Almost before the .308 had finished barking, I knew the shot was wrong. The rifle jumped, the recoil was uncontrolled, and the fault was mine. Not the rifle, not the ammunition, not the conditions. The rest of the trip became an attempt to atone for that mistake.
Camp
A friend had invited me to help with his roe cull in the North Yorkshire Dales whilst he was away. Stalking is one of the few things worth arriving early for, as being rushed rarely helps keep a clear head. The M6 was clear, so I arrived in the Dales in good time on a warm, pleasant afternoon.
Before heading out, I took the dogs for what was meant to be a short walk and followed signs towards a local beauty spot. The first trail marker said to allow up to four and a half hours for the loop. I was early, but not that early, so most of the steep, craggy route became a run in heavy boots. Not ideal preparation for an evening stalk on steep ground, but it was a beautiful valley and I hoped the pace would take the edge off the young dog’s eagerness, as this would be his first proper stalk.
The tent was pitched before heading out at 1945hrs, having repeatedly learned the hard way that doing it later, tired and in the dark, is miserable. Sunset was around 2140hrs, so there was still plenty of legal light ahead, with a view to being back by 2300hrs.
Clearfell
The ground was steep and heavy, with broken clearfell and forestry rising from around 320m to over 550m. After the earlier run my legs were already heavy, and the thought of weaving up and down the hill, quartering into the westerly, did not make them any lighter.
Half an hour in, a lone doe stirred at around 250 metres. She had winded me across the gill in a corner I was cutting to gain height. She stood looking back for a moment, then headed towards the shelter of the big wood. Shortly afterwards, about two thirds of the way up the climb and catching my breath, I scanned behind me with the thermal and caught the shape and movement of roe in the clearfell at around 400 metres. It could not be confirmed properly from there, but the way it moved and where it was gave me a strong sense that it was a buck.
The young dog and I started working down through broken timber, bleached white by the sun. The wind was still in my favour, but the light remained very bright. The options were to flank back, drop lower and stalk up into him via a quad track, or use the cover and undulations of the clearfell to intercept him head on. I took the direct approach, partly because my legs were tired and partly because losing sight of him would have meant climbing all the way back past him to high ground to relocate him.
He turned and began browsing away. I closed to 170m and the four point buck was still unaware, but the ground was tangled, open and noisy underfoot, making it difficult to move cleanly and quickly with the rifle and sticks without too much clattering and cracking. I found a solid position and set up. The buck simply would not stop walking. In hindsight, that should have been the point to stop, flank around, or crawl in to take another 50 metres off it.
Instead, tired and over-eager, I snatched the shot as he paused momentarily to hop over a tangled stump. The sticks were set solid, but the rifle was not properly settled, with my left hand doing nothing useful after a few minutes spent watching and waiting. Almost before the .308 barked, and certainly before the impact, I could feel that something had gone wrong. The rifle jumped and the recoil was not controlled. A puff of dust lifted from the stone behind him.
There was no mystery to it. I knew straight away. It was not the rifle, ammunition or conditions. The Tikka is capable and reliable, and I have complete confidence in it: it prints sub-MOA and is zeroed an inch high at 100m. The shot felt wrong as it broke, the recoil was uncontrolled, and the dust behind him confirmed what was already obvious. It was entirely me. It appeared, fortunately, to be a clean miss, a couple of inches high over the top.
The buck startled and looked back. There was definitely time for another shot, but after making a poor first attempt at that distance, there was no point doubling down. No strike sound, no visible impact, and his reaction was consistent with a miss. After he disappeared, the shot site was checked properly for fur or blood. None present, as expected.
I was furious with myself, but pleased with the young dog, who had stayed steady to the shot and tight on the stalk. The miss was mine: tired legs, too much excitement, and a shot I should have worked harder for.
Resigned to limiting my range to 100m, I carried on until five minutes before last legal light, by which point I could no longer see through the Schmidt & Bender 8x56 Klassik. There were no further chances. I stalked into a couple of does, but not a single other buck presented. I turned in still furious with myself.
Awoken by cuckoos
The alarm was set for four hours. I was startled awake not by the phone, but by rapturous cuckoos in the woods around me. Christ. I had slept through it and it was already 0348hrs and daylight was breaking. Wet clothes and boots were thrown on, rifle assembled, dog to heel, and I was stalking by 0355hrs.
My first sight was of a woodcock roding past only metres away in the thin dawn light. A properly magical start. Then a red squirrel scampered up an old pine beside the glade of a stream. I had gone to bed angry, but could not stay angry for long with that much life around me.
Next came the false alarm of a doe in the clearfell. I got into position on her a couple of times as she browsed across, hoping a buck might present, but nothing followed. Eventually she saw my movement and skipped off. A male goshawk then skimmed over, deliberate and majestic. A few hundred metres farther on, curlews and an oystercatcher broke, and minutes later a lapwing danced low across the ground. I reached a steep-banked glade and peered in, spotting deer with the naked eye: a young kid skipping leggily towards its skittish doe, the two of them fading into the dark timber edge. It felt like a proper showcase of our moorland fringe species, a morning I’ll never forget.
High ground
I climbed onwards towards the higher vantage points, but no other deer showed for the next hour. I could see fresh slots over my previous evening’s footprints, and the dog was again showing strong interest in the scent. Feeling tired and almost light-headed, I stopped for a moment for my first rest of the morning. The young dog fixed steadily on bracken scrub less than 10 metres away whilst I scanned the open swathes below. I exhaled loudly while stretching my arms, and a roe doe rose from her couch in the bracken that the dog had been watching. I slowly dropped to my knee, ready for a freehand shot if she had a buck with her, but she was alone. For a few seconds, none of us moved, before she eventually lost nerve and bolted down the ravine.
I stayed to watch, in case she bumped anything else, but it was getting towards 0530hrs and any hopes of a buck were fading. I had almost run out of wind head, with very little ground left that I could still stalk with the wind in my face. To carry on from there I would either have to work the wrong way or tack back and start a new quarter lower down.
Then, suddenly, in the half-grown Sitka, a big heat source appeared some 500m away. Moments later, 100m below it, another, in the reeds. Surely one of the two had to be a buck.
This time I discounted the direct approach and took a more cautious dogleg down the ravine and across, picking my way along a stream bed. I would not see the deer again until I was in position, so marked them against visible landmarks.
When I popped up, only the furthest deer was there, fussing about in a reedy patch. She was in range, but being a doe was no use to me. The other deer should have been about 90m to my side, but the place was empty. I sat and watched with the dog, scanning and waiting.
Then the second deer appeared, 200m away: a yearling doe. Bugger. Moments later, her brother stepped out to follow. Bingo.
I needed to close the ground, but with their mother between us it would be a careful stalk across reedy brush. The dog and I picked our way slowly and steadily, closing to 80m before I rose with the sticks open. Rifle up, and he was a lovely young buck: in great condition, little antlers still in velvet, and his winter coat not fully shed, giving him a dappled, kid-like appearance.
His twin was in front of him, so there was no shot yet. They were browsing towards me, so there was no rush and no need to force it. Over the next ten minutes they came closer and closer while I stood motionless. Eventually the doe was less than 20m away before she turned uphill and exposed her brother.
I waited for him to appear fully from the long grass. The dog was locked onto the doe, padding the ground in excitement as she twitched the midges from her ears and chewed a fresh frond of bright green bracken. The buck stepped into the crosshairs at 25m and I slipped a quartering shot into the front of the chest and out through the left shoulder. The shot was clean, taking the heart and lungs as intended and staying in front of the diaphragm.
The yearling doe ran 10 metres and stopped to look back for her brother. He was not there. There was time to take a photograph of her before she finally spooked. The older doe, their mother, I presumed, had bolted past us onto the rocky crest above and watched back intently.
A few minutes later I approached the shot site with the dog, letting him work on to where the buck lay dead. It was only five metres, but it was his first track. The gralloch was done, and we headed back to camp.
Making amends
I packed up my bedding and then set up a target. I always carry one with the rifle, and after the previous evening I wanted to remove any last niggle about either the Tikka or my shooting before the long drive home, or before the next trip. From a rough knoll, with slippery footing on a steep bank, I fired three shots from sticks at 100m. The dog sat at my side while I shot. I had not doubted the rifle, but it was cathartic to see the group print true.
The buck’s meat has already been well received by my three boys and, hopefully, a little browsing pressure has been taken off the restock.
More than that, the morning became a counterpoint to the evening. The first stalk had been rushed and snatched; the second was worked for. Slower, calmer, closer, and with the shot measured rather than forced. That was enough.
Camp
A friend had invited me to help with his roe cull in the North Yorkshire Dales whilst he was away. Stalking is one of the few things worth arriving early for, as being rushed rarely helps keep a clear head. The M6 was clear, so I arrived in the Dales in good time on a warm, pleasant afternoon.
Before heading out, I took the dogs for what was meant to be a short walk and followed signs towards a local beauty spot. The first trail marker said to allow up to four and a half hours for the loop. I was early, but not that early, so most of the steep, craggy route became a run in heavy boots. Not ideal preparation for an evening stalk on steep ground, but it was a beautiful valley and I hoped the pace would take the edge off the young dog’s eagerness, as this would be his first proper stalk.
The tent was pitched before heading out at 1945hrs, having repeatedly learned the hard way that doing it later, tired and in the dark, is miserable. Sunset was around 2140hrs, so there was still plenty of legal light ahead, with a view to being back by 2300hrs.
Clearfell
The ground was steep and heavy, with broken clearfell and forestry rising from around 320m to over 550m. After the earlier run my legs were already heavy, and the thought of weaving up and down the hill, quartering into the westerly, did not make them any lighter.
Half an hour in, a lone doe stirred at around 250 metres. She had winded me across the gill in a corner I was cutting to gain height. She stood looking back for a moment, then headed towards the shelter of the big wood. Shortly afterwards, about two thirds of the way up the climb and catching my breath, I scanned behind me with the thermal and caught the shape and movement of roe in the clearfell at around 400 metres. It could not be confirmed properly from there, but the way it moved and where it was gave me a strong sense that it was a buck.
The young dog and I started working down through broken timber, bleached white by the sun. The wind was still in my favour, but the light remained very bright. The options were to flank back, drop lower and stalk up into him via a quad track, or use the cover and undulations of the clearfell to intercept him head on. I took the direct approach, partly because my legs were tired and partly because losing sight of him would have meant climbing all the way back past him to high ground to relocate him.
He turned and began browsing away. I closed to 170m and the four point buck was still unaware, but the ground was tangled, open and noisy underfoot, making it difficult to move cleanly and quickly with the rifle and sticks without too much clattering and cracking. I found a solid position and set up. The buck simply would not stop walking. In hindsight, that should have been the point to stop, flank around, or crawl in to take another 50 metres off it.
Instead, tired and over-eager, I snatched the shot as he paused momentarily to hop over a tangled stump. The sticks were set solid, but the rifle was not properly settled, with my left hand doing nothing useful after a few minutes spent watching and waiting. Almost before the .308 barked, and certainly before the impact, I could feel that something had gone wrong. The rifle jumped and the recoil was not controlled. A puff of dust lifted from the stone behind him.
There was no mystery to it. I knew straight away. It was not the rifle, ammunition or conditions. The Tikka is capable and reliable, and I have complete confidence in it: it prints sub-MOA and is zeroed an inch high at 100m. The shot felt wrong as it broke, the recoil was uncontrolled, and the dust behind him confirmed what was already obvious. It was entirely me. It appeared, fortunately, to be a clean miss, a couple of inches high over the top.
The buck startled and looked back. There was definitely time for another shot, but after making a poor first attempt at that distance, there was no point doubling down. No strike sound, no visible impact, and his reaction was consistent with a miss. After he disappeared, the shot site was checked properly for fur or blood. None present, as expected.
I was furious with myself, but pleased with the young dog, who had stayed steady to the shot and tight on the stalk. The miss was mine: tired legs, too much excitement, and a shot I should have worked harder for.
Resigned to limiting my range to 100m, I carried on until five minutes before last legal light, by which point I could no longer see through the Schmidt & Bender 8x56 Klassik. There were no further chances. I stalked into a couple of does, but not a single other buck presented. I turned in still furious with myself.
Awoken by cuckoos
The alarm was set for four hours. I was startled awake not by the phone, but by rapturous cuckoos in the woods around me. Christ. I had slept through it and it was already 0348hrs and daylight was breaking. Wet clothes and boots were thrown on, rifle assembled, dog to heel, and I was stalking by 0355hrs.
My first sight was of a woodcock roding past only metres away in the thin dawn light. A properly magical start. Then a red squirrel scampered up an old pine beside the glade of a stream. I had gone to bed angry, but could not stay angry for long with that much life around me.
Next came the false alarm of a doe in the clearfell. I got into position on her a couple of times as she browsed across, hoping a buck might present, but nothing followed. Eventually she saw my movement and skipped off. A male goshawk then skimmed over, deliberate and majestic. A few hundred metres farther on, curlews and an oystercatcher broke, and minutes later a lapwing danced low across the ground. I reached a steep-banked glade and peered in, spotting deer with the naked eye: a young kid skipping leggily towards its skittish doe, the two of them fading into the dark timber edge. It felt like a proper showcase of our moorland fringe species, a morning I’ll never forget.
High ground
I climbed onwards towards the higher vantage points, but no other deer showed for the next hour. I could see fresh slots over my previous evening’s footprints, and the dog was again showing strong interest in the scent. Feeling tired and almost light-headed, I stopped for a moment for my first rest of the morning. The young dog fixed steadily on bracken scrub less than 10 metres away whilst I scanned the open swathes below. I exhaled loudly while stretching my arms, and a roe doe rose from her couch in the bracken that the dog had been watching. I slowly dropped to my knee, ready for a freehand shot if she had a buck with her, but she was alone. For a few seconds, none of us moved, before she eventually lost nerve and bolted down the ravine.
I stayed to watch, in case she bumped anything else, but it was getting towards 0530hrs and any hopes of a buck were fading. I had almost run out of wind head, with very little ground left that I could still stalk with the wind in my face. To carry on from there I would either have to work the wrong way or tack back and start a new quarter lower down.
Then, suddenly, in the half-grown Sitka, a big heat source appeared some 500m away. Moments later, 100m below it, another, in the reeds. Surely one of the two had to be a buck.
This time I discounted the direct approach and took a more cautious dogleg down the ravine and across, picking my way along a stream bed. I would not see the deer again until I was in position, so marked them against visible landmarks.
When I popped up, only the furthest deer was there, fussing about in a reedy patch. She was in range, but being a doe was no use to me. The other deer should have been about 90m to my side, but the place was empty. I sat and watched with the dog, scanning and waiting.
Then the second deer appeared, 200m away: a yearling doe. Bugger. Moments later, her brother stepped out to follow. Bingo.
I needed to close the ground, but with their mother between us it would be a careful stalk across reedy brush. The dog and I picked our way slowly and steadily, closing to 80m before I rose with the sticks open. Rifle up, and he was a lovely young buck: in great condition, little antlers still in velvet, and his winter coat not fully shed, giving him a dappled, kid-like appearance.
His twin was in front of him, so there was no shot yet. They were browsing towards me, so there was no rush and no need to force it. Over the next ten minutes they came closer and closer while I stood motionless. Eventually the doe was less than 20m away before she turned uphill and exposed her brother.
I waited for him to appear fully from the long grass. The dog was locked onto the doe, padding the ground in excitement as she twitched the midges from her ears and chewed a fresh frond of bright green bracken. The buck stepped into the crosshairs at 25m and I slipped a quartering shot into the front of the chest and out through the left shoulder. The shot was clean, taking the heart and lungs as intended and staying in front of the diaphragm.
The yearling doe ran 10 metres and stopped to look back for her brother. He was not there. There was time to take a photograph of her before she finally spooked. The older doe, their mother, I presumed, had bolted past us onto the rocky crest above and watched back intently.
A few minutes later I approached the shot site with the dog, letting him work on to where the buck lay dead. It was only five metres, but it was his first track. The gralloch was done, and we headed back to camp.
Making amends
I packed up my bedding and then set up a target. I always carry one with the rifle, and after the previous evening I wanted to remove any last niggle about either the Tikka or my shooting before the long drive home, or before the next trip. From a rough knoll, with slippery footing on a steep bank, I fired three shots from sticks at 100m. The dog sat at my side while I shot. I had not doubted the rifle, but it was cathartic to see the group print true.
The buck’s meat has already been well received by my three boys and, hopefully, a little browsing pressure has been taken off the restock.
More than that, the morning became a counterpoint to the evening. The first stalk had been rushed and snatched; the second was worked for. Slower, calmer, closer, and with the shot measured rather than forced. That was enough.
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