06.19 and exactly an hour until ‘sunrise’. The car showed a couple of degrees above zero as I pulled off the road and along the land rover track. The wee trailer showing the dull red glow of the brake lights behind me now and then.
Turned left onto the hill road and pulled the car into the side. The light was just showing in the east, the fir trees beginning to emerge and stand black against the sky, maybe the forecast of a fine clear morning was right?
Checked the thermal and there, not twenty yards away to my right is the unmistakable glowing picture of a roe doe half obscured by rhododendrons, silently watching and waiting.
Coat zipped up a bit higher against the cold. Knife, drag rope and torch in pocket. Sticks out, rifle mag in. Car locked up, gloves on and round chambered. Check safety and I make my way up the hill road into the gloomy shadow of the forest. The smell of the pine, the chill of the air and that earthy dampness of autumn. Back and forward across the track as it rises, trying in the darkness to find the least crunchy part of the track as it cambers to one side and then the other.
Scanning with the thermal as I go. Nothing, just the monochrome view of the track and the forest as it winds ahead of me.
An area of clearfell opens up, the pale dry grass and whitened brash is visible through the heavy Scot’s pine to my left. Scanning again, nothing. A track leads up to it to my left but I decide to push on as I’ve seen reds before much further up the track.
It’s just gone 06:35 and the colours have yet to surface. The world is emerging into view in that ill defined, sepia pallet of the new dawn.
Then I hear it. Unmistakeable. My skin prickles. The throaty bellow of a stag roaring his dominance.
Again I hear it. To my left, in that clearfell I’d passed off as empty.
I’m a bit higher up the track now. I step up on to a slight rise at the forests edge and scan. Five white hot patches. Three hinds. One with a follower. And then I see the head lift and the depth of the neck as the sound of his roar meets my ears.
How did I miss them?
There’s too many branches between us and it’s too dark for a shot yet. What to do.
I head as quickly as I dare back down the edge of the track and pick up the trail towards the clearfell I’d dismissed only minutes before.
The roaring continues but I can’t see any of the group from here. But that goes two ways, they can’t see me either.
No breeze, I make my way along the track which leads roughly towards where I think the group is. I’m comforted that the foresters have eaten into the soft ground and given me a shallow run of cover along this track.
I pop up just enough to see through the dry grasses. It’s just light enough to see the darkness of the reds against the grasses and my binoculars suck even more light to my eyes allowing me to make out the hinds. The follower. And there, the stag.
He’s a big lad. I can make out ten points, but the antlers are poor - perhaps some damage as they were forming. He’s only holding a few hinds. I’m scanning around, looking for any challengers - younger stags that would give me a choice to make. There are none.
He’s moving. 130m is now 150m.
The group are at the top edge of the clearfell, beyond there is dense Scot’s pine plantation.
Hinds disconcertingly stare in my direction, any moment now, any movement now and the game is over.
Long grasses and brash mean I need to get higher to have a clear shot. I ease my creaking joints up, sticks opened, rifle cradled.
He’s broadside, head up, another roar. His breath mists up into the cool air.
I take a breath, trying to slow my heart a little.
Safety off, point of aim, squeeze the trigger.
Before my mind registers the shot I hear the bullet thump. Then the thundering of hinds heading for cover.
The stag runs back towards me, like a final act of defiance and then his legs fail him.
A few sad final throes from a magnificent animal.
Then the stillness returns.
It’s a moment of reflection. This part of the task is done. There is satisfaction but no joy. Now the work starts.
Turned left onto the hill road and pulled the car into the side. The light was just showing in the east, the fir trees beginning to emerge and stand black against the sky, maybe the forecast of a fine clear morning was right?
Checked the thermal and there, not twenty yards away to my right is the unmistakable glowing picture of a roe doe half obscured by rhododendrons, silently watching and waiting.
Coat zipped up a bit higher against the cold. Knife, drag rope and torch in pocket. Sticks out, rifle mag in. Car locked up, gloves on and round chambered. Check safety and I make my way up the hill road into the gloomy shadow of the forest. The smell of the pine, the chill of the air and that earthy dampness of autumn. Back and forward across the track as it rises, trying in the darkness to find the least crunchy part of the track as it cambers to one side and then the other.
Scanning with the thermal as I go. Nothing, just the monochrome view of the track and the forest as it winds ahead of me.
An area of clearfell opens up, the pale dry grass and whitened brash is visible through the heavy Scot’s pine to my left. Scanning again, nothing. A track leads up to it to my left but I decide to push on as I’ve seen reds before much further up the track.
It’s just gone 06:35 and the colours have yet to surface. The world is emerging into view in that ill defined, sepia pallet of the new dawn.
Then I hear it. Unmistakeable. My skin prickles. The throaty bellow of a stag roaring his dominance.
Again I hear it. To my left, in that clearfell I’d passed off as empty.
I’m a bit higher up the track now. I step up on to a slight rise at the forests edge and scan. Five white hot patches. Three hinds. One with a follower. And then I see the head lift and the depth of the neck as the sound of his roar meets my ears.
How did I miss them?
There’s too many branches between us and it’s too dark for a shot yet. What to do.
I head as quickly as I dare back down the edge of the track and pick up the trail towards the clearfell I’d dismissed only minutes before.
The roaring continues but I can’t see any of the group from here. But that goes two ways, they can’t see me either.
No breeze, I make my way along the track which leads roughly towards where I think the group is. I’m comforted that the foresters have eaten into the soft ground and given me a shallow run of cover along this track.
I pop up just enough to see through the dry grasses. It’s just light enough to see the darkness of the reds against the grasses and my binoculars suck even more light to my eyes allowing me to make out the hinds. The follower. And there, the stag.
He’s a big lad. I can make out ten points, but the antlers are poor - perhaps some damage as they were forming. He’s only holding a few hinds. I’m scanning around, looking for any challengers - younger stags that would give me a choice to make. There are none.
He’s moving. 130m is now 150m.
The group are at the top edge of the clearfell, beyond there is dense Scot’s pine plantation.
Hinds disconcertingly stare in my direction, any moment now, any movement now and the game is over.
Long grasses and brash mean I need to get higher to have a clear shot. I ease my creaking joints up, sticks opened, rifle cradled.
He’s broadside, head up, another roar. His breath mists up into the cool air.
I take a breath, trying to slow my heart a little.
Safety off, point of aim, squeeze the trigger.
Before my mind registers the shot I hear the bullet thump. Then the thundering of hinds heading for cover.
The stag runs back towards me, like a final act of defiance and then his legs fail him.
A few sad final throes from a magnificent animal.
Then the stillness returns.
It’s a moment of reflection. This part of the task is done. There is satisfaction but no joy. Now the work starts.
