In mid August my wife and I had a short stay at the Glen Clova Hotel, at the head of the Glen of the same name, about 50 miles south of Aberdeen. I had booked a day’s red stag stalking based at the hotel, which was to be the first outing for my newly rebarreled Sako 75. While still shooting well, the original barrel was showing noticeable wear and as I wanted a moderator a new barrel was the obvious way to go. I wanted to retain the 6.5 x 55 Swedish calibre, with a 20 inch barrel to offset the weight of the short but hefty Ase Utra SL5 moderator I had available.
After a few enquiries I went with the quote from Mark Bradley, http://www.bradleyarms.com/ in London. Mark is more often associated with the AR rifle types and has been very helpful to me many times over the past few years. The longest part of the process was the interminable wait for the Proof House, however they eventually passed it and it arrived. Barrel, action, scope mounts and moderator were nicely finished in black Cerakote, a tough, weatherproof finish with a matt, slightly tactical look.
Perhaps owing to the SLR of my now distant military past, I prefer a rifle to have a bit of heft and presence rather than be a bouncy, skinny lightweight and so had selected a Border barrel in their S4 Tikka Regular profile, slightly heavier in the breech section than the original Sako profile. As I had hoped, the heavier breech section and the reduction in length kept the rifle’s centre of gravity just forward of the breech, balancing nicely with moderator and bipod installed.
My load for the original 23 inch barrel did not achieve deer legal velocity in the shorter barrel, so some load development was required.
A consistent, deer legal load giving 2570fps with a 140gr Sierra Game King was arrived at after a few steps, and a classic zero of 2 inches at 100 yards was set up. Accuracy was very acceptable for a stalking rifle, a 0.35 inch group of 3 shots at 100 yards through the rather chunky German A7 reticule an excellent testimonial to the quality of Mark’s workmanship.
We arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon, a minor hiccup was encountered as the dog kennels promised during the booking discussions were not yet available. We had taken the precaution of booking a dog-friendly room so our two Labradors were soon settled while we enjoyed dinner.
The next morning my stalking guides for the day, Thom and Greg, were waiting for me in the hotel reception, and after introductions we booted up and piled our kit into their pickup. As tradition and good practice demand, the first task was the target. A mile or so along the glen we pulled over, clambered out of the truck and walked a few yards into a field. Greg set off down the field and pinned a sheet of A4 to a post about 100 yards away, at the base of one of the many mounds of glacial deposits along the bottom of the Glen. While Greg set up the target, Thom chatted casually to me, sounding out the day’s client with light but pertinent questions about what my rifle was, where I was living, how was the drive down, and what shooting I participated in.
With Greg back with us, I took my rifle from the sleeve, checked the fit of the moderator, opened my bipod and settled prone on the cool damp grass. I carefully fitted the bolt and slipped a round into the magazine. Although I have many years of range practice and am well used to complying with range procedures, most of my stalking has been solo for the roe deer in my corner of Aberdeenshire. I don’t have a lot of experience of formal guided stalking and was very conscious of the stalkers watching me, mentally appraising my every action. I made a point of asking permission to close the bolt and fire. Both stalkers raised their binoculars, and feeling very aware of being under their expert and critical scrutiny I settled into the rifle and took my shot.
Gratifyingly, the scope showed the tiny round hole in the distant target where it should have been, pretty well central and 2 inches high. There was an immediate sense of relaxation from Greg and Thom, who announced that he was happy with it and did not see the need for another shot.
I opened the bolt, and showed “rifle clear”. I asked if I could retrieve my target, explaining that it was a part of the day, a memento to remember the outing by.
With the target folded in my inside pocket, we returned to the truck and the day proper began. The cloudbase was well down, hiding the tops of the hills surrounding the glen in a grey scudding murk.
Thom explained his plan for the day. Because of the low cloudbase, instead of heading to the high moors we would be low in the glen, through the woodland plantations along the river South Esk. Thom and I would be dropped off near the head of the glen, cross the river at a bridge and walk back through the woodlands. Greg would take the truck back down the glen to a point where he could watch our progress and the movements of any stags seen, hopefully directing us to a position where we could engage our intended quarry.
On the way to the head of the glen we stopped and scanned the opposite side of the glen. After a few minutes, we spotted a group of three stags about a mile away, on the opposite side of the river. They were to be our objective. Greg drove us a couple of miles up the glen, to a point where we would walk in and hopefully intercept the stags.
The walk back through the glen was quite demanding for someone who has spent too many years sitting in offices. It was warm, about 16C or so, and very humid. After a mile or so I was dripping with sweat which stung my eyes and was no doubt washing away the copiously applied Smidge insect repellent.
I took advantage of a small burn, splashed my face and dipped my cap in it, getting some relief from the cool fabric on my head. I deliberately did not drink the water, although probably quite pure, relatively benign bugs and minerals can upset stomachs accustomed to chlorinated mains supplies and a sudden change could bring about an unpleasant and immediate end to the day.
Thom and I pressed on through the woods. Near a ruined croft, a red hind erupted from the undergrowth fifty yards or so from us. Glaring indignantly at the intruders, she bounded away. Thom called a halt and asked me to load my rifle. We were about to enter a long, wide ride and he said it was possible that stags could be hidden in the dense undergrowth. I took a few minutes to recover my breath, open the zip of my jacket and cool down. Thom was not even breathing heavily, let alone sweating!
Slowly and cautiously we made our way down the ride, flinching at every cracked twig until we reached the end and were 50 yards or so from the river. Thom called Greg on the radio. From his position high on the far side of the glen, Greg could see that the group of stags we had seen earlier were still in the same general area. Thom and I were now on their side of the river, about half a mile from their position. With added urgency but desperately trying to be quiet and stealthy, Thom and I began to advance. After 15 minutes or so, we rounded a bend in the river and the antlers of the stags began to bob up and down in our view. Thom instructed me to chamber a round, we were closing in and the tension was building.
Creeping along the river bank, Thom who was in the lead motioned me to stop. He dug his stick into the soft ground and whispered to me to use it as a rifle rest. With the rifle resting in the crook of his stick I slowly removed the scope lens covers and pushed them into a jacket pocket. The antlers of the stags and the tops of their heads moved in and out of my view, I had an occasional glimpse of a body but owing to the dense undergrowth not enough to take a shot. After a whispered consultation with Thom explaining the lack of a clear view, he asked me for the rifle, dropped to his hands and knees and motioned me to follow. After a few yards it became clear why he had taken the rifle from me. Who would want a stranger of unknown ability crawling along 6 feet behind through dense vegetation, with a loaded stalking rifle pointing at his bum? No, not me either.
After a crawl of 100 yards or more, the stags were clearly in view. Suddenly, one of the trees behind them began to shake violently. The lower half of one of the forest conifers was in wild motion. One of the stags was violently thrashing the tree, staking his claim to this patch of forest. Thom unfolded the bipod and set my rifle down, motioning me towards it as he did. With heart pounding and lungs heaving I took control of my rifle, which had an immediate calming effect. Thom whispered to me to take the second stag, which had a better head than the first, the third animal was still in velvet. The stags came into view, at 150 yards they loomed huge in the 8X scope. I brought the rifle to bear on the second stag, a great muscular beast. He stopped to look around, I checked that the others were clear, settled the reticule on his chest and fired.
I don’t remember hearing the shot. Working the bolt I quickly chambered a second round, watching as my stag crashed a few unsteady paces forwards and out of view. I picked up the empty cartridge case, and at Thom’s comment of “He’s down” stood up, engaged the safety and closed the bipod. We moved cautiously forward, and after a few moments my binoculars picked up the great body in the gloom of the trees. We watched as his last few movements slowed and stopped, then gave him more time to be sure he had slipped away. He was probably not very pleased with me and I did not want to give him the chance to express his displeasure via his considerable antlers and hooves.
After watching carefully for some time, his movements had ceased and his eyes were glazing over. Thom took my rifle and advanced cautiously to touch the stag’s eye with his stick. No reaction. Together we hauled the great beast a few yards and positioned him for the initial gralloch.
Thom made short work of the task, it took only a few strokes of his knife before a great pile of steaming, pungent green offal lay to one side. Each hauling on an antler, we dragged him out of the trees and onto the river bank, where Greg had arrived. He had brought a rolled up plastic drag sled, and the three of us heaved and manoeuvred the stag onto the sled and secured him with the fixing straps and began the arduous task of dragging him towards the river.
After a short discussion on access it was decided by Thom and Greg to drag across the river and extract to the road, about half a mile away.
The river was quite low and shallow, however the opposite bank was steep and heaving the stag out of the river onto the bank took considerable effort from all of us. The ground on the other side of the river was a clear fell forest, ridges and furrows rising and falling three feet, drainage ditches with several foot of water, roots, stumps and discarded branches everywhere. I tried to assist with the drag, however it was soon clear that my efforts were unbalancing the well practiced team of Greg and Thom and that it was best to leave them to it, however much I felt obliged to pitch in.
It was soon evident that progress was virtually impossible, a change of plan was needed. The Argocat was the obvious solution, driving/sailing it up the river was a possibility, however sites available for launching it were limited and it became clear that a direct extraction to the road was the only practical solution. Leaving the stag on the river bank we trudged to the road, by the time we arrived it was obvious that we could not get it out manually across such difficult terrain. After a hasty and very welcome sandwich lunch in the truck we set off to the hotel to collect the Argocat.
The trailer was quickly coupled and the Argocat loaded. Although I knew of the Argocat, I had never actually seen or travelled in one and was intrigued by the machine. Back at the drop off point it’s low footprint pressure and gradient climbing capability were very soon evident.
The ability of the Argocat to cross very rugged ground was impressive, and the stag was loaded aboard for the journey to the road and the final destination of the game larder.
Once suspended on the gambrel and the final stage of the gralloch complete, an impromptu autopsy revealed that the 140gr Sierra Game King had penetrated both lungs just above the heart, causing massive haemorrhaging and a rapid demise.
About 85Kg of prime wild venison was soon hanging in the cold store.
A short journey back to the hotel and a very welcome pint concluded the day.
View attachment 87637
It was an exhilarating and memorable couple of days, new experiences and an excellent trophy for my man cave wall.
Many thanks to Thom and Greg, their calm professionalism and skill made the day for me. I hope it will not be too long before I can be back.
After a few enquiries I went with the quote from Mark Bradley, http://www.bradleyarms.com/ in London. Mark is more often associated with the AR rifle types and has been very helpful to me many times over the past few years. The longest part of the process was the interminable wait for the Proof House, however they eventually passed it and it arrived. Barrel, action, scope mounts and moderator were nicely finished in black Cerakote, a tough, weatherproof finish with a matt, slightly tactical look.
Perhaps owing to the SLR of my now distant military past, I prefer a rifle to have a bit of heft and presence rather than be a bouncy, skinny lightweight and so had selected a Border barrel in their S4 Tikka Regular profile, slightly heavier in the breech section than the original Sako profile. As I had hoped, the heavier breech section and the reduction in length kept the rifle’s centre of gravity just forward of the breech, balancing nicely with moderator and bipod installed.
My load for the original 23 inch barrel did not achieve deer legal velocity in the shorter barrel, so some load development was required.
A consistent, deer legal load giving 2570fps with a 140gr Sierra Game King was arrived at after a few steps, and a classic zero of 2 inches at 100 yards was set up. Accuracy was very acceptable for a stalking rifle, a 0.35 inch group of 3 shots at 100 yards through the rather chunky German A7 reticule an excellent testimonial to the quality of Mark’s workmanship.
We arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon, a minor hiccup was encountered as the dog kennels promised during the booking discussions were not yet available. We had taken the precaution of booking a dog-friendly room so our two Labradors were soon settled while we enjoyed dinner.
The next morning my stalking guides for the day, Thom and Greg, were waiting for me in the hotel reception, and after introductions we booted up and piled our kit into their pickup. As tradition and good practice demand, the first task was the target. A mile or so along the glen we pulled over, clambered out of the truck and walked a few yards into a field. Greg set off down the field and pinned a sheet of A4 to a post about 100 yards away, at the base of one of the many mounds of glacial deposits along the bottom of the Glen. While Greg set up the target, Thom chatted casually to me, sounding out the day’s client with light but pertinent questions about what my rifle was, where I was living, how was the drive down, and what shooting I participated in.
With Greg back with us, I took my rifle from the sleeve, checked the fit of the moderator, opened my bipod and settled prone on the cool damp grass. I carefully fitted the bolt and slipped a round into the magazine. Although I have many years of range practice and am well used to complying with range procedures, most of my stalking has been solo for the roe deer in my corner of Aberdeenshire. I don’t have a lot of experience of formal guided stalking and was very conscious of the stalkers watching me, mentally appraising my every action. I made a point of asking permission to close the bolt and fire. Both stalkers raised their binoculars, and feeling very aware of being under their expert and critical scrutiny I settled into the rifle and took my shot.
Gratifyingly, the scope showed the tiny round hole in the distant target where it should have been, pretty well central and 2 inches high. There was an immediate sense of relaxation from Greg and Thom, who announced that he was happy with it and did not see the need for another shot.
I opened the bolt, and showed “rifle clear”. I asked if I could retrieve my target, explaining that it was a part of the day, a memento to remember the outing by.
With the target folded in my inside pocket, we returned to the truck and the day proper began. The cloudbase was well down, hiding the tops of the hills surrounding the glen in a grey scudding murk.
Thom explained his plan for the day. Because of the low cloudbase, instead of heading to the high moors we would be low in the glen, through the woodland plantations along the river South Esk. Thom and I would be dropped off near the head of the glen, cross the river at a bridge and walk back through the woodlands. Greg would take the truck back down the glen to a point where he could watch our progress and the movements of any stags seen, hopefully directing us to a position where we could engage our intended quarry.
On the way to the head of the glen we stopped and scanned the opposite side of the glen. After a few minutes, we spotted a group of three stags about a mile away, on the opposite side of the river. They were to be our objective. Greg drove us a couple of miles up the glen, to a point where we would walk in and hopefully intercept the stags.
The walk back through the glen was quite demanding for someone who has spent too many years sitting in offices. It was warm, about 16C or so, and very humid. After a mile or so I was dripping with sweat which stung my eyes and was no doubt washing away the copiously applied Smidge insect repellent.
I took advantage of a small burn, splashed my face and dipped my cap in it, getting some relief from the cool fabric on my head. I deliberately did not drink the water, although probably quite pure, relatively benign bugs and minerals can upset stomachs accustomed to chlorinated mains supplies and a sudden change could bring about an unpleasant and immediate end to the day.
Thom and I pressed on through the woods. Near a ruined croft, a red hind erupted from the undergrowth fifty yards or so from us. Glaring indignantly at the intruders, she bounded away. Thom called a halt and asked me to load my rifle. We were about to enter a long, wide ride and he said it was possible that stags could be hidden in the dense undergrowth. I took a few minutes to recover my breath, open the zip of my jacket and cool down. Thom was not even breathing heavily, let alone sweating!
Slowly and cautiously we made our way down the ride, flinching at every cracked twig until we reached the end and were 50 yards or so from the river. Thom called Greg on the radio. From his position high on the far side of the glen, Greg could see that the group of stags we had seen earlier were still in the same general area. Thom and I were now on their side of the river, about half a mile from their position. With added urgency but desperately trying to be quiet and stealthy, Thom and I began to advance. After 15 minutes or so, we rounded a bend in the river and the antlers of the stags began to bob up and down in our view. Thom instructed me to chamber a round, we were closing in and the tension was building.
Creeping along the river bank, Thom who was in the lead motioned me to stop. He dug his stick into the soft ground and whispered to me to use it as a rifle rest. With the rifle resting in the crook of his stick I slowly removed the scope lens covers and pushed them into a jacket pocket. The antlers of the stags and the tops of their heads moved in and out of my view, I had an occasional glimpse of a body but owing to the dense undergrowth not enough to take a shot. After a whispered consultation with Thom explaining the lack of a clear view, he asked me for the rifle, dropped to his hands and knees and motioned me to follow. After a few yards it became clear why he had taken the rifle from me. Who would want a stranger of unknown ability crawling along 6 feet behind through dense vegetation, with a loaded stalking rifle pointing at his bum? No, not me either.
After a crawl of 100 yards or more, the stags were clearly in view. Suddenly, one of the trees behind them began to shake violently. The lower half of one of the forest conifers was in wild motion. One of the stags was violently thrashing the tree, staking his claim to this patch of forest. Thom unfolded the bipod and set my rifle down, motioning me towards it as he did. With heart pounding and lungs heaving I took control of my rifle, which had an immediate calming effect. Thom whispered to me to take the second stag, which had a better head than the first, the third animal was still in velvet. The stags came into view, at 150 yards they loomed huge in the 8X scope. I brought the rifle to bear on the second stag, a great muscular beast. He stopped to look around, I checked that the others were clear, settled the reticule on his chest and fired.
I don’t remember hearing the shot. Working the bolt I quickly chambered a second round, watching as my stag crashed a few unsteady paces forwards and out of view. I picked up the empty cartridge case, and at Thom’s comment of “He’s down” stood up, engaged the safety and closed the bipod. We moved cautiously forward, and after a few moments my binoculars picked up the great body in the gloom of the trees. We watched as his last few movements slowed and stopped, then gave him more time to be sure he had slipped away. He was probably not very pleased with me and I did not want to give him the chance to express his displeasure via his considerable antlers and hooves.
After watching carefully for some time, his movements had ceased and his eyes were glazing over. Thom took my rifle and advanced cautiously to touch the stag’s eye with his stick. No reaction. Together we hauled the great beast a few yards and positioned him for the initial gralloch.
Thom made short work of the task, it took only a few strokes of his knife before a great pile of steaming, pungent green offal lay to one side. Each hauling on an antler, we dragged him out of the trees and onto the river bank, where Greg had arrived. He had brought a rolled up plastic drag sled, and the three of us heaved and manoeuvred the stag onto the sled and secured him with the fixing straps and began the arduous task of dragging him towards the river.
After a short discussion on access it was decided by Thom and Greg to drag across the river and extract to the road, about half a mile away.
The river was quite low and shallow, however the opposite bank was steep and heaving the stag out of the river onto the bank took considerable effort from all of us. The ground on the other side of the river was a clear fell forest, ridges and furrows rising and falling three feet, drainage ditches with several foot of water, roots, stumps and discarded branches everywhere. I tried to assist with the drag, however it was soon clear that my efforts were unbalancing the well practiced team of Greg and Thom and that it was best to leave them to it, however much I felt obliged to pitch in.
It was soon evident that progress was virtually impossible, a change of plan was needed. The Argocat was the obvious solution, driving/sailing it up the river was a possibility, however sites available for launching it were limited and it became clear that a direct extraction to the road was the only practical solution. Leaving the stag on the river bank we trudged to the road, by the time we arrived it was obvious that we could not get it out manually across such difficult terrain. After a hasty and very welcome sandwich lunch in the truck we set off to the hotel to collect the Argocat.
The trailer was quickly coupled and the Argocat loaded. Although I knew of the Argocat, I had never actually seen or travelled in one and was intrigued by the machine. Back at the drop off point it’s low footprint pressure and gradient climbing capability were very soon evident.
The ability of the Argocat to cross very rugged ground was impressive, and the stag was loaded aboard for the journey to the road and the final destination of the game larder.
Once suspended on the gambrel and the final stage of the gralloch complete, an impromptu autopsy revealed that the 140gr Sierra Game King had penetrated both lungs just above the heart, causing massive haemorrhaging and a rapid demise.
About 85Kg of prime wild venison was soon hanging in the cold store.
A short journey back to the hotel and a very welcome pint concluded the day.
View attachment 87637
It was an exhilarating and memorable couple of days, new experiences and an excellent trophy for my man cave wall.
Many thanks to Thom and Greg, their calm professionalism and skill made the day for me. I hope it will not be too long before I can be back.
