Sea River Hill: Hill of the Stag

It was early October and with a car full of kit I was heading north-west to what has to be one of my favourite places in Scotland - Torridon. Unlike previous trips I didn’t have plans of monster trout or remote crags, this was going to be an entirely different adventure. Sam had agreed to take me stalking and with the help (and permission) of the Ben Damph Estate I was hopefully going to shoot my first stag. Previous stalking outings I’d been involved in had been immensely exciting, and I’d always wondered how I’d feel pulling the trigger on such an iconic and majestic beast. I certainly wasn’t naive about the impact that Red Deer have on Scotland, and the necessity to actively manage their numbers, but the question I found harder to answer was why should a first timer, with little rifle experience, be the one to do it. Although the argument of putting money back into a rural economy was a valid one, I’d be lying if I said that was sole a reason for me to do it. An element of the hunter gatherer instinct and the excitement of the sport undoubtedly has a part to play, but for me the connection between the meat we eat, and the reality of its source has become more and more important. What better way to have a true understanding of what I eat than if I pull the trigger? Or to put it another way, if I’m willing to eat it, surely I should be willing to kill it?

On Friday evening, with clear skies we zeroed Sam’s .243 an inch high at 100 yards. Thankfully I was hitting the target with relative consistency, which, along with a few choice ales from the Torridon Inn, helped ease the nerves ahead of the big day. By 10am the following morning Sam and I were back at the house, soaked to the bone having done a quick scout round the hill behind the cottage. We spooked a very young satellite stag within the first ten minutes before bumping into a perfect cull stag that unfortunately we were up wind of. Disappearing into the mist with his hinds in tow, we managed to keep up for some time, aided by an occasional roar as he gave his position away. The excitement and adrenaline helped side-track the pouring rain and gale force winds, but in the thickening mist we lost our stag along with the ability to glass the ground in front of us, so headed home for breakfast and plan B.

As agreed, we met the estate owner, Duncan, at midday on Loch Damh. From there he boated us to the end of the loch and left us clear instructions to head north-east up the glen towards Beinn Damh. This would put us down wind of any beasts as we stalked back over the rough ground on the shoulder of Beinn Damh (Meall na Saobhaidhe) towards the loch. The idea being that deer would be enjoying the shelter Beinn Damh provided to the high ground in its south. Thankfully the rain had stopped and the weather eased as we headed into the glen. As Duncan had suspected we soon started hearing and spotting stags just below the mist line – we just needed to get the right side of the wind and gain some height on them, which was tough going on very rough ground. The odd hind would slip over a skyline pushing us even higher and further north than we wanted to be, but we had little choice as we continued into the mist. When we were finally in position, the poor visibility meant we relied on the rutting barks coming from all directions. A surprising roar came from directly in front of us, putting us straight on our bellies. Crawling forward, Sam took the rifle and as he reached the skyline whispered back…. "he’s too big!". 30 meters in front of us was a harem of hinds and a big young black stag with somewhat disproportionality large antlers. The fine twelve pointer was perfect breeding stock, and not what we were after, or what we had seen earlier! We watched for a while as he followed his hinds round, letting out great belching roars, before one of his hinds spotted us and the group darted down the hill.

Having studied the hill earlier we knew there were stags in front of us so pushed on cautiously, the mist meant we couldn’t use high ground to our advantage so we relied on spotting one before being spotted ourselves. Luck was on our side though and within minutes we were on our bellies again stalking into another stag. This one was perfect - long skinny antlers and a small head. He was still a long way off and moving away from us, forcing us to dash between skylines when we got the chance. My heart was beating out of my chest when Sam finally crawled back from the rifle and signalled me up. The stag lay down as I arrived and I tried to get comfy as I watched him closely. Still not happy with my position I moved slightly, not realising a hind was between me and the stag. She darted up hill and the stag leapt up after her. Sam jumped up and let out a bark hoping he would pause as my crosshairs followed the fold where his front leg joined his body – “don’t take the shot until he stops, only shoot if your happy”.

He was out of sight, I was shaking, my chance was up – I’d blown it. Had he seen us? Had the hind spooked off the hill? We pushed on up following his distant roar with the wind still in our faces. Creeping up to the sky line and spying the ground in front of us, we caught up with him. There was little cover in front, and not enough time to crawl in after him, we hugged the natural contours, following with hunched backs. Sam dropped down and I followed instantly – “He saw me – games up”. We both crawled to the mound in front and expecting to see nothing, instead we spied him alone, heading back towards us. Before I knew it, I had him in my crosshairs as he walked front on towards us, lifting his head and roaring what would be his final call. He turned side on, walked right to left and stopped, Sam whispered “when you are ready” and I squeezed the trigger between hard and quick breaths. The sound was good, he was hit – perhaps a little high, I thought – but good. He turned and bounded on uphill away from us as the adrenaline jumped into action. Despite expecting this to happen (even a heart shot doesn’t drop a deer there and then) it was a worrying 30 seconds as we followed him over the brow of the hill. The views opened up as we reached the watershed with Loch Damph, Loch Torridon and Beinn Alligin below, but right now that was all irrelevant and my head swung round looking for the beast. Sam pointed to our left and I turned to see his head and antlers follow his body to the ground as he took a final breath. It was a desperately sad sight, and I was overwhelmed with emotion – excitement and adrenaline of the stalk and relief that I had done a good job, but being responsible for killing such a magnificent animal filled me with guilt. We slowly approached the impressive old boy, and as I touched his warm coat and stared at his lifeless eyes I felt some remorse for what I taken away from him.

Sam finished the gralloch and we dragged the beast down the steep banks to the loch where Duncan met us with the boat. He was delighted with the outcome and agreed the stag was perfect, and one that he really didn’t want in his breeding stock - the long skinny/switchy antlers could easily damage a greater beast in the rut. He checked the teeth to find them well worn – an old stag, probably passed his best. At 120 yards the shot was a good one, it had just missed the heart, but was in the “boiler room”. A quick couple of drams in the boat, a short drive to the game larder where we hung him and after 12 hours and over 15 miles of ground covered we were finally in the pub celebrating. I felt truly privileged to be one of a small number of people who, in such a stunning setting, have done something truly wild and natural.

Since then the emotions have subdued, and on reflection the whole experience was incredible. I’ve re-lived the stalk in my head countless times, and the buzz of excitement is still there when I talk about it. The remorse and guilt I felt on the hill has not been forgotten, but now replaced with an immense amount of pride in what I did and respect for the animal and the meat that will come from it. The photo and the antlers aren’t a trophy to me, rather a reminder of the life and death the stag had, and the real sacrifice that animals are forced to make by meat-eating humans. Shouldn’t everyone be prepared to accept the cost of life if they chose to eat meat? When we headed back down the loch that day, Duncan had pointed out the spot nearby that his daughter, Louise Gray, shot her first stag – which coincidently features in her highly-recommended book The Ethical Carnivore. Like her, I was involved in the whole process and for that, and for making the whole thing possible, I’ve got Sam to thank.