<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97"></SPAN>[97]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="ich8" style="max-width: 46.875em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100" src="images/i_ch8.jpg" alt="The Dying Stag" /></div>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br/> A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">Amongst</span> my stalking experiences I shall always
remember a week which I once had early one
season in a famous forest on the west coast,
through the kindness of my friend the proprietor,
to whom I have been indebted for many excellent
days’ sport. I have had long experience in
stalking, but have never known worse weather
than we had in this particular week. The rifles
consisted of my host, Stuart a fellow-guest, and
myself. I was out stalking six days. On Thursday,
our first day, we killed five stags between us.
My host and Stuart each got two, while I got one.
So far as my experiences on that day were concerned,
I had no opportunity of a shot until near<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98"></SPAN>[98]</span>
the end of the day, when we came upon two stags,
one of which I shot. As it was late in the day
and I had only one pony, I did not shoot at the
second stag. The following Friday, Saturday,
and Monday were terrible days of mist and storm.
The mist never left the tops of the mountains all
day long, although there was a strong wind
blowing—it appeared to come up from the sea in
great banks; and although we waited on each day
for it to clear off, we did so in vain. On Friday
and Saturday I never had a shot.</p>
<p><SPAN name="RIDGE" id="RIDGE"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i098fp" style="max-width: 62.5em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_098_fp.jpg" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">“LYING ON A RIDGE WE SPIED SOME DEER.”</p>
<p class="pfs80">From a Photograph by the Author.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>On Monday, until late in the day, it looked as
though I was to have the same experience. About
four o’clock, however, having been lying on a
ridge overlooking a wide, deep corrie, the mist
suddenly lifted for a very few minutes and we spied
some deer moving downwards on the far side of
the corrie, and amongst them what appeared to
be two or three good stags. There were also a
number of hinds rather nearer to us than this lot
of deer. We decided that the only way in which
we should be likely to get a shot at the stags
would be to go right round the upper edge of the
corrie and try to get in between the hinds and
the other lot of deer amongst which were the stags.
This entailed a most uncomfortable walk; the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99"></SPAN>[99]</span>
wind was so strong that one could hardly stand,
it was quite impossible to keep a cap on one’s
head, and it rained or hailed incessantly. At last
we got round, and went down to the lower ground;
we then managed, with a good deal of difficulty,
to crawl safely past the hinds, and found that the
other lot of deer were moving slowly, feeding
downwards. After a time the deer lay down on
a small hill in a sheltered place, and we crawled up
to the top of an adjoining hill about 140 yards
distant. We there made out that there was one
good stag, an eight-pointer, who was lying down,
and whose horns only could be seen from the
place where we were lying. I got into position
to shoot in case the stag should rise and give
me a chance. It was now about half-past five,
and we thought, considering how late it was
getting and the conditions of the weather, that
we should not be kept waiting very long. The
stag, however, did not move for about half an
hour, when he got up and turned round, and
immediately lay down again. Time went on, and
what with the cold and wet I began to shiver, and
felt that I must do something to alter the condition
of things. It was close on 6.30, and we
were five miles from the point where it had been<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100"></SPAN>[100]</span>
arranged that Stuart and I were to meet the car,
if possible, at six o’clock, and in any case not later
than seven. I told the stalker that he must get
the deer up somehow or other, and that he had
better whistle them up; he strongly advised me
not to do this, but to wait a little longer, as, if we
did so, they would probably bolt and not give me
a chance to shoot. I, however, persisted, and said
we could not keep Mr. Stuart waiting any longer;
besides, I was getting colder and colder. I therefore
whistled; the deer took no notice. “A little
louder,” said the stalker. I whistled louder. Two
of the smaller stags got up, and then the eight-pointer
on the far side of the hill slowly got up,
looking in our direction, and exposing his body
over the edge of the hill, a fair broadside shot,
at about 140 yards. I fired. “Just over his
shoulder,” said the stalker, and the stag still stood,
as stags often will do when the bullet passes
over them. I fired again and the stag instantly
fell. “Good shot,” said the stalker. I unloaded
the rifle and handed it to the stalker, who began
to put it into its cover, when suddenly the stag
jumped up and galloped off. The bullet had no
doubt grazed the spine, causing temporary unconsciousness.
When a stag drops instantaneously,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101"></SPAN>[101]</span>
as this one did, he is often only stunned, and
it is well to be on the alert and get up to him
at once, ready if necessary to shoot again. This
was no new experience to either of us. The old
stalker had been over fifty years in the forest and
had seen the same thing happen many a time;
nor was it new to me. We watched the stag as he
galloped away apparently none the worse for his
narrow escape, and I certainly felt very foolish.
The old stalker kindly began to make excuses
for me. “The line was right, but you were
just a little high,” he said. “Your pozeesyon
was not good. You had been lying long, cold
and shivering, in the wet. Yon cartridges are
lighter than yer regular ones, and that is why
you shot over him.” “No, no,” I replied, “I
missed because I could not shoot straight; it is
a bad business; anyhow, it is better than having
wounded him badly and then lost him; it is a
comfort to think he is really very little the worse—now
we have got to get back as quickly as ever
we can.” And then in the gloom and mist,
running and walking and tumbling, away we
went. The last mile was down a hill path filled
with loose stones. At last we reached the end of
the road, and saw the car coming up from a point<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102"></SPAN>[102]</span>
about a mile lower down the road where Stuart
had arranged to meet us. “Well,” I said, “I
hope at any rate that Mr. Stuart has got a stag,
if not two.” The stalker had been looking carefully
at the road. “No,” he said, “Mr. Stuart
has no stag the day.” I said, “How do you know
that?” “Oh,” he said, pointing to the marks
on the road, “his ponies have gone home trotting—look
at the marks of their hoofs—and if Mr.
Stuart had got a stag the pony would be walking.”
As soon as the car arrived we found that the
stalker was right, and that Stuart, who had only
arrived at our meeting-place a few minutes before,
had got no stag, never having had a shot. On
reaching the lodge about 8.30 <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span> we found that
our host had not yet returned from the river,
where he had gone to try to get a salmon, and it
was not until an hour later that he returned. He
too had had bad luck, having hooked a large fish
which it was impossible to follow, and which had
taken out in its first rush at a terrific pace some
fifty yards of line, and then, a strain being put on,
broke the casting line, which, it subsequently
turned out, had been used in the spring fishing
and had not been properly tested before being
used again. Thus closed the third chapter in a<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_103"></SPAN>[103]</span>
day which illustrated the truth of the proverb
that “misfortunes never come singly.”</p>
<p>The following day, Tuesday, showed no signs
of improvement in the weather. Thick mist on
the tops, steady rain, and a wind, as usual, in the
wrong direction. Stuart was obliged to drive
some miles off to see a friend, but I determined
once more to try the hill. This time I was sent
out on the home beat. I started off with the
stalker and an old gillie named Angus, who had
had so much experience that he would have made
an admirable stalker, and who is always very keen.
I also had two ponies and a pony boy. The pony
path goes straight up the mountain-side for two
and a half miles. By the time we reached the
point where the path stopped we were close to the
edge of the mist, and the outlook seemed hopeless.
We decided to cross over the opposite hill and
go down on the other side, hoping that by that
time the mist might have lifted. We left instructions
with the pony boy to wait for two hours,
and then if he heard nothing from us to go back
right round to a point on the other side of the hill
and wait there. On our way up the hill I found
some beautiful little bastard pimpernel in flower,
not very common in this part of the country. As<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_104"></SPAN>[104]</span>
we worked our way up the mountain-side the
wind became stronger and the rain heavier. It
was intensely cold, and very difficult to see what
was in front of us. Having arrived at the ridge,
nearly 3000 feet up, we tried to spy the corrie
below. What with the tremendous wind and
driving rain this was a matter of the greatest
difficulty, and in conditions of this kind I always
think there is a better chance of picking up deer
with first-rate field-glasses than with a telescope.
I managed, with my field-glasses, to discover two
stags feeding in a sheltered part of the opposite
side of the corrie, and, after shifting our position
in order to get a better view of them, we found
that there were some hinds feeding below them.
We came to the conclusion that the only chance
of obtaining a shot at the stags was by getting
in between them and the hinds. After some
trouble we succeeded in doing this, but old
Angus, who knew the corrie well, said that the
wind at this place was very uncertain, and that
it was a question whether the stags would not
get our wind. He had hardly uttered this warning
before there was a fatal puff in the wrong
direction, and away went the stags long before
we were near them. We decided to go on and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_105"></SPAN>[105]</span>
try the next corrie. It is difficult to imagine
a greater contrast than the comparative warmth
and peace which we were now enjoying as compared
with the strife of the elements outside the
corrie. The rain, too, had stopped, and I said
to the stalker, “No wonder the deer came here;
what a haven of rest!”</p>
<p><SPAN name="SISTERS" id="SISTERS"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp100" id="i104fp" style="max-width: 62.5em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_104_fp.jpg" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">THE FIVE SISTERS OF KINTAIL.</p>
<p class="pfs80">By <span class="smcap">Finlay Mackinnon</span>.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>We now worked our way across the ridge, and
then spied the big corrie below. We discovered
two lots of stags. Those in the first lot were
moving on. The others were lying down in a
place where they could be stalked without much
difficulty; we therefore crawled some 400 or
500 yards, and, creeping cautiously up to the top
of a little hill, saw the stags had got up and begun
to feed. There was one quite clean about 90
yards below us, and another also clean about
130 yards from where we were lying. I fired at
the near stag, who fell dead at once; I then
covered the other stag and pulled the second
trigger—result a missfire. I hastily reloaded
and fired, killing the stag. We then went down
to the stags which I had shot. The first was a
six-pointer, whose horns and teeth showed him
to be an old warrior. The second, a nine-pointer,
was a younger beast, rather heavier. Both stags<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_106"></SPAN>[106]</span>
were in good condition, and weighed 13 st. 9 lb.
and 14 st. 3 lb. clean. After gralloching the stags,
we dragged them down the hill to a point from
which we could signal to the pony boy. The
ponies had long been used for carrying stags, and
stood quietly whilst the stags were put on them.
We soon reached the pony path, and after a walk
of five miles reached the lodge.</p>
<p>The following day, Wednesday, it rained and
blew all day, and the mists hung low on the
mountains, so that it was quite useless to attempt
any stalking.</p>
<p>The next day, Thursday, was the last day of my
visit and that of Stuart. Stuart was particularly
anxious to kill one more stag in the company of
the second stalker, because he had killed his first
stag in his company sixteen years ago in this
forest, and had since then killed forty-eight stags
in various forests. The day looked anything but
propitious; there was mist and rain, and the
wind was again in the wrong quarter. My host
said he would go fishing up the glen; Stuart was
sent to try one of the far beats in the company of
his old friend the second stalker, whilst I was left
to try the home beat again. As we went up the
hill the mist gradually lifted, and we saw two huge<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_107"></SPAN>[107]</span>
golden eagles circling round and round. We saw
no deer up to two o’clock; but whilst taking
lunch we suddenly saw several stags coming round
the side of a distant hill. We hastily finished our
lunch and set out on what proved to be a long and
exciting stalk. From time to time we had to
remain lying perfectly flat, not daring to move a
muscle. Once we thought every chance of success
was gone, for an old cock-grouse rose with his
“Go-back,” “Go-back,” as we were nearing the
rock from which we hoped to get a shot. The
sun, of which we had seen nothing for so long,
kept coming out and going in again. On a long
stalk of this kind it is extraordinary what one
sees and how ineffaceable is the memory of these
sights—the eagle circling over the high tops not
far distant; the blue hare leisurely making off,
then stopping, sitting up and looking back; the
ptarmigan, so beautiful in its mottled plumage,
running in front of us, stopping now and again
and peering around; the old cock-grouse rising
with his warning described above, which too
often brings the stalk to an untimely end; the
many insects, some of them so strange and weird,
that we see as we lie flat gazing into a clump of
grass and moss; the granite boulders sparkling<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_108"></SPAN>[108]</span>
in the sunlight as if studded with many diamonds—most,
if not all, of these things I saw in this
particular stalk. Everything, however, comes to
an end, and so at last I succeeded in getting a shot
at the heaviest of the stags, who was standing on
the side of a very rocky and precipitous hill. He
ran a few yards and fell down dead. It was,
indeed, fortunate that he fell where he did,
caught between two rocks, for immediately below
these rocks nothing could have stopped him from
rolling down a precipice of several hundred feet,
and, as old Angus said, the venison would not
have been worth taking home and the horns
would have been smashed to atoms. The stag,
an old one in good condition, was dragged down
to a place where the pony could come up, and,
leaving Angus to find and help the pony boy, the
stalker and I started to work our way homewards
across the hill. We had been moving slowly
onwards, spying from time to time, when we
discovered a large number of stags feeding below
us. A circuitous stalk brought us up to them,
but in a very awkward position. It was impossible
to get a shot, except by coming up to a point at
the top of the hill below which they were feeding,
and we should then be much too close to them.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_109"></SPAN>[109]</span>
There was, however, no choice, and after a
cautious crawl we reached a point from which
we could see the horns of stags moving away from
us, at a distance of not more than 30 yards.
Crawling as flat as possible to the top of the little
hill, the stalker slowly raised his head, and as
slowly lowered it. He then whispered to me,
“There’s a fine stag there, but he won’t wait
long, and you’d better shoot over my back.” I
cautiously raised the rifle over the stalker’s back
in the direction indicated, and, slowly raising my
head, saw a fine stag, with a good head, standing
broadside on, about 70 yards away, looking
straight at me. As quickly as possible I covered
the stag’s heart and pulled the trigger; there
was the unmistakable thud as the bullet struck
the stag, who instantly turned and disappeared.
“He’ll be all right,” said the stalker; “you
don’t often hear a bullet strike more distinctly
than that one did,” and on reaching the point
where the stag had been standing we saw him
about 80 yards below, lying dead. He turned
out to be a royal, with very regular points and a
good head, although he was going back and had
evidently been better. Like two of the four stags
I had previously shot, he was an ancient warrior.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_110"></SPAN>[110]</span>
The mist, which had temporarily lifted, now came
down again thicker than ever, and the stalker said
that we should have an awful job to get the stag
down, as it was a heavy one, and the ground was
very awkward. We gralloched the stag, and took
out the heart and liver in order to make him as
light as possible, and then set to work to get the
stag down. This was a very heavy job, and I
could not help thinking, as I had often thought
before, what an excellent thing it would be if
every one who is going to stalk, whether proprietor,
tenant, or guest, were obliged some time
or other to take part in dragging a stag to the
place where he is to be put on the pony, and
help in putting him on the pony. We succeeded
at last in getting the stag down, and the stalker
then arranged to wait on the pony path lower
down, in order to meet old Angus and the pony
boy, who would be bringing the first stag I had
shot and the ponies. I took my rifle, the luncheon
bag, and the sticks and glasses, and struck across
the hill for the lodge. On my way down I began
to speculate as to the age of the two old stags I
had shot that day, and came to the conclusion that
they were probably not less than fourteen or
fifteen years old. The old Gaelic saying, which
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_111"></SPAN>[111]</span>shows how little was formerly known as to the
age of a stag, came into my mind:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Tri aois coin, aois eich;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Tri aois eich, aois duine;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Tri aois duine, aois feidh;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Tri aois feidh, aois firein;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Tri aois firein, aois dbaraich,</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>which may be translated:</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Thrice dog’s age, age of horse;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thrice horse’s age, age of man;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thrice man’s age, age of deer;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thrice deer’s age, age of eagle;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thrice eagle’s age, age of oak.</div>
</div></div>
</div>
<p>It is probably true to say that a stag in its wild
state rarely lives beyond sixteen or seventeen
years of age. In those forests which are on
islands, for example Jura, stalkers have unusual
opportunities of observing and learning the history
of particular stags, and I recollect when stalking
in North Jura two years ago discussing this
subject with John Mackay, the head stalker. He
told me that he had several times been familiar
with a stag all through its life, and in more than
one instance had seen a stag with a fine head
gradually lose its points, until at last it had only
comparatively short upright narrow horns with
two, short brow points, the stag itself losing<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_112"></SPAN>[112]</span>
steadily both in size and weight and becoming
very light in colour.</p>
<p><SPAN name="ANGUS" id="ANGUS"></SPAN></p>
<div class="figcenter illowp52" id="i110fp" style="max-width: 43.375em;">
<ANTIMG class="w100 p2" src="images/i_110_fp.jpg" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p class="pfs80">OLD ANGUS NEARING HOME.</p>
<p class="pfs80">By <span class="smcap">V. R. Balfour-Browne</span>.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>I reached the lodge about 6.30. The stags
weighed very nearly the same weight—16 st. 2 lb.
and 16 st. 5 lb. clean—the royal being slightly
heavier than the other. Our host returned about
eight o’clock, having waited an hour past the
time at which he had arranged to meet Stuart.
The car was sent back for Stuart, who, however,
did not reach the lodge until half-past ten, after
a very long and strenuous day. He had, however,
secured his fiftieth stag after a most troublesome
stalk. He was not able to get his shot till past
seven o’clock, at which time he was about seven
miles from the lodge. So ended a most delightful
week’s sport, notwithstanding the awful weather
which we had had.</p>
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