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 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 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!”
[Illustration: THE FIVE SISTERS OF KINTAIL.
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]
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 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.
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.
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 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 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. 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. 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 shows how little was formerly known as to
the age of a stag, came into my mind:
Tri aois coin, aois eich;
Tri aois eich, aois duine;
Tri aois duine, aois feidh;
Tri aois feidh, aois firein;
Tri aois firein, aois dbaraich,
which may be translated:
Thrice dog’s age, age of horse;
Thrice horse’s age, age of man;
Thrice man’s age, age of deer;
Thrice deer’s age, age of eagle;
Thrice eagle’s age, age of oak.
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 steadily both in size and weight
and becoming very light in colour.
[Illustration: OLD ANGUS NEARING HOME.
By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]
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.
[Illustration: (A Salmon Loch)]
IX
A SALMON LOCH IN SUTHERLAND
Fishermen’s stories are said to be proverbially untrustworthy, and
the great majority of people--at any rate of those who are not
themselves fishermen--never seem to suppose that in the case of a
fisherman, as in the case of every one else, truth may sometimes be
stranger than fiction.
I have been a fly-fisher since my earliest days, and have had many
good days both with the salmon and the trout, but I have never had
a day full of such surprising contrasts as the day which I had with
a brother of mine many years ago in the early part of September, on
a loch through which flows one of the best of the smaller salmon
rivers in the North of Scotland. Strange as were the events of that
day, I can vouch for the absolute veracity of the following story.
The loch in question is not very large, and is not deep in any
part. It contains a good many trout about three to the pound, and
at certain periods of the year many salmon. We had a long drive
from X., where we were staying, and reached the loch about 10 A.M.
We had with us a gillie, a salmon-fisher of long experience and a
typical Highlander, in height about 6 ft. 3 in., whose name, like
his hair, was Sandy. We had not expected to have any salmon-fishing
while we were at X., but fortunately I happened to have with me my
salmon rod as well as a trout rod, and we arranged on this day that
we would fish with the two rods alternately, and that as soon as
one of us caught a salmon the other would take the salmon rod.
When we arrived at the loch there was a good breeze blowing from
the west, with no sun. We put a medium-sized “Jock Scott” on
the salmon cast, while on the trout cast we put, as a tail fly,
a queer, nondescript fly, which Sandy fancied, and, as a bob
fly, a “March Brown.” These two latter flies were the ordinary
medium-sized loch-trout flies, and we thought it wiser, as we knew
that there were a lot of salmon in the loch, to put only two flies
on the trout cast. My brother began fishing with the salmon rod in
the stern of the boat, while I tried in the bow for trout. I very
soon rose three or four trout, and managed to secure two, but my
brother had no luck with the salmon. We had not been fishing for
more than half an hour when the wind went down and the sun came
out. The surface of the loch became absolutely calm, just like a
sheet of glass, and fishing appeared to be hopeless. The salmon
now began to jump in different parts of the loch, and, although
Sandy said it was perfectly useless, we kept trying to cast over
them. At length, however, we gave it up, and sat waiting for the
breeze. Suddenly a salmon rose about twenty yards from the boat.
I said, “Come on, Sandy, put me over that,” and, taking up the
salmon rod, proceeded to cast over the place where the salmon had
risen. With great difficulty I got the line out, as it was dead
calm. I cast once, twice, and for a third time, and just as I was
getting to the end of my cast on the third attempt, up came the
salmon, rising apparently not with the intention of taking the
fly, but with the intention of drowning it. I struck at him and
hooked him, as we discovered later, by the tail, and a very lively
time he gave me. He played for about twenty-five minutes, during
which time he never showed himself, and we all thought he was much
larger than he turned out to be. He was a nice clean fish about 9¼
lb. By the time we got him in the wind had risen, and we began to
fish again, my brother taking the salmon rod, whilst I fished with
the trout rod from the bow. I had not been fishing for more than a
few minutes before I rose something which did not show itself. I
struck, and exclaimed, “I’ve hooked him!” Away went the line off
my reel for about thirty yards, and at the end of this run the
fish, a salmon which looked considerably larger than the one we had
already caught, jumped right out of the water, high into the air.
Then began the longest and most exciting struggle I have ever had
with any fish. The rod with which I was fishing was a light 11-feet
trout rod; the cast was a medium-sized trout cast, and I had on
my reel about forty to fifty yards of medium-sized trout-line.
There is no doubt that I should have several times lost the fish
had it not been for the extraordinary skill and speed with which
Sandy followed him and managed the boat. Three times nearly all
my line was taken out, and once I had only a few inches left on
my reel. After his first rush the fish plunged deep down, and for
a time adopted boring tactics. I was able to recover most of the
line he had taken out, and then he made another run and a jump,
and for some time after that we followed him over the loch. On two
occasions he made the most determined efforts to get into some
weeds, and it was only by keeping a very severe strain upon him
that I managed to keep clear of them. I never played a fish which
jumped so many times or sulked less. On one occasion, after taking
a large amount of my line, he suddenly turned and headed straight
back again for the boat, and although Sandy did all he could to
keep out of his way, the fish startled us at the end of his mad run
by jumping suddenly clean out of the water within three or four
yards of the boat, and falling with a tremendous splash.
Do what I could I did not seem to have any real effect on the fish,
who seemed to do almost exactly as he liked with me, except on the
two occasions when he tried to get into the weeds, when, expecting
every minute that we might part company, I was determined, whatever
happened, that he should come where I wished him to come.
We saw that the fish had taken the bob fly, and this added to my
apprehensions, as I was afraid, particularly as I knew the loch was
not deep, that the tail fly would catch in something at the bottom
of the loch, and there would then be a catastrophe. Time wore on,
and my back and arms began to ache most prodigiously. Still the
fish seemed as strong as ever. My brother said he must have some
lunch, and whenever Sandy and I got the chance we managed to eat
some sandwiches. I began to wonder how much longer the fly would
hold, and whether this fish would prove to be one more of the many
good fish lost through the fly working out at the end of a long
fight.
I could do nothing except hold on for all I was worth, keeping as
tight a line as I could, and, of course, lowering the point of the
rod whenever the fish jumped, as he frequently did. As time went
on, however, the rushes made by the fish were not so long, and he
seemed, at last, to have abandoned his leaping tactics, which had
given me so much anxiety in the earlier stages of the struggle.
The fish was gradually becoming exhausted, and the strain on the
rod and line seemed to be much greater. “He’ll be turning soon,
I’m thinking,” said Sandy. The end, one way or the other, could
surely not be far off now, and we discussed the question whether
or not we should try to land, but, on the whole, we thought we had
better not run the risk of getting into very shallow water. At last
the fish turned on his side, though he quickly righted himself
and made another short run. Sandy had got the boat in about three
feet of water, a few yards from the bank; he handed the oars to my
brother, seized the gaff, and got out of the boat. I slowly reeled
in my line; there was another short rush from the fish, and again
I reeled him up. Nearer and nearer he came to the boat, and again
turned on his side. Suddenly, in less time than it takes to tell,
Sandy had the gaff into him, and was struggling to the shore.
Safely landed, the fish was speedily given his _coup de grâce_.
He was a very red male fish, weighing rather over 10¼ lb., and I
had hooked him in the hard part of his upper jaw, which accounted
partly for the fact that I had so little power over him, and also
for the fact that the hook had kept its hold so well. “Now then,
Sandy,” I said, as I got out my flask, “if any man ever deserved
a drop of good whisky, you do.” “Shlàinte” (Gaelic for “Your good
health”), said Sandy. “It was a grand fight, sir; I’ve never seen
a better.” “How long do you think you were playing him?” said my
brother. “Somewhere about an hour, I should think,” I replied.
“Four hours and six minutes,” he said. “I looked at my watch
when you hooked him, and it was then just a minute or two before
half-past one; and I looked at my watch when Sandy gaffed him--it
was then twenty-five minutes to six. I counted the number of times
the fish jumped, and it was seventeen. I don’t suppose you noticed
it,” he added, “but there was a cart going off with peats, near the
loch, soon after you began to play the fish, and it came back again
not long ago.” We heard afterwards that the men in the cart thought
I was playing another fish when they passed us on their return
journey.
The light was going as we pushed the boat out again. I handed the
salmon rod to my brother, and he began to fish from the stern of
the boat, while I fished again from the bow with the trout rod.
Sandy allowed the boat to drift slowly along the edge of some
weeds. I do not think that I had more than three or four casts
when, just as I was nearing the end of my cast, a salmon, which
looked as bright as silver, and about the same size as the one we
had just killed, rose at my tail fly, with a head and tail rise as
if it meant business; and, as it turned to go down, I felt the hook
go home. The fish did not run, but worked about near the surface
of the water, close to the weeds, as if it did not realise that
it was hooked at all. “Back the boat quickly, sir,” said Sandy,
handing the oars to my brother, and seizing the gaff. My brother
took the oars and backed the boat quickly in the direction of the
fish. I reeled up my line; there was a momentary vision of about
three-quarters of Sandy leaning out of the boat, a tremendously
quick lightning-like movement of the gaff, and the salmon, gaffed
with extraordinary skill behind the shoulder, was in the boat.
I do not think that more than four minutes could possibly have
elapsed from the time that I hooked the fish to the time it was
in the boat. It was a beautiful, clean-run female fish, with a
small head, and in perfect condition. It was very lightly hooked,
and if it had run or jumped at all it would almost certainly have
got off. It weighed within a few ounces of the weight of the fish
which had given me such a tremendous battle, and yet, owing to the
extraordinary skill of Sandy with the gaff, and the speed with
which my brother had acted, this fish occupied us only as many
minutes as the other one had hours!
We continued to fish for a short time, but it became dark so
rapidly that very soon we had to stop, and without a further rise
of any kind.
[Illustration: (Deer in the Valley)]
X
THE HOMING INSTINCTS OF WOUNDED DEER
In these days one hears so much of the homing instincts of animals
and birds that the two following authentic instances of deer, whose
habits are not so generally known as those of some other animals,
may be of interest.
Stalkers, and those who know the habits of the red-deer, know well
that a stag when wounded will seek what he knows from experience to
be a haven of safety. Thus, if he has come in the rutting season
from his native forest and is wounded on other ground, he will
assuredly make for the sanctuary in that forest. So, too, if he has
been born and reared in a particular part of the forest and has
come to regard that place as his home, he will struggle to reach it
if wounded. One interesting illustration of this has come within my
own experience, and another was related to me by the stalker who
was with me on the occasion referred to.
I was stalking in a forest upon part of which unusual conditions
prevailed. That part which was nearest to the lodge was enclosed
by a deer fence, but, owing to careful management, and the
introduction from time to time of fresh stock, there are some very
good heads in this part of the forest. I always prefer, however,
when I have the chance, to stalk on the open ground outside the
fence, although it means harder work, as it is the far beat and
part of it is on very high and precipitous ground. It has, however,
this great fascination--that one never knows what sort of stag one
may find there. The forest itself is an exceptionally good one, and
marches with several of the finest forests in the Highlands.
[Illustration: THE SANCTUARY, KINLOCHEWE FOREST.
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]