Читать книгу Amid the High Hills - Hugh Sir Fraser - Страница 5

II
STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE
FORM

Table of Contents

By far the most enjoyable form of stalking is to be one’s own stalker, but this can only be done satisfactorily in a forest with which one is thoroughly familiar. It is astonishing what tricks the wind will play in certain corries, and as a result what mistakes even a good stalker will make in a forest which is new to him. Moreover, any one stalking by himself, unless he has experience, may easily make another kind of mistake. He may think that he has missed a stag when he has in fact killed him. Any one who has had experience in shooting deer knows that a stag when shot through the heart will sometimes gallop for forty or fifty yards or even further and then fall down dead.

“SEE! FROM THE TOPS THE MIST IS STEALING.”

By Finlay Mackinnon.

Some years ago, preparatory to a few days’ stalking in a deer forest in Inverness-shire, I arrived one evening at the Lodge; and later on about half-past ten there returned from the hill a guest in a state of great dejection who had never stalked until he went out in this forest a few days before. I felt very sorry for him, for he had been keen to secure a good head and said that he had had a splendid chance of a fine stag standing broadside at about eighty yards and had missed him. This was his last chance as he was leaving early next morning. Two days later I was out on the same beat when the stalker suddenly grasped me by the arm and said, “There is a stag lying down there to the left of that hill below us. Are you seeing his horns above the ridge?” We went cautiously down in the direction of the stag, but had not gone far before we discovered that the stag was dead. “That,” said the stalker, “must be the stag Mr. X. shot at two days ago.” We examined the stag and found that he had been shot apparently through the heart from the knoll from which X. had taken his shot; it was obviously the same stag. The stalker then told me that X. wished to stalk the last hundred yards alone and had asked him to stay behind, that X. had the shot and came back saying that he had missed the stag. Neither the stalker nor X. had thought it worth while to look for the stag. In the case of X., who was a novice at stalking, I was not surprised, but I was amazed that the stalker had not done so, although he was young and not very experienced. So X. secured a good head after all, and no doubt both he and the stalker learnt a lesson which neither is likely to forget, but at the cost to X. of much unnecessary misery and humiliation and incidentally to his host of much good venison.

It is sometimes difficult to be sure what is the result of one’s shot, and it is a great assistance to have the opinion of an experienced stalker whether he has his glass on the beast at the moment the shot is fired or not.

I was coming back one evening after a delightful day’s stalking in Glen Carron, when the stalker Macdonell said, “One moment, sir, there is a stag down there just gone out of sight. If you can shoot off your knee downhill you will have a chance directly.” I sat down and waited, and in a few minutes the stag appeared. I believed I was steady and on him in the right place. Directly I fired he galloped off. “I’m thinking you’d better shoot again,” said Macdonell. “What’s the use,” I replied, thinking I had shot the stag through the heart. However, as I spoke, I did shoot again out of respect to Macdonell, whom I knew to be a very experienced stalker, and the stag rolled over like a rabbit which has been shot in the right place. “Now we will see,” I said, “where the two bullets went.” “I’m thinking,” said Macdonell, “you missed him the first time.” “You may be right,” I replied, “but I don’t think so; one thing I know, and that is that if I did and had known it, I should probably have missed him with my second shot also.” On examining the stag we could only find one bullet mark, and on skinning him we found that one bullet only had struck him, and that was through the heart. Macdonell no doubt thinks to this day that I missed the stag with my first shot, and killed him with my second when he was galloping; but I still have my doubts. The moral is that though one sometimes hears the unmistakable thud of the bullet striking the stag, there are other occasions when it is difficult to be certain as to what has happened, and therefore it is always wise to satisfy one’s self in the matter as far as possible. Still more is this essential when stalking alone. In stalking alone, there is this advantage, that one can always secure the best position in which to shoot, whereas if one is accompanied by a stalker, he sometimes takes that position himself and it is not easy to get him to move on, or, as is more often the case, there is no time for him to do so.

Charles J. Murray of Loch Carron, to whose kindness I am indebted for many delightful days’ stalking, is particularly devoted to this form of sport. A few seasons ago I was obliged to come south before the end of the stalking season, and received from him a letter which describes, far better than I can, the pleasure of being out alone on the hill.

“You are missing the West Coast,” he wrote, “at its (weather) best! for we have a spell of gloriously fine weather when the stag can hear a footstep half a mile off, and the wind is so gentle that it cannot make up its mind which way to go, but strays gently to and fro and round in little circles, stimulating evil words among the stalkers.

“Yesterday I was out alone and worked up to a Pasha and his Harem—the ladies between him and me—he just out of shot on a hillock behind them—approach from the front impossible, but just a chance—almost a certainty with a fair breeze—from a rock to one side, if he should come down to his ladies before they got a puff. I risked it and got a comfy corner in the sun and waited to see which would win—the affectionate impulses of the stag or the more wavering evolutions of the scarcely perceptible puffs of wind, the old lady sixty yards away looking serenely at the top of my head. Needless to say that after two hours, just when the stag stretched one fore foot and began to hum a love ditty, I felt a well-known cool feeling at the back of my neck, and the party adjourned the meeting. Luckily I am not bloodthirsty, but enjoy being among deer, and on these occasions driving snow and rain, or sunshine and a dry tussock to curl up on, make all the difference.”