No ordinary buck

A MORNING ENCOUNTER

The barn owl crested the hedge and hovered, taking its time to examine me in detail. Deep-set black eyes within a soft feather moon. Assessing whether I represented a meal or a threat. Then silently gone. I resumed my own appraisal of the surroundings.

It was a cold morning, with my breath just visible and a sparkle of frost on the long grass that edged the large field that rolled out brown-to-black into the distance. Having walked the area on three previous occasions, this was, I was quite sure now, the best position for my purposes. I had a clear view of the corner of the field, where a pattern of slots had been visible in the mud and a series of tunnels punctured the hedgerows and led into a confusion of ferns and brambles.

LOCAL INTEL

“They’re there all right,” I had been assured by one of the senior members of the syndicate. “That doesn’t mean you’ll get to see ’em though,” he added, with a rasping laugh. “They’re a sneaky lot on that side of the farm. You should try the other side.” His words created the opposite reaction to the one he had intended.

Yes, there were easier places to stalk on the syndicate’s permission of several hundred acres of mixed wood and farmland on the outskirts of West Sussex. I had seen plenty of fine bucks in those places on my earlier visits. But instead I chose a more challenging option. I wanted to start as I meant to go on, I’d convinced myself, with all the confidence of a man very new to stalking.

Perhaps I wanted to experience just a smidgeon of the romanticism I’d gleaned from Hemmingway’s Green Hills of Africa; to put my limited fieldcraft to the test and actually earn my buck, not have it served up to me. The other side of the farm represented everything that I didn’t want to be as a stalker – too predictable and straightforward. Target shooting rather than hunting.

COLD REALITY

So I waited. And waited. Gradually more aware of the cold muddy water seeping into my supposedly waterproof boots. Nothing. I cursed myself for my misplaced ambition. My Hemingwayesque allusions dissipating like the low mist that was being chased away by the sun’s first rays.

Perhaps I had come too early and spooked them? Perhaps the barn owl had been a bad omen? In many cultures these silent ghosts are thought to be harbingers of death or bad luck. It was going to be the latter, seemingly.

I forced myself to fully experience and enjoy the moment, being such a blessed respite from the computer. No bickering children. Nothing but the here and now, and my wet feet. More time passed. The first dog-walkers would soon be out, snuffling around the undergrowth and vanquishing my last hope of seeing any deer, let alone a buck. It really was time to go.

AN APPEARANCE

Just one last sweep with the binoculars, more from muscle memory than hope. A final gesture of defiance. An arc across the field’s far edge, too quick to notice any detail. But there was an anomaly – a glimpse of something deeply hidden.

Rewinding my view with sharpened senses I spotted it. A small pair of antlers and a confused but indignant scowl at my audacity for being in his field. Had I tried to reach for my shooting sticks, or fiddle with the safety on my rifle, he would have been off.

Another enforced wait – but this time a pleasure. The gnawing discomfort of the cold replaced by a glowing realisation that I had done it. Rather than just turning up and hoping, I had visited the area in preparation. I had examined the torn grasses and herbs that indicated a deer’s bite, rather than that of a rabbit or hare. I had assessed the direction of the prevailing wind and the likely pockets of shadow that would provide a few minutes’ more sanctuary despite the arrival of the morning sun.

THE MOMENT

The hours of study and training in classrooms and on the range, the books and YouTube videos, had all come together in this moment. I had prepared a plan and it had worked. I had managed, without assistance, to apply fieldcraft to out-think my quarry. I had got myself into the right position at the right time. The shot, when I took it, was true and dropped him on the spot.

The former master of his dominion crumpled into an incomplete version of his former self, like a discarded cloak on the muddy ground, the owner having already departed.

NO ORDINARY BUCK

The seasoned stalkers reading this article and looking at the accompanying photos will know that he was in no way an exceptional buck. You will doubtless shoot many equivalent and possibly much more impressive bucks this season. But to me he was no ordinary buck because he was my first solo effort and therefore entirely unforgettable – not least because of the manner of his dispatch, which was without incident but hard won.

And now that he has had an article written about him, he has indeed been elevated beyond other bucks. He deserved nothing less.