I should preface this tale by saying firstly it involves no deer and secondly this is my amateur first attempt of a write up of events earlier this week. I have included a hand drawn map of the stalk from my pocket journal for no other reason than because I love maps. Enjoy.
Monday morning found me twiddling my thumbs. I had to wait until 1430 for an appointment with the doctor and whilst lockdown is in full swing my options to kill time are limited. For the last nine months Ive been in and out of hospital with more or less daily visits to the doctor and this day is no exception. In my head appointments in the middle of a day are more of an inconvenience than at either end, and I like many of the readers here I’m sure, strive to maximise their leisure time without the staccato punctuation of less desirable activities. I seldom relish the prospect of an hour taken from my day for something I truly don’t enjoy due to the discomfort and personal nature.
I busied myself pottering through life administration, fried breakfast and drinking strong coffee whilst waiting out the time procrastinating reading SD threads when at some point I decided to ready my kit for a quick hobble about at dusk after Charlie that Id seen the week before. Binos, boots, lamp and coffee in the thermos ready to roll by the back door. All Id need to do is get home and slip into my winter gear, take the rifle from the safe and Id be on my merry way.
In an unexpected turn of events I’m home by 1505, todays appointment is more transactional as its not my normal nurse doing my dressings. The van is loaded and I make the short five minute drive to the property. The spot Im headed to has been in our family now for nearly all of my 34 years on this planet. When my father was offered the chance to buy the fields totalling about 25 acres in the early 90s he saw it as an opportunity to protect some of the ground nesting birds and have somewhere for us kids to cut loose and play outside being only a 10 minute saunter around the fields from my childhood home. It is best described as traditional Herefordshire lowland on a former glacial lake comprising of small water meadows and rough scrub interspersed with copses and ponds linked by a criss cross patchwork of boundary and drainage ditches. The land probably hasn’t changed much in the last 300 years. As I drive my head is filled with childhood memories of summers past in the warm sun - the metronomic call of the cuckoo, sneaking about with an airgun in pursuit of rabbits and any other small critter that should be unlucky enough to cross paths with me.
Today is cold here and the diegesis of warmth is quickly cast aside on opening the van door. We’ve had some long cold spells with snow and ice followed by significant rains. Im glad Ive chosen wellies tonight as the roads are soaking on the way and Im headed down onto the moorland. I make a quick last pocket check, my keys are in my mouth as I juggle and struggle to slip my binos on over the hood of my jacket and sling my rifle. Tonights flavour is my german mistress who wears a size twotwothree. I pip the key and the door locks, on my way by 1530. As I walk down through the back of the now deserted pub car park following the freshly laid drive, a quick nod and a ‘how do?’ to some local workmen who are busy preparing for when covid dies down, and Im out into the fields, wind to my face.
I slip the mag into my rifle and rack the bolt with a satisfyingly teutonic note, pop the three position safety in place and don my balaclava like a camouflaged bride. A cursory scan into the distance sees corvids and pigeons feeding along a hedge, dancing up and down like flames between the lower branches of the oaks and the ground to sample acorns. A lone cock pheasant struts. Im hunting now and I slowly make my way down through some pasture of an elderly neighbour onto an old drovers road. I open the gate as quietly as possible and melt into the undergrowth, The hedges are old, big and very thick. Hazel, bramble and hawthorn mixture with large oak and ash trees every 40 yards or so. The 500 meters of ancient track is flooded in places and sodden everywhere else. It takes me about 25 minutes to creep along slowly and I note the high number of rabbits hopping across the dry bridges between floods and realise this summer should be excellent for rabbit shooting, and that likely my rust coloured quarry will not be far away.
I finally reach the field where I intend to wait it out for Charlie, I scan over what I can see either side of the pool and its willow trees and slide through the gate which for some reason is left un-padlocked. I see nothing and make my way through the grass and rushes skirting the overfull pool to halfway up the field to an old fallen down willow that’s crushed the wire fence. Its been here for a couple of months now but with it being so wet its had to stay in situ until dryer weather allows its division and storage. I noticed when it first fell that it had created and almost perfect high seat about 3.5m up with a commanding view across the rough scrub meadow and its easy to climb. I unload the rifle and store the mag in my pocket and get into position - this is where having a rucksack style sling is ideal and my young and able body is quickly ascending into position. The rifle is reloaded and settled in for a long wait.
I sit and watch the birds for an hour or so up until dusk with marsh tits jumping like miniature tarsans from reed to reed, pheasants and squirrels patrol the hedge lines and I check the range of some landmark trees in the middle of the scrub in case the unthinkable happens and I catch Charlie off guard. Its getting dark now so I disembark my treehouse after unloading the rifle again and make it safely to the floor, rifle reloaded and now lamp attached to my vortex. Night vision and thermal hasn’t made it to this part of rural Herefordshire yet!
I walk to the far boundary of the land parcel around 1730, its still light enough I can see on carrot power without the torch but not for long. I wait out for 20 minutes drinking a coffee and listening to the crows cawing as they roost for the evening. It's game time now nearly six pm and dark, I begin to walk slowly along a hedge back toward where I suspect I’ll see the fox again keeping the wind to my left, its a gentle breeze of maybe 5mph from the NE, perfect shooting conditions. I enter the target field and flip on the light and notice a fox making its way down though the thick hedge. He hasn’t noticed me but its not safe to shoot as the shot is obstructed with the tangle of brush so I observe him all the way down the hedge and behind the pool and out of view (S1 and X1 on the map) as he hunted into the wind. Drat there goes my chance, five minutes earlier and I would have caught him in the open.
Not deterred I stoically decided to give chase, I am sure that he has gone to patrol over a large field of winter wheat next door where I don’t have permission to shoot. I quickly make my way down to the other end of the wet meadow to a suitable gap in the fence (S2 and X2) and sure enough there he is 300 yards out in the dim beam trotting along still oblivious to my presence. The wind is blowing more or less directly from him to me now. Ideal, and I have a plan in my head. Im sure he is going to come back around behind me towards where I first saw him knowing that his den is somewhere in the rough scrub.
I watch the fox meander his way checking the sights, smells and sounds of his evening wander all the way to the far hedge thickets now some 400 yards away and out of sight. Im sure he will be headed this way back so I turn back to where I first saw him (S3). I light the field up and he has made very fast progress, much quicker than I expected and I bump him at about 40 yards (X3) unable to get a shot off. He took off like an exocet missile down the hedge until I am no longer able to see him in the beam. He never stops to look back as they so often do and my chance is gone.
Double or quits I decide to take one last roll of the dice, I am sure he will be going back across the scrub field to his home so even with the wind unfavourable I decide I must ascend the willow tree again. Rifle unloaded and sticks left at the bottom I scale the fallen trunk and into my sofa seat. I prepare myself to fire. Mag in, bolt racked as quietly as possible and into a shooting position. Good fortune has struck and the wind has changed now and is blowing more from the north disguising my smell and sound carrying it far away from rusty. Surely I can’t get lucky again?
I slowly intensify the beam in the direction of the one object I can see clearly - a gnarled old hawthorn bush at 200 yards. My eyes quickly detect in the edge of the beam a pair of bright eyes looking more or less straight at me just yards away from my known distance. I slowly move the beam toward the eyes and it is immediately clear this is my mark, he is moving slowly through the rushes for cover towards a grassy area, I presume hunting voles and mice for his supper. Perfect, he has gone exactly where I predicted and I am in an excellent position to fire safely upon him from my willow parapet. He pauses as I increase the brightness on the lamp and at this point he is well in my reticule oblivious to my presence and keeps moving. I take a deep breath or two and prepare myself to fire, crosshairs firmly fixed on him. I know it's more or less 200 yards to his position from earlier so I fix the second hash mark to his gearbox. He pauses again to smell the air one last time.
The quiet of the night is shattered abruptly, a gentle squeeze of the trigger results in the crack of Hornady screaming through the frigid air like a banshee siren. Momentarily I see nothing other than flash and smoke from the moderator muzzle but I hear the familiar reassuring thump of impact that one associates with a direct hit. When the smoke fizzles out to whisps it is clear that the fox is dead, 55gr of vmax is very final and I see his eyes still shining in the light but no further movement from his now vacant vessel confirms my suspicions of a clean kill. I take my range finder and measure as best I can in the dark around 185 yards average and pause momentarily to congratulate myself. Now the fun begins.
I make a mental note of his position (X4) from mine (S4). Its now well after 1900 and very dark, he is lay on a small patch of grass surrounded by extremely high dead rushes and reeds of about 3-5 feet tall so I make sure I line up some landmarks to get myself into the approximate area. I unload the rifle and disembark my woody pulpit and begin the walk through the scrub and reeds to where I think the fox is lay. I arrive on scene and predictably I can not find him without the birds eye view I previously enjoyed. I search intensively for 20 minutes at which point my girlfriend calls to to find out my location and when or if I shall be home for dinner. I agree to set off for home as I will not find the fox in the dark tonight with no dog or thermal. As I begin the trudge out I virtually step on the deceased fox, a lucky find. I was certain I wouldn’t be able to retrieve him today and an early start awaited the next morning.
I inspect the carcass, a perfect chest shot killing him instantly. The fox was a dog and likely one of last years cubs as he wasn’t large and still had plenty pearly white teeth. He is in nice condition with no signs of mange or bad flea and tick infestation. He has a very strong smell though and clearly in search of a mate. I leave his corpse in the long reed beds well hidden from any prying eyes for the crows to feast on and begin to make the walk home feeling satisfaction and a strong sense of accomplishment of a plan well executed.
Monday morning found me twiddling my thumbs. I had to wait until 1430 for an appointment with the doctor and whilst lockdown is in full swing my options to kill time are limited. For the last nine months Ive been in and out of hospital with more or less daily visits to the doctor and this day is no exception. In my head appointments in the middle of a day are more of an inconvenience than at either end, and I like many of the readers here I’m sure, strive to maximise their leisure time without the staccato punctuation of less desirable activities. I seldom relish the prospect of an hour taken from my day for something I truly don’t enjoy due to the discomfort and personal nature.
I busied myself pottering through life administration, fried breakfast and drinking strong coffee whilst waiting out the time procrastinating reading SD threads when at some point I decided to ready my kit for a quick hobble about at dusk after Charlie that Id seen the week before. Binos, boots, lamp and coffee in the thermos ready to roll by the back door. All Id need to do is get home and slip into my winter gear, take the rifle from the safe and Id be on my merry way.
In an unexpected turn of events I’m home by 1505, todays appointment is more transactional as its not my normal nurse doing my dressings. The van is loaded and I make the short five minute drive to the property. The spot Im headed to has been in our family now for nearly all of my 34 years on this planet. When my father was offered the chance to buy the fields totalling about 25 acres in the early 90s he saw it as an opportunity to protect some of the ground nesting birds and have somewhere for us kids to cut loose and play outside being only a 10 minute saunter around the fields from my childhood home. It is best described as traditional Herefordshire lowland on a former glacial lake comprising of small water meadows and rough scrub interspersed with copses and ponds linked by a criss cross patchwork of boundary and drainage ditches. The land probably hasn’t changed much in the last 300 years. As I drive my head is filled with childhood memories of summers past in the warm sun - the metronomic call of the cuckoo, sneaking about with an airgun in pursuit of rabbits and any other small critter that should be unlucky enough to cross paths with me.
Today is cold here and the diegesis of warmth is quickly cast aside on opening the van door. We’ve had some long cold spells with snow and ice followed by significant rains. Im glad Ive chosen wellies tonight as the roads are soaking on the way and Im headed down onto the moorland. I make a quick last pocket check, my keys are in my mouth as I juggle and struggle to slip my binos on over the hood of my jacket and sling my rifle. Tonights flavour is my german mistress who wears a size twotwothree. I pip the key and the door locks, on my way by 1530. As I walk down through the back of the now deserted pub car park following the freshly laid drive, a quick nod and a ‘how do?’ to some local workmen who are busy preparing for when covid dies down, and Im out into the fields, wind to my face.
I slip the mag into my rifle and rack the bolt with a satisfyingly teutonic note, pop the three position safety in place and don my balaclava like a camouflaged bride. A cursory scan into the distance sees corvids and pigeons feeding along a hedge, dancing up and down like flames between the lower branches of the oaks and the ground to sample acorns. A lone cock pheasant struts. Im hunting now and I slowly make my way down through some pasture of an elderly neighbour onto an old drovers road. I open the gate as quietly as possible and melt into the undergrowth, The hedges are old, big and very thick. Hazel, bramble and hawthorn mixture with large oak and ash trees every 40 yards or so. The 500 meters of ancient track is flooded in places and sodden everywhere else. It takes me about 25 minutes to creep along slowly and I note the high number of rabbits hopping across the dry bridges between floods and realise this summer should be excellent for rabbit shooting, and that likely my rust coloured quarry will not be far away.
I finally reach the field where I intend to wait it out for Charlie, I scan over what I can see either side of the pool and its willow trees and slide through the gate which for some reason is left un-padlocked. I see nothing and make my way through the grass and rushes skirting the overfull pool to halfway up the field to an old fallen down willow that’s crushed the wire fence. Its been here for a couple of months now but with it being so wet its had to stay in situ until dryer weather allows its division and storage. I noticed when it first fell that it had created and almost perfect high seat about 3.5m up with a commanding view across the rough scrub meadow and its easy to climb. I unload the rifle and store the mag in my pocket and get into position - this is where having a rucksack style sling is ideal and my young and able body is quickly ascending into position. The rifle is reloaded and settled in for a long wait.
I sit and watch the birds for an hour or so up until dusk with marsh tits jumping like miniature tarsans from reed to reed, pheasants and squirrels patrol the hedge lines and I check the range of some landmark trees in the middle of the scrub in case the unthinkable happens and I catch Charlie off guard. Its getting dark now so I disembark my treehouse after unloading the rifle again and make it safely to the floor, rifle reloaded and now lamp attached to my vortex. Night vision and thermal hasn’t made it to this part of rural Herefordshire yet!
I walk to the far boundary of the land parcel around 1730, its still light enough I can see on carrot power without the torch but not for long. I wait out for 20 minutes drinking a coffee and listening to the crows cawing as they roost for the evening. It's game time now nearly six pm and dark, I begin to walk slowly along a hedge back toward where I suspect I’ll see the fox again keeping the wind to my left, its a gentle breeze of maybe 5mph from the NE, perfect shooting conditions. I enter the target field and flip on the light and notice a fox making its way down though the thick hedge. He hasn’t noticed me but its not safe to shoot as the shot is obstructed with the tangle of brush so I observe him all the way down the hedge and behind the pool and out of view (S1 and X1 on the map) as he hunted into the wind. Drat there goes my chance, five minutes earlier and I would have caught him in the open.
Not deterred I stoically decided to give chase, I am sure that he has gone to patrol over a large field of winter wheat next door where I don’t have permission to shoot. I quickly make my way down to the other end of the wet meadow to a suitable gap in the fence (S2 and X2) and sure enough there he is 300 yards out in the dim beam trotting along still oblivious to my presence. The wind is blowing more or less directly from him to me now. Ideal, and I have a plan in my head. Im sure he is going to come back around behind me towards where I first saw him knowing that his den is somewhere in the rough scrub.
I watch the fox meander his way checking the sights, smells and sounds of his evening wander all the way to the far hedge thickets now some 400 yards away and out of sight. Im sure he will be headed this way back so I turn back to where I first saw him (S3). I light the field up and he has made very fast progress, much quicker than I expected and I bump him at about 40 yards (X3) unable to get a shot off. He took off like an exocet missile down the hedge until I am no longer able to see him in the beam. He never stops to look back as they so often do and my chance is gone.
Double or quits I decide to take one last roll of the dice, I am sure he will be going back across the scrub field to his home so even with the wind unfavourable I decide I must ascend the willow tree again. Rifle unloaded and sticks left at the bottom I scale the fallen trunk and into my sofa seat. I prepare myself to fire. Mag in, bolt racked as quietly as possible and into a shooting position. Good fortune has struck and the wind has changed now and is blowing more from the north disguising my smell and sound carrying it far away from rusty. Surely I can’t get lucky again?
I slowly intensify the beam in the direction of the one object I can see clearly - a gnarled old hawthorn bush at 200 yards. My eyes quickly detect in the edge of the beam a pair of bright eyes looking more or less straight at me just yards away from my known distance. I slowly move the beam toward the eyes and it is immediately clear this is my mark, he is moving slowly through the rushes for cover towards a grassy area, I presume hunting voles and mice for his supper. Perfect, he has gone exactly where I predicted and I am in an excellent position to fire safely upon him from my willow parapet. He pauses as I increase the brightness on the lamp and at this point he is well in my reticule oblivious to my presence and keeps moving. I take a deep breath or two and prepare myself to fire, crosshairs firmly fixed on him. I know it's more or less 200 yards to his position from earlier so I fix the second hash mark to his gearbox. He pauses again to smell the air one last time.
The quiet of the night is shattered abruptly, a gentle squeeze of the trigger results in the crack of Hornady screaming through the frigid air like a banshee siren. Momentarily I see nothing other than flash and smoke from the moderator muzzle but I hear the familiar reassuring thump of impact that one associates with a direct hit. When the smoke fizzles out to whisps it is clear that the fox is dead, 55gr of vmax is very final and I see his eyes still shining in the light but no further movement from his now vacant vessel confirms my suspicions of a clean kill. I take my range finder and measure as best I can in the dark around 185 yards average and pause momentarily to congratulate myself. Now the fun begins.
I make a mental note of his position (X4) from mine (S4). Its now well after 1900 and very dark, he is lay on a small patch of grass surrounded by extremely high dead rushes and reeds of about 3-5 feet tall so I make sure I line up some landmarks to get myself into the approximate area. I unload the rifle and disembark my woody pulpit and begin the walk through the scrub and reeds to where I think the fox is lay. I arrive on scene and predictably I can not find him without the birds eye view I previously enjoyed. I search intensively for 20 minutes at which point my girlfriend calls to to find out my location and when or if I shall be home for dinner. I agree to set off for home as I will not find the fox in the dark tonight with no dog or thermal. As I begin the trudge out I virtually step on the deceased fox, a lucky find. I was certain I wouldn’t be able to retrieve him today and an early start awaited the next morning.
I inspect the carcass, a perfect chest shot killing him instantly. The fox was a dog and likely one of last years cubs as he wasn’t large and still had plenty pearly white teeth. He is in nice condition with no signs of mange or bad flea and tick infestation. He has a very strong smell though and clearly in search of a mate. I leave his corpse in the long reed beds well hidden from any prying eyes for the crows to feast on and begin to make the walk home feeling satisfaction and a strong sense of accomplishment of a plan well executed.
