Occasionally, Just Occasionally, Deer Stalking Is Very Exciting.

Deerstalking and Cricket are like marital sex. Occasionally it's very exciting.

 

Usually it's a game of patient observation, sitting in the high-seat listening to birdsong, waiting and watching for a brown and grey thing to move amongst the green, grey, and brown things. Its a pastime for people happy in their own company, who don't mind sitting very still in all weathers. 

Just occasionally it's unbelievably, heart-poundingly, exciting. 

When the glacier retreated north it left behind the range we know as the highlands, to their north, the relatively flat bits, the lowlands of Sutherland. With their fertile flood plains and estuaries. It's a geology teacher's field-trip dream, like standing in geo-history's giant footprint. 

This farm is also a giant fieldcraft textbook, called Red Deer and Where to Find 'Em. As the steep side of the valley drops away there's a deep drainage gully full of gorse and birch where the deer bed down, it leads to another area of gorse that overlooks the fields where our friends are growing hay. I've spooked Reds into and out of them both. The deer can see for miles, and hide for days.

Meanwhile back on the geology field-trip: Drumlins, from the Gallic Droimnín [little ridge], are  teardrop hills, composed of glacial debris, they formed beneath a glacier and like aerodynamics in super-super slow-mo they are aligned with the direction of the ice flow. Ours is about 20m high and has a bloody big rock on top. Technical term for the rocks is 'Erratics'. 

I've learned my lesson, or at least one of them, so I don't approach by the road. I manage to cross the burn without falling in or renting a hamstring. I start the ascent and about half way up there's a slight terrace on the east side of the Drumlin, which I crawl along working my way left to overlook the gully. Of course my rifle is still across my back when I pop my fat head up and the guard matriarch and I are eye to eye. I proper freeze. 

Oddly she remains interested, but gives the situation the benefit of the doubt. My heart's in my mouth. She keeps me fixed in a steely glare but lets the family keep feeding. Kneeling I wait, like a frozen Meerkat, I defocus my eyes and wait and wait and eventually I out-wait her curiosity. Unconcerned she leads her little troop out of view around the Drumlin. 

Quickly. Back onto all fours and speed crawl back the way I came , there's only one place I can be, and I can only be there if I'm there first. I'm sweating like a Racehorse, and wheezing like a divorced Walrus. Up at the top of the mound there's the bloody big rock, on the right hand side facing north, there's the surface that 'catches the weather' just like that one window frame on your house that needs painting before the others. As they blow down the estuary from the Isle of Skye, the wind and the rain have abraded the earth and left an uncomfortable-sized divot under the Erratic

In my divot-fox-hole I'm now doing mortal combat with a long-legged and deeply unpleasant bipod, I've said a lot of bad things about the Harris bipod design, this is some kind of awful unbranded Harris Clone,  I've spent a lot of cash on bipods, none of them are with me, clearly I've angered the bipod gods. The bipod lacks the much needed forty five degree position. It only has 90 degrees, legs up and legs down, they are supposedly adjustable for length, but it all seems like a cruel parody of what could be. Finally, flattened behind a tuffet,  I have half a semblance of a shooting position. Wiping the sweat from my eyes either the deer have gone back around the way they came or about to appear. Another stress inducing mystery. If I bet on one, I will surely blow the other. If only I could stop wheezing.  

Just before I'm ready. Bold as brass. The Hinds saunter into view, and start the umpteenth meal of the day. A quick squint through the scope. I've never been one for the calculation of cosine on the fly, but hash one is 200 yards, hash two is 300 yards. I opt for hash two. Ping!! Goes the .243. A hind drops to the 100gr bullet and the rest of the crew high-tail it away. 

Occasionally, just occasionally, Deer Stalking is very exciting!

more next time

your pal

SBW

Scotland : A Thrilling Encounter With Big Boy

 Morning is dawning the sun plays on the self seeded field of xxx pine. `I'm in the highest sheltered from the wind with my back to one block, a ride to my left and the fence line falling away infant of me. 

Ive seen the little Roebuck break cover and cross the ride a while back, but now only the wind in the trees, the creaking of the dead lower branches, and a terrible racket coming from behind me. The way the seat is it's not easy to turn around that far. 

Ahab is a notorious, and compulsive practical joker so my first thought is this is yet another of his practical jokes. The thrashing and cracking continues. Twisting my head there's defiantly something there.

There's only one stop where Ahab could possibly get out of the close-planted block, I'm not going to point even a de-cocked rifle at the spot. I'm just preparing a witty retort for when he steps out when a Red deer with a neck larger than my waist tears his antlers free of the branches and steps into the gully where the ride borders the trees. As I shoulder the rifle he hears something of my movement and spins 180 disappearing into the forest block. Never to been seen again. Easily one of the two biggest Reds Ive ever seen in Scotland 

Every dawn, and every dusk, for two or three hours a time  for the next five days I sit there. Not a sausage. 

Every day I stalk up the ride to glass the fence line, every day I find hooj deer turds, steaming a couple of times, big foot prints, but I never see him again. 

Should I have pointed my de-cocked rifle at the gap? No. Should I have sat still and waited? Of course. 

Hunting, not shopping. 

more soon

your pal 

SBW

Thoughts On The Gentleman's Stalking Rifle

These days I shoot my Tiktac a lot more than anything else, its a big black lump of cast aluminium and its latest barrel has turned it from tactical to bench-artillery.  I've taken it stalking a few times, not through choice. By the time you're dragging a deer across a ploughed field, you'll wish you'd brought something built for speed not comfort. 

The Stalking Rifle. It's lighter than a dangerous game rifle, both in the hand and in its chosen load - somewhere between .240 and .280 [6mm and 7mm in the new money].  

A modestly figured, svelte stock of  Walnut, you wouldn’t want to flinch at the sight of a shale bank or a barred wire fence, a recoil absorbing stock pad, at the other end probably an Ebony or Rosewood tip. Perhaps some case hardening. No engraving. 

To be carried for what feels like miles over rough ground, fired once, and carried back again. 

In England TT Proctor, John Rigby & Co., Westley Richards, Holland & Holland and a host of others made [or still make] iterations on this theme.  

There once was another contender. One who ploughed his own furrow, who’s insights are as valid today as they were then. Not to everyone’s taste and at £1000 in the early 1970’s (about £12k today) appealing to a limited clientele. You’d have had to make a trip to Pipewell Hall where a sport could commission Messers David Lloyd & Co. Riflemakers, who had put a lot of thought had been put into building such an instrument. 

The proprietor, an experienced stalker himself, coined the expression 'Attach a rifle to a scope'. While the others all made an open sighted rifle adapted for a scope, David Lloyd made his rifles solely  for use with one of the new fangled four or six power scopes.

Using the rifles that bore his name David Lloyd is rumoured to have accounted for more than 5,000 highland reds in a stalking career that spanned 60 years. Knew a thing or two about it then. 

For him name of the game was to create; an ergonomic, flat-shooting rifle, capable of dependable accuracy at 300m [+/- 100m] without recourse to adjusting the scope. His stipulation was that the scope be attached with mounts so robust that the rifle could confidently survive the rough and tumble of highland stalking without ever needing to be re-zero'd. To that end he silver soldered his mounts in place. That for ain’t rattling about. 

My somewhat more modest experience suggests that; he was right about the point-and-shoot requirement, up on the hill there's no time for fart-arseing about with adjustments to elevation and windage. The shot, and the Ghillie, wait for no man. 

Following my highland humiliation, where the scope was loose enough to rattle in its rings, no sportsman who still casts a shadow is a bigger believer in anchoring scope and rifle together than your pal SBW. Regular readers may remember The Ghillie also has strongly worded views on the speed with which clients cycle an action,

The stalking rifle, as bespoken by SBW

Chambered to shoot 100gr + lead-free Bullets. The weight means legal for all six species in the UK, and lead-free means the carcasses meet the coming standard to enter the food chain. 

A round that can be bought over the counter for use while staking on forestry commission land and other places where home loads aren’t permitted.  The Creedmoor revolution of the last ten years means that there's now an excellent chance of buying 6.5mm in any gun shop.

A slim wand-like Walnut stock. The laminates are too heavy, the composites are too chunky, and the full carbon are more than I want to spend on the whole rig. 

Magazine-fed. call me over-cautious but I prefer to do all that bouncing about in the back of a Landrover with an unloaded rifle, and clambering in and out of highseats without a loaded rifle will always be preferable. 

Decocking safety. Stalk with one in the chamber, but still be able to safely use the rifle as a club if needed. 

A super slick fast action, a straight pull fills this part of the brief nicely 

Barrel of 20”max, and lightweight: this is rifle to clamber in and out of high seats and Landrovers, carry across muir, up monroe, and down glen.  Fire one shot, and then carry back to the cottage, hopefully dragging a dead beast along.  

Screw cut for a lightweight moderator. I use a B&T [Brügger & Thomet] which gives the rifle a nice balance. The new generation of 3D printed titanium moderators are still in the £850-£1500 range. So No. 

Ceracoat not blued; rough treatment, blood and guts, anti reflective. Welcome to the 21st century 

While we're on the subject of carrying, [and lessons learned from highland disasters], I want to anchor the sling to the rifle by the strongest fitting available, with the rear swivel on the flat of the butt to carry the rifle flat against my body, so crawling isn’t impeded. 

A robust scope in the European low-light class, with a simple reticle: cross hairs bob-on at 200m capped turrets so nothing to adjust or get knocked out of place.

The lowest rings possible. Spuhr do a hunting set at 19mm/4mm, milled to their usual super-high standard.  

For the action; its all personal taste. I'm still all about Heym's Fortner action'd SR30, sacrificing a little englishness for a little extra svelteness I chose the Bavarian stock, a little more 'pistol' in the pistol grip and a few grams shaved off, but still with the look of a sporting rifle

Of course you could just buy a Tikka off the rack and have done with it. But where’s the fun in that?

More soon

Your pal

SBW

An onboard cleaning kit wouldn’t go amiss, snow in the barrel only happens a couple of miles from the landrover. 

Hunting Goats In Scotland. Stalking Roe In Scotland.

An adventure in the Lowlands of Western Scotland featuring: your pal SBW, and South Side D a target shooter and sportsman who dives an electric taxi. 

Work, that curse of the stalking classes: 

Covid 19, overly emotional Milfs, air travel diminished by 97%, clients putting off having repairs done, annoying offspring, the range will be closed for the foreseeable, theatre-land may never reopen. A shortage of primers. I think its fair to say that your pal SBW and South-Side D are beset by difficulties on all sides. 

SBW: This is bullshit, shall we sack it off an’ go stalking?

SSD: Not doing much else.

SBW: Do you have a midge net?

SSD: What’s that?

SBW: Your only defence against Scotland’s apex predator.

I once read that the Scottish tourist board had conducted extensive market research. Scotland is a popular destination for all the reasons you might imagine; Whiskey, Salmon, Deer, Ginger Birds. 

The last two questions proved more illuminating: 

Will you be coming again next summer ? NO 

Why not? MIDGES!!!

Been a while since i made it North of The Wall, to the land where you can hunt Roe Bucks with a 22 centerfire, Mars bars are served fried, sausages are called Lorne and served skinless and square, Tablet is a cause of diabetes rather than yet another iProduct .

SBW: How much would it cost to go to Stranraer in a Taxi? 

SSD: Where’s that?

SBW: west coast of Scotland, south of Glasgow, for stalking purposes.  

SSD: £ LOTS, each way. But to you SBW, for stalking purposes, we can split the juice.

SBW: I’ve found this guy on the internet… 

SSD:  I need to sort out someone to look after the dog

SBW: No worries my ex wife would love to help me out, I’m the only person taking her side against the kids. 

A long time ago: I was making idle chit-chat with one of the guns at a shoot, as we fell to discussing a sportsman's travels he said ‘ ah yes the Scottish stalking experience, I’ve been, you spend all day crawling through very soggy ground, shoot a deer, then the walk back to the cottage turns out to be 200 yards, I bet you love it” 

That very morning a member called Gallowaycountrysports had posted on the Stalking Directory that he had availability and accommodation. A few days later we were on our way north. By london black taxi.

The first six hours pass in a pleasant re run of: the calibre debate, chewing over the  design stratagem of Porsche 1967 to 1992, the latest outrage(s) perpetrated by my daughter against her long suffering family, and the lack of strategy being deployed by our lords and masters at this most difficult of times.  

Somewhere just the other side of the wall the roads narrow and out pace slows considerably. We pull into a Shell service station where we were surprised to lean that the sad-arse sandwiches they serve are now ‘By Jamie”.  Yes that Jamie Oliver the fat-tongued deceiver himself, has sunk so low that he’s now shilling for the sweat shop where they fulfil service station sandwich contracts.  

At the service hatch a bleached, shivering whippet of an Emo is manning the till. His stupid haircut reflected in the luminous glow of his pasty skin. 

SBW What kinds of sandwiches do you have? 

Having seen Jamie Oliver’s fat face I was expecting some kind of mangling of the cuisine of several nations, Jerk Chicken with a Mediterranean Herb Crust, and the like.

The Emo: What’s this the feckin’ Krypton Factor?  

South-Side D: Think of it as a job, what’s in the meal deal?

Some crappy sarnies, indistinguishable from crappy sarnies not ‘by Jamie’  later. 

Alan calls

‘So yer nearly here? oh aye what’s yer vehicle?’ 

“We’re In a sherbet” then I remember to translate “a black cab, a london taxi”

“Slurhh feckin’ heel, what’s that cost? Poond-a-mile?”

SBW “Nah South Side D is a cab driver it’s his whip”
SSD “tell him it’s £LOTS to Glasgow ’bout £X a mile.

The rest of the drive passes without incident and were soon following Alan’s seemingly vague but surprisingly accurate directions through the village. By the time we arrive Alan has gone to bed leaving his lad to welcome us to the self-catering accommodation end of the business. Alan runs a great outfit, or I suspect Mrs Alan runs a great outfit, and Alan fronts it. 

If you’re thinking of heading north I’d warmly recommend Galloway Country Sports, they have something for every kind of visiting stalker or Gun. Alan is dad-shaped and around 50, a fantastic host and an experienced rough shooting and goose guide. His lad is built like a racing snake with the eyes of an eagle. Between them they provide some fantastic days afield. The beds are comfortable and the duvets reassuringly weighty. I sleep the sleep of the self-righteous.

The following morning 

Alan’s birds have just arrived so he’s out looking over his pen and feeding them up. We stumble out of our rooms to find glorious sunshine, a neighbour enquires as to our well being, we ask after his. “sumingz rang, dez ner water fal-in from the sky” 

The village has no shops so we head into town, all of three miles, to look for a charging point and some breakfast. With me enthusing about the Scottish breakfast experience. Sadly no Lorne sausage is available but we do get a Tattie-Scone. It’’s a lot like the backing board for tiling. Which is a shocker as they are easy to make and usually delicious. 

Ingredients: 

mashed floury potatoes

an egg

some flour  .00 is best 

teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda 

perhaps a little cream or milk - emphasis on the little, the dough must be firm

Method:

mix into a dough

roll out and cut into pleasing shapes

Either fry or bake at a moderate temperature

Serve lathered in butter. Unsalted is my preference.  

SSD has asked that the record show that our visit to Stranraer was also the occasion of my saying the most Middle Class / English thing ever.

SBW “Is there a Marks and Spenser here? I need to buy pants”

Under-crackers un-purchased we return to the house in time to meet Alan and do my laundry in the wash basin. 

Wisely Alan wants clients to confirm their rifles and marksmanship, he tries to be as polite about this as he can, I suspect he’s had some resistance from clients before, and seems a little surprised at my enthusiasm. 

I’m keener on shooting a confirmation than the in-house photographer at St. Ursula’s.  

Here’s for why. 

Having survived [just] the shame of having a loaned rifle where the scope wasn't moored to the rings and missing the first five deer on a previous trip to Scotland, to say I’m keen never to have it happen again, is what is known north of the wall as a feckin’ understatement.

The sheep rifle should above all be portable, handy, and relatively light, as the sheep hunter carries a rifle a lot more than he shoots it. "Notes on the Sheep Rifle," Jack O’ Connor

There’s a question mark hanging over my .243 so I took my Tiktac. Its a wonderful target rifle, but there s something deeply un-stalking about it, its heavy, the opposite of handy, and all those sections of picatinny rail mean it snags on your clothes, Its also laughably Black Rifle.

Alan: ‘does an Afghan campaign medal come free wii that?’ 

Its way more accurate than me and has no trouble mashing up the 4 inch square used as a zeroing target. Zeros established we break for lunch. 

As Roe are best stalked at the top and tail of the day, Alan has a suggestion. 

How about we go and look for some Billies? 

I’ve met people who have been to Scotland to stalk feral goats before and none of them has had a good word to say about the beasts: they are extremely wily, live in inhospitable terrain and are pretty smelly. They often reside in places called Heart Attack Hill, Fat Boy’s End or Dead Plumber’s Gully.  

Alan explains that he cant stalk Roe or shoot Foxes on this particular stretch of coast as the landowner has a sentimental attachment to both, however he is a Juniper Berry enthusiast and as the goats eat them he’s more than happy for Alan to thin the trip. 

These are coastal goats, living where the Irish Sea batters mini fjords. We spend a while glassing the rocky outcrops, things that move turn into tricks of the light, every shadow seems to be cast by horns.  When we’re finally sure only shadows are moving we turn south and our luck improves, a trip of ten or so goats are just the other side of a bluff, we walk the long way around and begin the crawl into range. Oddly its still not raining. 

There’s something about seeing your precision rifle and its posh scope lying in the muck that’s deeply disconcerting, later I’m to learn that loosing a round and seeing your fettled Lapua case disappear between the tussocks isn't much better.  All I can do in consternation is mutter “that’s £1.08p I’ll never see again”.

With the goats only about 50m away SSD starts crawling forward and I’m trying to deploy the Harris bipod without that annoying D’oing noise from its springs. The goats are suddenly on the move, towards us. SSD is between me an them so I’m still to set up for a shot. I’ve taken all of five off-hand shots with the Tiktac all of them were over a year ago, in Norway.  Heavy is a help, but the shape and balance point are unwieldy. We both fire. Someone hits the largest Billie and it disappears down the seemingly vertical cliff. As SSD and Lad pursue it 

Alan points to the next spur, “There’s yours, can you shoot it?”    

“The mountain sheep keeps his horns as long as he lives, and on them he writes his autobiography. He records his age, his species, his good years and his bad, and his battles.”

The Stories Sheep Horns Tell - Jack O’Connor

I love it when the leaves change colour - Hodgeman

He’s right, there on the next spur, partially concealed by the dead ground, my Goat is waiting patiently for his dinner invitation. Yet another outdoorsman’s skill that still eludes me is the ability to judge distance. Alan’s call is 300 yards, deduct 10% is 270m which the muscle memory in my fingers tells me is fifteen clicks aka 1.5 milliradians. The legs of my bipod are a constant annoyance to me, off the bench they are too long, prone, which i hardly shoot,  they are ok-ish, off the tussocks of scotland they are invariably too short. The first one sails over his head, which prompts him to make the fatal mistake of standing up, so after a bit of contortionism on my part he catches the next one on the left side of his spine. While I’m still listening to that resounding TWACKKK expanding ammunition makes as it hits flesh, as if by teleportation he disappears. 

To my delight I actually find one of the Lapua cases. £1.08p up on the day!

A deer that has been shot at will go around the side of a hill a quarter of a mile away and lie down. A ram will leave the country.—"The Bighorn," Jack o’Connor

Its a long walk around the spur tops and when we get to the patch where Billy was last seen there’s a patch of frothy lung blood, and no more. Nothing, zip, nitch, nada  no sign of a trail to be seen. There’s only one way to where we were when I took the shot and we just walked along it, there’s only one way down from where the blood trail starts and stops.  The mini canyons are treacherous under foot and the drop below enough that the medics would be well pissed off by the time they recovered you, or at least your body.

Alan is ahead of me and has taken a turn away from the direction of travel, I skirt round to catch him up and squeeze past him to climb into the line of sight he’s gesticulating down. There’s Billy sitting panting under an overhang, its just the place you’d want to shelter if you were going to overnight there. I wind the clicks back off and put an SST through his neck. Another £1.08p case tumbles away never to be seen again. 

High above us and 300 yards across a mini fjord Lad and SSD are struggling with two goats the extraction looks like the 200 yards are ‘feckin vertical’. Turning back to our own situation this isn't going to be easy, especially with the long dead black weight of the Tiktac to hump along. 

On opening him up, Billy has been doing very well for himself, easily the fattest wild animal I’ve ever butchered, great globs of shining white fat around his organs. I’ve still got his dinner pate sized liver in my freezer. Gralloched he’s lighter but not that you’d know it draggin’ him along.

You can see why the locals shoot ‘em with a little Tikka Triple Two. 

As I puff along the Tiktac seems to have trebled in weight .

A couple of words about Alan’s place

If you want to go shooting with a few pals and make a few days of it, you’re the customer alan had in mind when he set up shop. He has his own pub that you can stock yourselves. Being only three miles out of town you can call in a takeaway delivered or, you could copy a team from France who bring their own chef and use the fully equipped kitchens.  

A Galloway Roe Buck 

I’ve been having a run of luck, lucky for me not so lucky for the new people. At my gun club we have an unofficial hunting committee - if you express an interest we’ll hook you up with some stalking. 

I know a couple of people who I regard as as near to dead certs as its possible to be. We go to their ground, I tell the guide ‘this a newbie they need to shoot a deer’, they see deer, I shoot deer, they don’t. Sometimes I shoot more than one deer.

Lad and I hop out for the truck and as soon as we’ve negotiated the first fence we have a doe under observation. Not doe season but every night is ladies night, girls get in free, so it wont be long until a buck shows up. Sticking to the hedgerow we make out way up the field conveniently into the wind. About 30 feet in front of us, there’s a bustle in the hedgerow as a Roe fawn makes several frantic attempts to first ram and then jump the fence. We wait patiently until he thinks better of it and turns, sprinting across the field. Stooping down we do a bit of glassing. Lad is all over it, doe one, doe two which I could see but then the Buck which is both standing between them and invisible to me. Trying of suppress the hateful doioiing of the Harris bipod’s springs and get set up, I even had time to dial the zoom in a bit. The Buck stands at three quarters, Buck helpfully turns broadside, takes a step or two, I take up stage one of the trigger, one more step, “stay right where you are” and pop-TWACKKK. Lad awards me the accolade “Feckin’ textbook”. Buck runs on about 20 feet and slumps into the dead ground. The girls are now nowhere to be seen. We saunter over. he’s never going to win a medal but has  pleasing symmetry. I couldn't wait  to take him to dinner. 

In that great tradition of Scottish stalking, instead of dragging the deer across the field back the way we’ve come, we amble down a tarmac road that was just the other side of the hedgerow we’d crawled along. 

SSD is yet to score a deer.

About half of our trophy stash

Unlike most of the places I go stalking Alan has full food processing and vacuum packing facilities. I spend the last day in the chiller doing the butchery and caping the Billy and Nanny SSD shot. To my surprise, in a moment of wild profligacy, SSD commissions not one, but two rounds of taxidermy. I get the feeling he’ll soon know how the punters feel when they get out of his taxi.  

More Soon 

Your Pal

SBW 

Muntjac - Mini Deer With FANGS!

The Northern Monkey calls me from his way home from a building site just to the north of london. “I’m at some traffic lights and there are two little deer just standing on the grass staring at me, look a bit moody, they’ve got fangs!”

Muntiacus muntiak reevesi aka Reeve’s Muntjac are our smallest and soon to be most prolific deer. Regular readers will know I’ve hunted these 30 lbs mini deer a few times, seen them, and heard them, all without ever firing a shot.

It’s still called Hunting, it’s still not called shopping.

They bark, not unlike a dog but not quite as loud, they’re skittish, they never really seem to stand still even when nibbling, they are aggressive and armed to the teeth. Or at least armed with long curved canine teeth. They may only be the size of a Labrador but only the most aggressive kinds of terrier would stand a chance against them.

Introduced into the substantial gardens of his ancestral home, Woburn Park, by serial wildlife scallywag [this isn’t the only invasive he released] the Duke of Bedford in 1894, Reeves Muntjac have spread a long way since then. Up and down the country and even ‘swimming’ the Irish sea to appear in Northern Ireland. Of the six species of deer we have they are the most successful. Increasing not only in distribution but at 8.2 percent a year, population has soared from a guesstimate of only 2,000 in 1963, to more than two million today, a Muntjac doe will mate within days of giving birth and will give birth again every seven months. Their diet, the tender shoots of woodland flora like; bluebells, oxlips, native orchids, and the wood anemone, means that they are seriously unloved by the conservation organisations. Rose gardeners particularly hate them, apparently they can, and will, eat a grand’s worth in an evening. They are yet to develop any road sense, of the 42,000 road accidents a year involving deer, resulting in 20 human deaths and £10 million damages, they are about 9,000.  A cull plan of 25-30% would stabilise the population, it would take 50+% to reduce their numbers and that would mean taking a shot at every one you ever saw, which just cant happen.

Where the culinary solution falls down is they might be the best eating deer but they are poor value in the amount of meat you get for the amount butchery it takes to get it. The front legs are scrawny and often bullet damaged, the delicious loins are one per person rarer than a row of steaks, leaving only the haunches which ain’t that big. For not a lot more knife time on even a Roe you’re getting a far greater return for your butchery efforts.

As part of the Adult Onset Hunting program I’ve promised to take a few club members and foodies hunting, this time its The Sailor [yeah I know I've kind of run out of steam with the TLA's]

It's traditional on these pages to start with a description of how hard it is to actually leave town and the snide remarks made by my fellow traveller regarding my time keeping. But you’ve heard it all before. I travel to the far side of london thought he rush hour, then we drive back around london through the second hour of rush before heading not very far north, next time I’m going by train, it literally takes 45 minutes.

There are two schools of thought on which rifle to take: They’re legal to shoot with a .22 centre fire as long as it makes 1,000ft/lb of energy at the muzzle, and delivers a expanding bullet of 50 grains and up. Or in the other school its anything up to a .308, moving at a sedate pace, to reduce meat damage.

The thought of lugging my 15+ lbs Precision rifle across london, let alone across muddy fields doesn’t appeal so I’ve chosen the CZ527, that perfect expression of the mini Mauser. Even with its suppressor up front its only xxxx long and it doesn’t weight a lot. For now mine is chambered in .223 and has a perfect balance just in front of the magazine. I don't know about you, but I was taught to clamber in and out of the highseat with an unloaded rifle, so I’ll always favour a magazine-fed stalking rifle to all that fussing about dropping rounds into my hat and re-stuffing the rifle at each end of the ladder. While I have other favourites the CZ527 is nearly the perfect ‘woodland’ rifle.

We spend a pleasant evening in the ‘spoons gossiping about the other members of the club, slagging off the owner of the chain, and drinking cheap pints.

The Sailor has done us proud finding a hotel even cheaper than the one I stayed in last time and we saunter back for a brief nights kip before hitting the road before dawn. For October its positively balmy even at night its comfortably double figures [centigrade]. All of my stalking trips of late have been by electric vehicle and we whirr though the night past the gallops and stable yards of horse country.

Although I’ve not seen him in an age, it was good to have Mr 7mm as our host and guide; he’s safe, kind to newbies, and has thousands of acres of excellent stalking.
Handshakes dispensed with we clamber into Mr 7mm’s truck and head off into the farmlands. To give the newbie the widest possible introduction to stalking I’m dropped off at a highseat where a spinney abuts a track leading into a block of forestry. Even in the dark it looks proper promising. Mr 7mm produces one of those night vision monoculars that would have been black-ops ten years ago and there are three small deer and a couple of Hares glowing bright green out in the fields.

We walk over to the highseat. “if you shoot a deer, stay in the seat, where you shoot one there will most likely be another a few minutes later”.
A note for new stalkers: please stay in the highseat, I know you want to go and see that deer you shot, but it adds all sorts of unnecessary complications to the enterprise and as Mr 7mm says you might be blowing your chance of deer number two.
As Mr 7mm walks away into the gloom I drop the mag; sling the rifle on my front, clamber up, last quick check that the moderator is screwed on nice and tight, mag back in, chamber a round and settle down to wait. There must be a pen near by as within a few moments pheasants start to appear. Some of the hens are so white I’m compelled to check if they’re albino. At the 87m feeder they mill about and warm in my coat I start to feel a little drowsy. A Hare bounds out of the cover crop and I watch it though my binoculars until it goes back the way he came, my eyes are getting seriously heavy by this time. I’m in that half trance place where it could go either way, the swaying of the boughs behind me, the indistinct first light, a pheasant I made eye contact with earlier stands at the bottom of the highseat and creates me until i’m fully awake again. Out at the 87m feeder the pheasants are having her breakfast interrupted by a Muntjac doe. She circles the feeder and as she drops her head to snaffle a few grains I send her 55 grains of my own. She takes off like a scalded cat, I know I hit her fair and square so I try to suppress the nagging doubts about; myself, the bullet, the scope, the rifle, the shot placement, and how Artemis has abandoned me.

The Brugger and Thommett  moderator is obviously really good, the pheasants flap about a bit and then go back to eating. My brain is replaying “if you shoot a deer, stay in the seat, where you shoot one there will most likely be another a few minutes later” when not 90 seconds later a Buck turns up. he too circles the feeder and as soon as he settles in the crosshairs I give him a round, or so I thought. With a crouching gait he makes for the cover crop never to be seen again. No pins [pieces of shot-off deer hair], no blood, he literally disappeared.
I go back to waiting for a while I sit and think, for a while I just sit. There’s a gun shot in the distance and my hopes rise that The Sailor has closed the deal on his first outing.

It fully light when a third Muntjac appears at 57m a juvenile pre-antlered male, stoops to look around, and catches a round, dropping like a bag of wet sand right on the spot. If I recover them all I’m now out of freezer space so I pop the magazine and await the chaps arrival.

The feeder at the edge of the crop field is a measured 87m the furthest pale dot on the track is Muntjac No.3 at 57m


I took all the measurements with the nicest affordable range finder I've seen so far. Its by Pro Wild and is now under a 100 on both sides of the pond.

20 minutes later the boys appear. Yes they saw deer, no they didn’t shoot any of them, they too heard the shot, but they didn’t hear my shots. Mr 7mm pulls his ghillie face when I tell him the first one has vamoosed, so I get to pull my told-ya-so face when I recover her from the first gap in the hedge she could have chosen. With no ‘pins and paint’ on the ground its all looking a bit inconclusive for shot number two. There’s nothing. We spend most of an hour having a good tromp around, the cover is very thick and my doubts are growing by the minute. We gralloch and set off for the traditional stalkers breakfast

There is little to report from the afternoon session, my arrival startled a herd of Fallow does in a field Mr 7mm doesn’t have permission to shoot over, and with a .223 I didn’t have the necessary firepower for them. Hare weren’t on the list so i watched a medium sized one bound around through my binos and trudged back across the plowings glad once again to have bought the wand-like mini Mauser.

From the car I message our Alaskan corespondent, the blogger known as Hodgeman, telling him I’d finally been able to close the deal, Alaska is well outside the top of the Muntjac’s northern range [its probably Northern Ireland] so he’s interested to hear about our 365 day a year season and their petite size.

‘Moose birth calves bigger than that!’

On the way home:
I’ve struggled the sports bag full of deer on to a station trolly and with my rifle across my back I’m pushing it like a fat boy with sciatica though the station when I’m hailed by one of a posse of teenage boys.
“Is that your gun? Have you been shooting?”
There’s no ignoring him and his out of town accent means he’s unlikely to be too much of a problem.
I laugh “No its my boss’s Bass, I cant even play”
“You ain’t dressed for playing the Bass”
I catch sight of myself in a reflection, I’m wearing muddy wellies, and blood splattered stalking clothes.
He has a point. I put my finger to my lips, wink and waddle away a bit faster.

Your pal
SBW

Highland Deer Stalking Pt 4: The Gear List

This wouldn't be the SBW blog without a round up of the kit used. Some of the kit used was tried and tested on other adventures, some things I've seen that would answer problems we either had or could have had. I'm looking forward to hearing what you think I've left out. Here's my thoughts. Where you hunt may differ.

All three of us dressed as though our lives depended on it; if you did have the misfortune to have any one of a number of potential misfortunes befall you, it's a long wait for the air ambulance on a freezing hillside. In the dark. Did I mention it'll be snowing? The Ghillie on the other hand knew he'd never be far from the sweat lodge of his Landrover and apart from the last day where we stalked the hilltops, didn't even bother with a jacket.
The ground is rough and tussocked, any distance will be 'only 300 meters' and its always 'doon-huil', you will stumble, the soft clinging ice-cold mud is punctuated with jagged sharpe stones. In some ways its a bit like hill-walking, although there are a couple of crucial differences beyond the obvious
'Rifle' bit, there will be crawling about, lots of crawling about. The terrain is rougher so the level of protection clothes need provide against abrasion becomes more important and your boots are all that protect you from a twisted ankle.

On the drive up The Bambi Basher had gone to great lengths to prepare Mr Grendel and myself for what was ahead.

BB: ‘The ground is pretty steep, the Ghillie is the proverbial racing snake, but he makes sure everyone gets some good stalks. There'll be times when your struggling to keep up and he needs to get into position quickly. There's no shame in letting the ghillie carry your rifle across the really rough ground, he prefers it’

What he should have said is
“ the ghillie hates this rifle and everything attached to it. While you wheeze towards the firing position he’ll snatch it from your hands, wrench angrily at your bipod and leave your rifle set up on the edge of a puddle of melted snow. You will then have to lie in the puddle to peer through the fogged scope desperately trying to find the deer he claims to be able to see. All the while he will be demanding to know the whereabouts of a single piece of tissue he gave you an hour ago while you were in the Landrover which if you can find it will fail to de-fog the scope."

Lundhag's  Ranger boots
Your boots should come at least half way up your shin, you don't have the ankles the Ghillie has. Personally I'm all about the 'Hags' no lining means they dry out overnight and the big toe-box seems to keep my tootsies feeling warmer. I wear two pairs of socks so the wool can act as a bearing surface soothing out any rub patches. Stupidly on the first day I wore little socks under my big socks and the Compeed saved the trip. Two pairs of big socks minimum bid. While Lundhags  don't call their boots waterproof I've always found them to be so, unlike so many boots advertised as being so.
The Bambi Basher wore the high Le Chameau Mouflon's and disdains the second pair of socks. I know quite a few Le Chameau devotees, but I've not found a pair that fitted me like the Hags. Not something I'd recommend buying online.
Mr Grendel chose a much lighter weight and lower walking boot which he wore with 'Sealskins' socks. The ghillie wore wellies, Anti-grav wellies.

Gaiter's from the Mac Gaiter Co.
I’ve had a few pairs of gaiters over the years from the excellent but noisy Yeti’s that Berghaus used to make, waxed cotton which were rubbish [hilariously Elfa washed them to get 'that smelly grease out of them'], and a couple of generic lightweight pairs in ripstop nylon. All better than no gaiters, all a bit noisy in comparison to the Mac's. Mac Gaiters are made from neoprene [wetsuit material] and have been the best by a long way. Warm when wet, and quieter than any of the other materials I’ve tried or seen. All the other times I’ve worn them these have been perfect, during the rough and tumble of our assaults on the hillsides I would have preferred them to have the under-arch strap as when your foot plunges through the snow and then mud the mud sometime rolled the bottoms up. Some kind of more enthusiastic closure at the calf would be nice but its an easy mod to do with a sewing machine. I will defiantly buy another pair as even with being able to spin them in the washing machine at night, being neoprene they can't dry out very quickly. If I were starting a clean sheet re-design I’d move the velcro closure to the front so they’d be easier to put on and adjust while cramped into the Landrover. When you're standing up they're easy enough. A nice feature is the little hook that holds the front of the gaiter to the laces of your boot has been upgraded to a Big Hook which is better in every way.
Update: I’ve spoken with the manufacturer who tells me that under-arch straps have now been added to the design, and another camo and or Realtree will be available later in 2016.


NomadUK Breeks/Plus4’s
I know you foreigners like to mock us with our funny short trousers, I've been addressesed as Tintin more than once. Guys cast your prejudice aside, you've nothing to lose but your soggy bottoms or 'Pant Cuffs' as I'm told some of you call them. Once you go Breeks n Gaiters you'll never go back.
If you plan to rock a pair of breeks these are the breeks all other breeks should be judged against, they are absolutely fantastic. There is no piece of soggy ground, no wet slimy rock, or even puddle that you cant sit on or in with total impunity. Waterproof but silent. The Best. NomadUK really do make some nice schmutter, I would really like a pair of the Salopettes for wearing sitting in a highseat or shooting prone on a windy rifle range.

NomadUK: Zip Hill Smock
I’ve tested the this jacket in some pretty inclement weather: beating on a south downs pheasant shoot in the pissing rain, and run a pressure washer over it with me inside, so I was confident in its water repelling properties. This test took things to a new level, it was a longer day, some rain but mostly snow and hail, during which I was compelled to roll around on the ground, and much much colder. If the snow wasn't enough to contend with I was struggling up hills so steep I was puling myself up grabbing hands full of heather and taking more than one [or ten] unexpected plummets into the snow.
The jacket was in contact with wet heather or snow almost continually for the whole day. NomadUK's fleece solution does actually keep you warm even when it's selves eventually became completely saturated. I will defiantly be buying more of this company's kit. Possibly the best feature for the travelling sport is if you’ve got access to a washing machine the spin function will leave the gear dry enough to wear. If I was going further afield I’d take two as drying time isn't that quick without the spinning. Very simple, very quiet [which doesn't matter much in the howling gales that pass for a gentle breeze up there] NomadUK remains the benchmark.


MacWets gloves
These would be in the category of ‘Things That Don't Suck’ I’m really impressed with these gloves, they’re available in quarter sizes so they really are a second skin, they are warmish when wet but redeem themselves with a very quick drying time. I took two pairs, everytime one pair saturated I’d wring them out, put them in an inside pocket, put the other pair on, and as long as I could keep them in rotation I always had warmish dryish gloves and hands. They stick to a slick rifle stock like glue. Double thumbs up.

Eden Binoculars 
The best of the budget glass by a long long way. 8.5x42 are magic for woodland stalking, the Ghillie’s range finding Leica 10x42 really were that much better on the hill. Take your lens caps off before you leave the cottage, one of mine is still on the hill.

Draw Scope or Spotting Scope
Although considered standard equipment for highland stalking and I had really nice draw scope with me, I didn't use it once. I'd have preferred a pair of 10x42 binoculars.

Scope
I'm pretty much in the fixed-power camp on this one. Less to go wrong, and less weight. Schmidt and Bender Hungarian in 6x42 for me and BB, although the wider field of view of the 8x56 might have been a bit better a few times.

A few thoughts about a highland stalking rifle:
After WDM Bell got home from the Karamojo he stalked Red Deer with a .220 Hi-Power these days to be all-deer-legal in Scotland the bullet must weigh at least 100 grains and have a minimum muzzle velocity of 2,450 feet per second and a minimum muzzle energy of 1,750 foot pounds.

An internet test of a Mountain Rifle is; can you hold it fully loaded and with everything on it, in your outstretched hand for a whole 60 seconds.
On the hill for the Highland Professionals 200m is the average shot. The ghillie doesn't expect you to shoot out to 600m but 300m is every day to him. Asking about, the chaps all valued accuracy over lightness and took a devil-may-care attitude to their rifles external condition. The spec for an ultimate Highland rifle might be: Can you confidently hit a four inch disc at 400m,  and not give a monkey's when you scratch the stock and the metalwork. On the same day. Twice.

Bambi Basher: Is there any rifle you'd not want to use?
The blue touch paper is now alight, you can see from the smoke coming off the Ghillie. BB has set off a chain reaction leading to another 'full and frank expression of strongly held views.'
The Ghillie: Feckin' three oh feckin eight! I had a client with one, to be fair not too bad a rifle, [looks at BB's Ruger 77 in disgust] but what a shite cartridge that is, 'bout foot and half drop, Jesus, that's be the last roond I'd ever use.

BB had this particularly nice .308 with him that never saw the light of day. Its for sale HERE

The usually wonderful falling block rifle (Ruger No1 in BB's battery) is sub-optimal when lying uphill on steep ground - the round can [which in the highlands is a synonym for 'will' ] fall out while being chambered.
The Ghillie had a lot of time for Blasers. The short-throw straight-pull helps in being ready for the second shot, which is vital up there and the lack of a bolt race is one less place for muck to cause jams. Accuracy never goes amiss either. "ye can tell a lot about a tradesman by his tools"

.270 is still the ‘Scottish calibre’ the guy in the gun shop confirmed they always have it in stock.
"In whatever grain weight you may require."

25-06 is a fantastic highland calibre, [100+gr and bob-on out to 300m]

.243 is both revered and derided.

As the Highland Professionals are doing it for a job Moderators are standard to them. Health and safety init.

Exotica and wildcats: If you had a reliable supply of ammunition 6XC would be great, and 6.5mm Grendel would be perfect. Its worth noting that if you are flying in the customs guys prefer to see a head stamp that matches the declaration. Getting the vernier out to 'prove' each home made round is what you say it is will only irritate them.

Everyday take 10 more rounds with you than you think you need.

A small torque wrench set to your scope’s requirements is a good idea. A very good idea.

Your Bipod needs longer legs for snow and bog, it also needs to be the kind with lots of tilt. Those Harris or Harris-style bipods are crap. Javelin is the new kid on the block, Neopod is a few grams lighter,  more expensive and isn't as tall. Javelin it may be.

If you have any sentiment at all about your rifle’s condition or want to get your money back on it, cover as much of it as you can in tape, its easy to scratch your hands, knees, or rifle up there.

Electrical Tape over the muzzle would be a good precaution. Mr Grendel would like to confirm for BB's benefit  the correct nomenclature is "Electrical Tape" not 'Sniper Tape".

Loc-Tight or Nail Varnish - if it can come undone it will come undone, before the stud that closed my sling came un-crimped and failed the ‘locking’ clasp that moors the strap to the rifle’s stud came loose, never seen that before. A knotted piece of leather boot lace might have been better. Everything with a threaded closure will benefit from Loc-Tight.

SAM Emergency Splint - weighs nothing in your pocket but might be dead handy, like the best tenner you ever spent, handy.

A waterproof case for your phone/camera is one less thing to worry about.
The Ricoh WG-M2 is good to -10c which might be handy.

A lens cloth - preferably on a string inside your hat. I always seemed to need to wipe either scope or binoculars at the most inopportune moments. I'd often find muck of one kind and another in my pockets. The inside of my hat was always dry.

Compeed. Without Compeed this adventure would have ended on the second morning. I've tried a few ways to overcome blisters NONE OF THEM WERE AS GOOD AS COMPEED!


More soon
Your pal
SBW