The Fishing Paper, Articles

The Fishing Paper

Part Two: One, Two, Three Pick Me!

Sweet Success!

Gravelguts was the first to give voice the next morning and he was fairly close, because we'd cut a track in his general direction upon leaving the hut. As it became light enough to see, we were amazed by the amount of sign and it soon became apparent Gravelguts was holding a number of hinds. He wasn't giving too much away, only issuing the occasional moan. He also had our number and was on the move - crafty sod.

A lusty roar from across the river stopped us in our tracks. Gravelguts shut up, which seemed to anger the challenger more because he gave rise to a real throaty roar followed by three gut-wrenching grunts. It must have had the right timbre to it, because it was immediately answered by another stag that wasn't Gravelguts. Then a fourth stag joined in the fray from the same side of the river and the hunt was on.

It's an amazing sight to watch street lights go on of an evening, because they don't all suddenly light up, but flicker and come on one after another. That's exactly what it was like on that Westland morning as stag after stag started roaring all around us. Most were some distance off, but the trio across the river were in a densely wooded area on the flats, so we homed in on them.

Once across the river, we angled upstream of them because a front was coming through and the wind was blowing opposite to normal. The bush was heinous on this side of the river as well and the level of concentration required to stalk quietly was taxing. The fact that the three stags were consumed with each other made life easier, but we still had to be alert for hinds.

As daylight really took hold, it became obvious the stags were on the move and heading back to their pads further uphill. We quickened our pace in a bid to make the main ridge and close the gap before the wind gave us up. The air was electric and the sound of roaring stags was incredible enough to defy description. The stags seemed so close yet frustratingly out of reach. Having never hunted roaring stags before, I had no idea how to gauge distance.

As we began to climb, two things happened; I realised the deer were getting ahead of us and the bush started to open up. With some urgency now, we moved every time one of the stags roared. As the ridge steepened, a gut formed to our right and separated us from one of the stags, but judging by the sudden increased volume of his roars, we were converging. A pattern was also emerging - two of the stags were stalking the third, which meant he was probably the one holding the hinds and possibly the bigger animal.

Sweeter was the fact that he'd finally reached his pad and stopped; we were on the same ridge as him and we were getting 10m closer with every roar. With that, he stopped roaring, which served to infuriate the other two more. The sound was deafening and I couldn't help feeling a stag was going to materialise at any moment. They sounded that close it seemed plausible we should be able to detect the air currents generated by their roars.

Then we did feel an air current and it sickened me. It wasn't much, but it was enough. A tiny shift in wind direction and the stags that, seconds earlier, had been feverishly vocal fell silent and evaporated without a sound. Tony and I looked at each other in despair, each shaking our head at the realisation we'd come so close only to be outclassed by the vagaries of the weather.

Then a rumble that surely had its origins deep in the bowels of the earth grew into a full-blooded roar with all the malevolence of a wounded lion. Without need of thought or comment, I was racing forward, swallowing as much ground as possible before the trio of grunts signalled the end of his challenge.
"I can see him Crimpy," whispered Enty, "between the forks of those branches!" His eyes were giving me directions.

I stepped out from behind the enormous beech tree that was obscuring by vision, looked up and saw the most magnificent sight - a defiant looking stag eye-balling me from 30m. Without hesitation, I eased the rifle to my shoulder, found the rich chocolate coloured face in the scope, breathed out and let the crosshairs drop below his nose. The moment I paused my breath, I fired and the stag dropped from sight - poleaxed!
"He's yours Crimpy!"

With that, a flood of emotions competed with the smile on my face for attention. We'd been concentrating intensely for nearly two hours and now we had all the time in the world to savour the moment. At thirteen points he was a gnarly specimen and past his prime, but, in my eyes, the perfect trophy.

It must have been the sudden silence of the other two that alarmed him, prompting him to issue another challenge - his last!
Next month:Hell's Ugly Maw