by Colin Elford
Deer creep about in all manner of places, both day and night. Somehow, judging by the fraying on the recently planted spruce, at least two roe bucks have taken up residence between the main road and an army petroleum depot. Both bucks must have used the residential gardens and hedges as access to secure a territory within the so-called fenced area. It’s certainly going to be both time-consuming and challenging to catch up with them. At least they are roe deer, which are more predictable than the herding species.
When I worked on a private country estate, I had two older colleagues, both of whom had fought in the Second World War. One had fought Germans, the other had pursued the Japanese. They would argue about the nations they had fought, each giving examples of why their enemy was the worst. Many hours were spent on wet days in old wooden sheds within the woods, or at times under a hurriedly put-up piece of tarpaulin, debating the subject.
It can be a bit like this in the deer world, with each stalker claiming his or her species is harder to cull than a neighbour’s. I’ve found herding deer more difficult: sika deer get smart very quickly and wild fallow can rapidly become wise and cunning. Both species under pressure soon learn the value of becoming nocturnal and avoiding strategically placed permanent high seats. The fallow on my beat can at times be very stupid and let their guard down, but most of the time they are as wild as the wind itself.
Fallow always seem as though they are in a hurry to get somewhere, constantly on the move, unless resting under some impenetrable cover. Stalking them on foot in the winter is next to impossible. With pheasant shoots and hunting going on all around you, stalking on foot makes as much sense as stalking an SAS trooper while dressed in a bright, noisy clown suit.
At times, it seems that the only place you will see fallow still and quiet, presenting themselves for an easy shot, is on a skyline – or perhaps, like the roe buck I have just spotted, who is practically grinning at me, standing alongside a large petroleum tank, its red-letter sign reading: WARNING: DO NOT PUNCTURE.
Shot three young roe bucks this morning, none of them over three years. For me, down south, it pays to cull bucks early in the season before the summer growth comes up and provides hiding places for them.
I’m happy to see my first orange-tip butterfly of this season. The orange on the wing-tips of the male makes this unmistakable butterfly visible from a great distance and one of the easiest to spot. I normally see my first one on the road edges in spring, seeking out the mustard plants where they lay their eggs.
My birthday. It’s funny, but I’ve never liked shooting anything on my birthday. I’ll carry on with the cull tomorrow; one day should not make that much difference. Instead I will check all the restock sites (recently planted areas) for the presence of pine weevil. These little demons bite huge chunks of bark from the newly planted pine and if left undiscovered can cause massive damage to the plantation, similar to that inflicted by squirrels on hardwoods. Criss-crossing the site I look for fresh exposed weeping bite marks, the telling signs. Individual trees are searched at ground level because the beetles have a self-protective habit of falling or jumping off the tree when you touch it. These sites need constant visits and records kept as an infestation can soon occur. Luckily, today I find none.
Back to the cull. I manage to get two spike roe bucks this morning. Being young and not wood-wise yet, they can be reasonably easy to shoot, more naive about stalking mistakes than a doe or older buck. That is, as long as you remain downwind of them. Later in the day’s stalking, through a patchy morning mist, I come across a middle-aged roe buck fraying some young Douglas fir trees on the edge of a two-year plant site.
The first temptation on coming across such a scene is to shoot the offender, believing that will solve the problem. You may solve it temporarily, but more deer will take the last one’s place and each buck will fray more trees to show ownership; the more bucks the more damage, so I don’t feel guilty about sparing this one! Bearing in mind also that roe are territorial, and the buck was in good health, I decide to leave him as a security buck, his job to patrol, my ears and eyes on the site when I’m not around, ready to push any younger bucks away.
Fresh fraying always looks worse than it actually is, and there is natural regeneration to replace deer-damaged trees.
Today I have a German client with me who’s come for a few days’ stalking. He is no problem on the range regarding accuracy; it’s his gun handling that leaves room for improvement. He is certainly not up to my standard.
After a little episode in the woods I have to rein him in. In Germany, and elsewhere on the Continent it seems, there are numerous traditions involved in stalking and hunting. One of them is new to me. Basically, if you are older than the resident stalker or guide, apparently you, the visitor, know the ground better than your guide within a day. I’m also informed that deer don’t come out in the rain, and other such nonsense.
It amazes me how some people manage to get older without getting any wiser. Everything I have learnt has been given to me by the forest, and if the lesson is a good working practice I use it. This client wants to stop in areas where I never see deer and gets restless in areas where I want deer shot. Strange.
German man sulking.
The next day. German man still sulking.
Today I am a god. The client even attempts to kiss me. Until I tell him to push off, that is, and explain what will happen if he ever tries that again. But it doesn’t seem to curb his admiration for me. He can’t praise me enough. And this is all down to a trophy roe buck which I first spotted last year, but only twice, and who returned today to our stalking ground.
It lived in the forest but also spent time in its territory, which covered the neighbour’s ground, a wildlife trust reserve. Although I can admire a trophy buck, I must admit I struggle with the idea of trophy shooting, even though I have shot such deer in my career. At work I find more satisfaction in having a reason to dispatch an injured or sick animal. And this buck was old. In fact, I was always astonished at the distance he covered considering his age.
This morning I find him patrolling in the damp early mist. We are both walking, and then we spot each other simultaneously. He stares at me, I at him, both surprised – him to see anyone and me to see him. Under my breath, I request the client to shoot him. He obliges and the buck falls: a medal buck. This is when the attempted kiss takes place. For the next twenty minutes, my ears hurt with the bragging of what a great hunter he is. It seems to slip his mind that the poor old buck was standing only twenty metres from him. I almost say, but hold back, that shooting a medal buck is no different from shooting a doe, and it certainly does not make you a better stalker.
There is an old country saying which claims that whatever you are doing when you hear your first cuckoo you will be doing for the rest of the year. I hope it’s not true as all these early mornings are taking their toll.
His arrival is late this year; I glimpse the grey hawk bird as he flies across an open area of recently planted Scots pine. The male bird calls out ‘Cuckoo!’ several times and then alights on a tall pine tree it has singled out. I think of the journey this bird has made from Africa and marvel at the cuckoo’s stamina. The male arrives first, with the females following a few weeks later. I’ve seen several in the air at once, males and females, some birds making strange babbling, bubbling sounds.
It’s always good to hear your first cuckoo, but sitting in a high seat for several hours listening to the constant clamour of a group of them can drive you nuts. And although I love the cries of the buzzards soaring high on the thermals, the continual calling from chick to parent can also fray your nerves.
Today I have one of those unreal experiences that make you pinch yourself to check you’re awake because you can’t believe what you’re seeing.
I am with another stalking client, and we are walking with our rifles on our shoulders, the guest shadowing my every step. It is hardly light, the morning fog like a haze hugging the ground. I have to work hard, str
aining to see. I keep my eyes forward, yet know in my mind it is still too dark to shoot even if we see something shootable.
As I walk the ride my eyes water and I have to stop and wipe them slowly on the sleeve of my coat. As I search the gloom again, I pick up a black dot, small and fast, racing towards us along a tractor rut. I raise my hand and hear the client stop in mid-stride: he asks in a hushed, dry voice, ‘What do you see?’ The object is still hurtling towards us, too close for me to answer. Out of the smoky ground haze a hare appears, eyes bulging, ears pressed flat to its head. It passes us, brushing our boots without even slowing.
I have no time to turn around to the client, who lets out a giggle of delight, as my vision is now locked on to something larger, also travelling fast in the same direction as the hare and down the very same rut. It, too, has its ears pressed tight to its head, resembling a greyhound.
The vixen notices me only seconds before she is about to plough into my legs. I feel my body brace, expecting the impact, and find myself unintentionally twisting my body sideways to the fox. Instead of hitting me, she leaps, sidestepping me to my right. At only an arm’s length and at shoulder height, the look on the vixen’s face says it all. In mid-flight her legs move in slow, running motions, like a racehorse clearing a tall jump, and that’s when our eyes met. Under her exposed belly the udder sweeps from side to side. Like an arched bullet, she hits the ground running, disappearing as fast as she arrived.
This time I do look back at my guest. We both grin at first, and then burst out laughing, forgetting where we are and the fact we’re supposed to be stalking in silence.
It is a truly great day and an unforgettable experience for both of us.
Today I see a good number of my first chocolate butterflies high in the air. Not so dissimilar to other dark species that frequent the woodlands, the speckled wood is found early in the season. They seem later this year – I usually see them in March.
What I like about this butterfly is that it is an adaptable species, travelling everywhere in the woods. You see them high in the canopy or holding aerial dogfights, spiralling after one another in a shaft of sunlight, struggling between the trees, or simply basking, wings outstretched on a sunlit bramble leaf. When it is really warm and the puddles in the forest dry up, you see dozens crowding around a small patch of mud, extracting what moisture they can.
Unlike other sun-loving butterflies, the speckled wood will tolerate the shadier parts of the forest. At a distance it looks fairly plain, but close up it has intricate yellowish spots and darker patterns on its wings. Like most of its brethren it possesses the ability to melt into the shrubbery. Once perched on a tall grass stem, its wings shut, it can remain entirely hidden, soaking up the spring sun.
I arrive in the forest late in the afternoon and the dogs are keen to get out of the vehicle after being shut up for most of the day. Unusually for them, as soon as the door is partially opened, they both spill out. Like me they are glad to be back in the wood. On our patrols it’s easy to slip into the habit of taking the same old tried and tested routes; I suppose I tend to do this without even thinking. But today I decide to change my routine and take an unfamiliar track through some mature Douglas fir.
The forest floor under the high dense canopy is almost bare except for a few large limbs that have been snapped and torn off in high winds and tossed to the ground. Three quarters of the way through the plantation, both dogs pause. When they stop, I stop – I’ve learnt to trust them – and study the direction of their stares, but I see nothing. It is easy walking, and quiet too: in fact, on the carpet of moss we are now walking on you can tread as quietly as a household cat.
At the edge of the plantation is the fence line that I want to check. The fence check is uneventful; no holes are found. Then, on the way back, both dogs pause again. Although we are not following a track, I recognize certain damaged limbs on the trees and realize that we are back at the very same spot where the dogs hesitated earlier.
Sitting both dogs down, I walk forward. I’ve taken only a few steps when a scream makes me almost leap on to the nearest low-flying cloud. Perhaps it’s the effect of the shadowy surroundings, or the vibration of the scream, but to me it sounds like a baby being slaughtered; either way, I know this sound, but it does not immediately register or stop my heart from missing a beat. The creature screams out again, just as terribly as the first time, but this time I am ready, and the pitiful cry finds its way into my very core. Again and again it screams. I have heard this cry before; it has been catalogued and stored, but never has it sounded so awful. I still can’t see where the noise is coming from, but I know it is being made by a hare.
Turning to the dogs I follow their fixed stares: when pitted against their senses, you soon realize how crude ours are. The screaming continues and I search with my binoculars the heap of brash it seems to be coming from. It is only a mix of several branches and yellowing, decaying needles, but still I can’t see anything. Fiddling with my binoculars I suddenly focus on two small faces that peer out from between a patch of russet-coloured foliage. I stand like a statue and the pair of stoats soon lose interest. On this natural stage I can now see the whole scene unfolding.
The pair have pinned down a terrified young leveret. The normally creamy-white chests of the stoats’ bibs are the colour of a slaughter-man’s apron. I am torn with guilt, and wonder whether I should intervene, although I know that would be the wrong move. Luckily for me the screams weaken, so my decision is made for me: better to let nature take its course. I watch as, one at a time, the stoats attempt to silence the leveret. As one of them drags the corpse away to another small heap of denser brash, I check my watch. It has taken the stoats four minutes to kill the hare – hardly the one bite to the neck of the prey that is so widely reported.
Back at the truck I praise the dogs for doing so well with all the action and noise, and, in the very last moments of dusk, I ponder on the role that I play in the deer’s lives as their predator. Did those four minutes, I ask myself, feel like a lifetime to the poor leveret? My unseen bullet, according to the ballistics on the box, travels at 2,939 feet per second to get the same result. But how can I think ill of the stoats’ techniques? After all, they are driven by a need for survival.
There is a strange fact of life I can never fathom, and that is how man struggles to live alongside animal competition. Many times in my life I have had to listen to keepers who have lost the odd pheasant to a fox almost spitting blood out of pure hate for the fox. Once they have calmed down, with the next breath they will cheerfully demonstrate how on a beaters’ shoot they managed to knock down a dozen pheasants on just one drive!
They are surely missing a point here. Sport is separate from survival. We kill for fun; animals kill on instinct. Large numbers of birds killed in a pen by any predator are not killed for fun or because the predator is evil, as I’ve heard it said. Evil is man-made; the fox kills instinctively, caching away what he can for when times are hard, whether we like it or not.
Understanding nature is what makes being in the woods so interesting. You see the everyday struggles that most people miss out on. Over many years this working insight gives you clues as to what’s happening or what might be about to happen unseen in the foliage around you and in the canopy above. Generally, people stroll around oblivious to signs, scents and smells, not seeing or hearing the information that is provided like the pages of an unfolding story.
Jays have many different calls, and certain individuals give voice with personalized tones. Some have rasping cries; others sound similar to the European nutcracker, loud and coarse; some have almost parrotlike qualities. Jays are like mynah birds – they are exceptionally superb mimics, copying not only their fellow woodland birds and indeed other jays that they have heard, but also birds they have come across on their travels.
The call of a curlew draws my attention today as I am going round my squirrel hoppers. There is no water for several miles and I have never heard one in the v
icinity before. So, in such an unusual setting for curlew, I listen for it to call out again. It does, and I can tell it’s calling from somewhere high up in the top of an old oak tree.
Shielding my eyes from the streaming, flickering sun, I struggle to view anything in the dense, shadowy branches. Strange indeed. I trace the sound to an area tight to the main trunk of the oak. Luckily, today the breeze is stronger and higher in the tree and a sudden sharp gust helps uncover the source: a very anxious-looking jay. Its body language indicates it is fearful, nervous; it obviously knows I am here and would normally have flown off, but something, hidden from me, is keeping it there.
Jays prefer to avoid contact with man, always fluttering a safe distance away, but this one remains glued to the branch in fright. I search the direction in which the bird is looking but the lush greenery reveals nothing. Then, giving the call of a blackbird, the jay hurls itself into flight, alighting abruptly on a lower branch, closer to me, and only now do I see the problem: perched on a branch, slightly higher than the jay, is a very large, fierce-looking female sparrowhawk. Little wonder the jay was terrified. The sparrowhawk ignores me; her bright, piercing yellow eyes burrow into the jay, her full concentration on the hunt. In desperation the jay kwicks like a wood owl, several times, to upset the hawk, playing out a role that must have succeeded in the past. But the hunter will not be intimidated – its gaze never leaves the jay.
Aware of its impending doom the poor jay fluffs its feathers, forlorn and lost; it has tried every trick it knows. The life-and-death decision is then made: the jay loses its nerve and gives flight. Behind it, gaining, the dark shape of the hunter looms, the hen sparrowhawk body being well adapted for flying low between the extensive branches. The jay’s fate was sealed the moment it left the comparative safety of the screen of leaves. Flying away and low, it screams out all its fear to the world over the top of a hazel thicket. I watch nature take its course as a puff of feathers tumbles to the earth from the sky.
