Inveraray 2025 - Chapter One: The Hybrid and the Hurricane
The annual boys' pilgrimage to Inveraray was on. Rifles were zeroed—shooting beautifully out to 300 yards... just in case the deer decided to join us from a different postcode.
In the weeks leading up to any trip north, I keep a close eye on the long-range forecasts. All looked well, right up until it didn't. Storm Amy. A named storm. Fantastic. Just what you want when you’re planning a relaxing few days on a mountain.
The group chat was pinging with a nervous energy: meeting places, times, inventory, and, of course, the ever-optimistic itinerary were debated and refined.
Before hitting the main road north, one of my companions and I decided to call in on some ground we look after in the Southwest for a quick couple of stalks.
I was rewarded with a pretty straightforward stalk on a wee five-point cull stag. The rut wasn't exactly raging yet; it seemed the stags were still checking their watches.
We rendezvoused with our third man and finished the last leg of the journey. Landing in Inveraray, we grabbed the essentials—mostly things that could be cooked in a microwave or poured into a glass—and headed straight to The George for dinner.
Over a quick pint, we mused on the next three days: the unpredictable weather, the holy grail of bagging a Sika, and the utterly brutal task of climbing The Hill.
A time and place for the next morning were set with our host, and we were off to bed. Naturally, I laid everything out first. I’m quite ritualistic on that front; it’s a form of pre-hunt meditation. As I'm sure most of us do, I spent the night tossing and turning with anticipation, sporadically awakened by the increasingly aggressive gusts of wind battering the window. Amy was definitely in the building.
A quick handshake and an exchanged "how've you been" out the truck window, and we were instructed to "follow me." Off we set.
Thank goodness the wading distance of our dedicated driver's Hilux was sufficient to beat the floods that had already swallowed a few less-prepared cars.
We arrived safely at the hunting area: a vast Sitka Spruce forest backed by a dramatic, open hill. Our target? A Sika Stag. None of the three of us had ever seen one in the flesh, let alone addressed one with a rifle.
We worked the dense cover, picking up Sika hinds and calves. Our host periodically called, blowing the classic stag whistle and mewing the sound of a receptive hind—Expertly done... today has to be the day!!
No joy! But the anticipation of that classic Sika Stag poking his nose out of the treeline at any moment kept our spirits as high as the gales were gusting.
The morning continued, unnervingly quiet. Even the Red stags on the hill above were scarcely roaring.
“The weather,” we concluded.
Perhaps the impending hurricane had stalled the rut, or maybe the gale-force winds had simply driven every animal deep into the thickest trees for shelter.
We wanted to be out of the area by noon; we could see the weather turning, a miserable grey wall rolling in over the mountains in the distance.
In our group, we rotate who's first to shoot each trip. You shoot what is presented. We aren't trophy hunters, per se, but if a "big un" steps out and you’re the trigger man, you certainly thank Lady Luck.
Myself and the non-shooter of this outing were dispatched to go back for the trucks while the "trigger man" and our guide stalked their way down to the exit.
Then, the moment.
A heat source was spotted in the clear fell. Our host ripped a Sika Stag call—a desperate, pleading, "come-and-get-it" sound. And in came the beast!
One shot from our pal’s .270 rang out through the woods, and the Stag was instantly felled, dropping like the trees around him, a shade over 200 yards. Expertly tracked by our hosts lovely, biddable black lab bitch, barking on arrival.
We arrived with the trucks just as they got the beast to the road.
“Sika?!” we asked, adrenaline surging, imagining the classic dark hide and ivory white antlers.
"Not quite," came the flat response.
It was a Red/Sika hybrid. A beautifully impressive animal, but a hybrid nonetheless.
One of our group was half a stag short of a true Sika, but a memorable beast had been bagged, and the first chapter of the trip was complete.
Now, to get the animal out before Storm Amy decided to get truly involved.
To be continued . . .
The annual boys' pilgrimage to Inveraray was on. Rifles were zeroed—shooting beautifully out to 300 yards... just in case the deer decided to join us from a different postcode.
In the weeks leading up to any trip north, I keep a close eye on the long-range forecasts. All looked well, right up until it didn't. Storm Amy. A named storm. Fantastic. Just what you want when you’re planning a relaxing few days on a mountain.
The group chat was pinging with a nervous energy: meeting places, times, inventory, and, of course, the ever-optimistic itinerary were debated and refined.
Before hitting the main road north, one of my companions and I decided to call in on some ground we look after in the Southwest for a quick couple of stalks.
I was rewarded with a pretty straightforward stalk on a wee five-point cull stag. The rut wasn't exactly raging yet; it seemed the stags were still checking their watches.
We rendezvoused with our third man and finished the last leg of the journey. Landing in Inveraray, we grabbed the essentials—mostly things that could be cooked in a microwave or poured into a glass—and headed straight to The George for dinner.
Over a quick pint, we mused on the next three days: the unpredictable weather, the holy grail of bagging a Sika, and the utterly brutal task of climbing The Hill.
A time and place for the next morning were set with our host, and we were off to bed. Naturally, I laid everything out first. I’m quite ritualistic on that front; it’s a form of pre-hunt meditation. As I'm sure most of us do, I spent the night tossing and turning with anticipation, sporadically awakened by the increasingly aggressive gusts of wind battering the window. Amy was definitely in the building.
A quick handshake and an exchanged "how've you been" out the truck window, and we were instructed to "follow me." Off we set.
Thank goodness the wading distance of our dedicated driver's Hilux was sufficient to beat the floods that had already swallowed a few less-prepared cars.
We arrived safely at the hunting area: a vast Sitka Spruce forest backed by a dramatic, open hill. Our target? A Sika Stag. None of the three of us had ever seen one in the flesh, let alone addressed one with a rifle.
We worked the dense cover, picking up Sika hinds and calves. Our host periodically called, blowing the classic stag whistle and mewing the sound of a receptive hind—Expertly done... today has to be the day!!
No joy! But the anticipation of that classic Sika Stag poking his nose out of the treeline at any moment kept our spirits as high as the gales were gusting.
The morning continued, unnervingly quiet. Even the Red stags on the hill above were scarcely roaring.
“The weather,” we concluded.
Perhaps the impending hurricane had stalled the rut, or maybe the gale-force winds had simply driven every animal deep into the thickest trees for shelter.
We wanted to be out of the area by noon; we could see the weather turning, a miserable grey wall rolling in over the mountains in the distance.
In our group, we rotate who's first to shoot each trip. You shoot what is presented. We aren't trophy hunters, per se, but if a "big un" steps out and you’re the trigger man, you certainly thank Lady Luck.
Myself and the non-shooter of this outing were dispatched to go back for the trucks while the "trigger man" and our guide stalked their way down to the exit.
Then, the moment.
A heat source was spotted in the clear fell. Our host ripped a Sika Stag call—a desperate, pleading, "come-and-get-it" sound. And in came the beast!
One shot from our pal’s .270 rang out through the woods, and the Stag was instantly felled, dropping like the trees around him, a shade over 200 yards. Expertly tracked by our hosts lovely, biddable black lab bitch, barking on arrival.
We arrived with the trucks just as they got the beast to the road.
“Sika?!” we asked, adrenaline surging, imagining the classic dark hide and ivory white antlers.
"Not quite," came the flat response.
It was a Red/Sika hybrid. A beautifully impressive animal, but a hybrid nonetheless.
One of our group was half a stag short of a true Sika, but a memorable beast had been bagged, and the first chapter of the trip was complete.
Now, to get the animal out before Storm Amy decided to get truly involved.
To be continued . . .
tele handler available? 
