My aching body and broken knees, tell me I should have gone home long ago.
My empty wallet, tells me that I should have never come.
However.
Here we are on the last day of my latest little adventure - broken in body, and in bank balance. Absolutely no point in going to one's grave in mint condition, and with a huge amount of cash in some off-shore investment fund. Waste of a life.
At least that is what I keep telling myself.
We have (thus far) been very fortunate with the weather, but today is forecast dreich, and with high winds.
I once again risk a cardiac arrest, when I bend over to strap my broken legs into the gaiters. There must be a market for 'slip on gaiters' for the more (ahem) portly Gentlemen?
The only decent sartorial decision that was made all week was by Mrs.62, when she 'vetoed' me bringing up the kilt. It has long been a romantic wish of mine to stalk Red Stags in the kilt.
Having spent more time flat on my face; than a student in 'Freshers Week', I can only thank my wife for such a wise choice. It has saved me untold damage and bites to my legs, and untold phycological trauma to my Stalkers.
Today I am with the Head Stalker. He is 'old school' (he hates the Vorn), but what he is very good at is giving a 'running commentary' to the guests about his plans, as he drags our arses around the Highlands of Scotland.
Notwithstanding the weather forecast, the scenery is as beautiful as it always is...
We can hear a wee bit or 'roaring' as we slowly ascend the lasted knee-breaking hill.
"We need to move around the hill, see the dead-ground? Use that to make progress. He is holding hinds"
I have no idea what he is talking about. I have not seen anything.
Then the wind changes.
"We need to go back the way we came. Keep low."
I am a big lad. I am 6"2 and 18 stone. If he wants me to keep low, he is going to have to dig a trench.
I do my best.
There is a slight and steady 'drizzle' now. What it does indicate is that the wind is now R-L and is fair moving.
"If I can get you in position, it will be about a 200 yard shot. Are you OK with that?"
"Delighted" I lied.
"Dump your stick with mine and get in behind me."
I do so...
By the time I have done so, he has crawled off about 30 yards.
I have wasted precious moments donning a pair of fingerless gloves. I see he has removed my rifle, and has set in upon the folded slip. He waves me in with a sense of some urgency.
Depending on the terrain, I can 'Leopard crawl' quicker than I can walk, and it is the work of a moment before I am behind the rifle.
With the naked eye I can see the Stag across the Glen; he is holding about forty hinds.
There is a sense of urgency coming from the Stalker that I do my best to ignore.
I look through the scope and immediately lose sight of the Stag.
"He is on the right. The right!"
I lift my head to use the 'Mark I' eyeball. He looks a bloody long way off.
I turned to the Stalker.
"Do you know when I said 'Delighted'? What I meant to say was 'Appalled'..."
The look on the Stalkers face, tells me he does not know whether I am joking or not.
Truth be told, I am not sure myself.
Looking through the scope, I again struggle to locate the Stag. Damn scope and its x6 magnification.
The Stalker sees the barrel of my rifle is pointing too far to the left.
I am looking at two (overlapping) deer on the right of the herd. Is that two Hinds or is the Stag there?
"Come right! He is on the right. Come right!"
If he is not annoyed then he is at least 'engaged', with the quest.
I swing the rifle a couple of inches to the right. And there, unmistakably is the Stag. He is moving up and off...
"He is moving! Take him! Take him! Take him!"
I do my very best to block out the 'encouragement'.
He is quartering, the wind is strong R-L. I am zeroed at 100 yards. He is all of 200 yards.
I am relying on the ballistic calculator in my head (this is not a time for it to fail); I squeeze off the shot, and the Stag crumples where he stands.
I turn to the Stalker and ask...
"How's the family?" - we had discussed them on our last outing.
The tension is broken, and 'normal service' is resumed.
The Hinds gently make their way off, and I go back to collect our sticks.
The Stalker (who has ranged the Stag), confirms it to have been 220 yards.
I am more relived than my outward appearance indicates.
"I will away and get the Argo", and once again I am left with my own thoughts on the hill.
I look across the Glen and see another of nature's wonderful sights...
It is a stupid thing, but every time I see a Rainbow, I think of all the dogs that I have loved and lost. I hope that when I am dead, wherever I go, they are all there waiting for me. Now wouldn't that be grand?
About 45 minutes later, the noise of the approaching Argo breaks the spell...
..and I am back in the 'real world'.
And so it ends.
Three days, three Stags.
Rifle was .275
Home load ammunition was @Yew Tree Fieldsports 124gr with 45gr RS60
Range of shots:
70 yards (ran 100 yards)
31 yards (Dropped)
220 yards (Dropped)
My empty wallet, tells me that I should have never come.
However.
Here we are on the last day of my latest little adventure - broken in body, and in bank balance. Absolutely no point in going to one's grave in mint condition, and with a huge amount of cash in some off-shore investment fund. Waste of a life.
At least that is what I keep telling myself.
We have (thus far) been very fortunate with the weather, but today is forecast dreich, and with high winds.
I once again risk a cardiac arrest, when I bend over to strap my broken legs into the gaiters. There must be a market for 'slip on gaiters' for the more (ahem) portly Gentlemen?
The only decent sartorial decision that was made all week was by Mrs.62, when she 'vetoed' me bringing up the kilt. It has long been a romantic wish of mine to stalk Red Stags in the kilt.
Having spent more time flat on my face; than a student in 'Freshers Week', I can only thank my wife for such a wise choice. It has saved me untold damage and bites to my legs, and untold phycological trauma to my Stalkers.
Today I am with the Head Stalker. He is 'old school' (he hates the Vorn), but what he is very good at is giving a 'running commentary' to the guests about his plans, as he drags our arses around the Highlands of Scotland.
Notwithstanding the weather forecast, the scenery is as beautiful as it always is...
We can hear a wee bit or 'roaring' as we slowly ascend the lasted knee-breaking hill.
"We need to move around the hill, see the dead-ground? Use that to make progress. He is holding hinds"
I have no idea what he is talking about. I have not seen anything.
Then the wind changes.
"We need to go back the way we came. Keep low."
I am a big lad. I am 6"2 and 18 stone. If he wants me to keep low, he is going to have to dig a trench.
I do my best.
There is a slight and steady 'drizzle' now. What it does indicate is that the wind is now R-L and is fair moving.
"If I can get you in position, it will be about a 200 yard shot. Are you OK with that?"
"Delighted" I lied.
"Dump your stick with mine and get in behind me."
I do so...
By the time I have done so, he has crawled off about 30 yards.
I have wasted precious moments donning a pair of fingerless gloves. I see he has removed my rifle, and has set in upon the folded slip. He waves me in with a sense of some urgency.
Depending on the terrain, I can 'Leopard crawl' quicker than I can walk, and it is the work of a moment before I am behind the rifle.
With the naked eye I can see the Stag across the Glen; he is holding about forty hinds.
There is a sense of urgency coming from the Stalker that I do my best to ignore.
I look through the scope and immediately lose sight of the Stag.
"He is on the right. The right!"
I lift my head to use the 'Mark I' eyeball. He looks a bloody long way off.
I turned to the Stalker.
"Do you know when I said 'Delighted'? What I meant to say was 'Appalled'..."
The look on the Stalkers face, tells me he does not know whether I am joking or not.
Truth be told, I am not sure myself.
Looking through the scope, I again struggle to locate the Stag. Damn scope and its x6 magnification.
The Stalker sees the barrel of my rifle is pointing too far to the left.
I am looking at two (overlapping) deer on the right of the herd. Is that two Hinds or is the Stag there?
"Come right! He is on the right. Come right!"
If he is not annoyed then he is at least 'engaged', with the quest.
I swing the rifle a couple of inches to the right. And there, unmistakably is the Stag. He is moving up and off...
"He is moving! Take him! Take him! Take him!"
I do my very best to block out the 'encouragement'.
He is quartering, the wind is strong R-L. I am zeroed at 100 yards. He is all of 200 yards.
I am relying on the ballistic calculator in my head (this is not a time for it to fail); I squeeze off the shot, and the Stag crumples where he stands.
I turn to the Stalker and ask...
"How's the family?" - we had discussed them on our last outing.
The tension is broken, and 'normal service' is resumed.
The Hinds gently make their way off, and I go back to collect our sticks.
The Stalker (who has ranged the Stag), confirms it to have been 220 yards.
I am more relived than my outward appearance indicates.
"I will away and get the Argo", and once again I am left with my own thoughts on the hill.
I look across the Glen and see another of nature's wonderful sights...
It is a stupid thing, but every time I see a Rainbow, I think of all the dogs that I have loved and lost. I hope that when I am dead, wherever I go, they are all there waiting for me. Now wouldn't that be grand?
About 45 minutes later, the noise of the approaching Argo breaks the spell...
..and I am back in the 'real world'.
And so it ends.
Three days, three Stags.
Rifle was .275
Home load ammunition was @Yew Tree Fieldsports 124gr with 45gr RS60
Range of shots:
70 yards (ran 100 yards)
31 yards (Dropped)
220 yards (Dropped)
