendly slap on the arm and a "Come on big man, you're with me" sealed my fate: a third day in a row with a man I'm now certain is at least fifty percent mountain goat. I was more than happy, though. We’d gotten on like a house on fire, and for me, the core of any shooting trip is the like-minded people you meet along the way. The "crack" and absolute shower of "**** banter" were flowing perfectly.
Our first mission was the woods, where Sika stags had been heard whistling during the night. Fantastic—another shot at those notoriously elusive creatures! I was pumped and ready to make the most of this last day.
We worked the timber, carefully "calling in" to those classic deer-holding spots. Flashes on the thermal confirmed deer were nearby, but getting a clear view through the dense trees was like trying to thread a needle in the dark.
Still, every time my guide whispered for me to steady on the sticks and gave a subtle call, my blood was absolutely pumping with anticipation.
This tactical game of peek-a-boo carried on until we reached a perfect vantage point. We’d spotted mature Sika hinds with calves—surely a stag couldn't be far behind. A fleeting chance at a small Sika spiker proved fruitless, but no matter; I'd seen more Sika this trip than ever before.
Suddenly, a small group of Red deer came crashing into the wood, barely fifteen metres from where we sat, pursued by a zealous young stag! They completely spooked the resident Sika, pushing them into the thickest cover.
"Go up?" my guide asked.
The Hill stretched above us, vast and looming. I knew from painful experience that the summit I could see was almost certainly a false summit. But there was only one reply: "I'm here now, let’s go."
Due to the wind remaining constant over the three days, we were forced to approach the hill up its steepest side. At times, the incline was so severe you had to literally engage 4x4—hands and feet, clinging to the side of the earth. I watched my guide, a seasoned pro, masterfully zig-zagging to avoid fatigue while still covering ground—a technique I was finally learning to emulate.
We used a block of scrubby trees for cover, both to mask our approach from any "marauding" deer and to escape the hellish bog myrtle. We hit the heather line and pushed on.
"The deer will be held up on the other face of the hill, out of the direct wind," my guide explained. I managed a strained nod. The black lab gave me a knowing look that only a lab could before bounding back to her master’s heel. My calves were on fire, a feeling matched only by the burning in my lungs, worsened by gusts of wind that snatched the very breath from my body.
I muttered to myself, "Why can't I just have a normal hobby?" I knew the answer, of course; nothing else could placate the instinctive need for the wild I crave.
We crested a point—it felt like the very edge of the world—and crawled to a well-placed rock. Our reward: seven hinds and what looked like a minibus on four legs. It was a tank of a Red stag. The antlers were good—ten points plus—but his body size was what truly struck us.
"Right, too much dead ground and more hinds bedded between us and him and his ladies," my guide whispered. "We need to go up, and round... drop into a valley, and from there we should be able to get into shooting distance."
"Sounds good," I lied, fully aware of the extra vertical metres this would cost me, but my enthusiasm was still swelling.
We pushed on, back up and over the top of the hill, where we were greeted by wind gusts that nearly took your feet out from under you; even the bonnie black lab bitch seemed to struggle. A quick peek over the precipice: "Still there. Let's go."
We dropped into a gully, which quickly turned into a deep ravine cut by fast-flowing runoff. This was going well. We reached our chosen firing point. I prepped the rifle, steadied my breathing. This was going to be some end to a cracking trip.
"Bastard," I heard from my host as he crested the rise just before me. "I can’t believe it. Why has he done that?"
In the space of ten minutes, "old minibus" had decided to ditch his harem of seven hinds in favour of one, and followed her straight down into the hard woods, covering about half a mile in minutes.
"He's obviously a romantic and wants some privacy," I joked.
By this time, we’d heard back that our hunting compadres had had success—an even more close-range stag. A young stag had spotted them at their vantage point and came charging in. At twelve metres, one free-hand shot saw an end to him.
We decided to see if we could locate "mini-bus" in the woods, giving him a few minutes of "privacy" first. Unfortunately, he bettered us and we didn't see him again. But that’s stalking—the biggest part of it is luck, and I’d had plenty of that this trip.
On our way down through the woods, the amount of deer sign was staggering: Sika bore-scoring in trees, wallows galore, and Red deer had been thrashing and snapping tree limbs as thick as my wrist—pure, raw power.
This is all part of stalking for me. Pulling the trigger is easy. The field craft, the reading of sign, the things you see that ninety percent of people will simply never experience—it’s all-encompassing, and that's why I love it.
We bumped into a few more Sika hinds and calves on the descent. We tried a few more calls, but to no avail. We simply sat, watched, and took it all in.
We reached the vehicles, and everyone was there waiting. We each recounted our experiences of the half-day. My hunting buddies burst out laughing at the image of myself and my host cresting the highest peak of the hill, as they'd been sitting in the trucks far below on the forestry track, watching us through their binos.
"Fair play mate, that's a trek," was my reward.
And with that, after more chat, plenty of ****-taking, many thanks, and firm handshakes, we headed for home.
6 stags in less than "optimum" conditions; a named storm no less, trees down and flooding. That's pure testament to our hosts and guides.
My smart watch tells me we've covered just over 37 kilometres whilst stalking, the aches in my body are conformation of that.
Until next year... my legs are still sore & I'm thrilled to be back home with my wife and boy but I absolutely cannot wait to return.
