Some may recall I posted a story last year about my hunting 'Saddle Stag' -this is part two describing my efforts this year to come to grips with a particular animal that has eluded me for several years.
It's a bit long winded for BUK it seems so I've divided it into two posts....
For the last four roars I’ve returned to the same corner of the forest chasing my nemesis ‘Saddle Stag’. I’ve written about my attempts before, I’ve had many exciting stalks but never managed to close the deal. The area is dense bush, beech forest with a lot of regen and dirty belts of lawyer and supplejack. Consequently the deer are hard to spot and really tough to sneak up on. Typically you hear them, see their sign but don’t lay eyes on them.
I’ve got to know ‘Saddle’, his habits and his territory by piecing together evidence found on each outing.
Essentially when I first came on the scene he really dominated the area. He wasn’t huge [this isn’t an area with great genetics] but was bigger than his neighbours, going by the rub trees, and each night would assert himself with some impressively deep roars.
Over the last two seasons, however, his neighbours were getting more stroppy and would challenge him more freely. I can remember laying awake several times for hours listening to him and another stag chasing each other about. In the fights that I’ve overheard he has eventually been able to hold his ground, but with the with the challenges becoming more common I had the impression that his young neighbours were gaining strength each year, while he perhaps was now past his peak.
This year the walk in is very quiet as far as roaring stags go. It’s hellishly windy and I think the stags just don’t bother competing with the noise. The gusts really lash at the forest and windfall litters the track all along it’s length.
The wind literally breathes life into the forest –tree tops swaying, limbs waving madly and leaves and dust flying about. All accompanied by the creaks and groans of the straining timber. At times I’m left with the impression that, like me, the surrounding forest is on the march.
Between gusts the relative calm is a real contrast, the gentle background hum of wasps punctuated with the chimes of bellbirds or the excited twitter of fantails. Then you would pick up the distant howl of another inbound gust, building in sound before it reached your spot, quietening the birds and setting the trees spinning. It puts me in mind of the earthquakes where you could hear the buildings down the street rattling in advance of your own place starting to shudder. But somewhat less poetically, my thoughts get directed to the concern that I’m at risk of being clobbered by a hefty piece of flying windfall.
Storm damage was evident everywhere and happening all around me.
By early afternoon I’d reached a portion of the route that was more sheltered, the gusts were far less regular and had lost their bite. As the track came up towards a large slip I started to get the whiff of stag. ‘Time for a break’’ I think, and settle down to lunch as I glass the slope of scattered trees and shrubs. With nothing seen, I start to explore the area and let out a moan to see if I can entice an answer. I’m glad you guys weren’t there to hear this effort, I sounded like an asthmatic poodle struggling to let out a growl [in my defence, I was getting over a nasty cold]. I’m not convinced there is an animal present, thinking instead that maybe a stag had just sprayed it’s calling card and passed on through. Enough time wasted here, I too continue on my journey.
An hour or so later I pull up at the hut –time for another break. No one is in residence and digging into second lunch I peruse the hut book and write in my own intentions. Just a couple of hours walk now to my proposed camp, I set off up valley. Highlights of this last short haul were the discovery of several sets of deer prints along the trail [at least one of which had to be a stag] and hearing a couple of distant and very lazy moans. Camp was set up quietly as I’m pretty close to Saddle's territory [too close really] and I demolish my last chicken wrap for tea. As the light was fading, various animals started moaning along the length of the valley- down valley, over on the opposite slopes and finally up above in Saddles territory. “Great someone is home, see you tomorrow”, I think to myself. These vocalisations were lacking any real energy or intensity, the rut, it seems, is at an early stage and yet to really amp up.
My set up is a bivy bag with a light DIY polycryo tarp. I’d noticed on my last trip that a small tear had appeared on one side of the tarp and had resolved to tape it up on my return home. And did I? naaahh of course not. Once I pegged out the tarp it was not long before one of the violent wind gusts extended the tear right up to the ridgeline –‘bugga’. I cursed myself, but in fact it wasn’t a disaster as there was only light drizzle overnight and my bivy bag had me covered anyway.
It's a bit long winded for BUK it seems so I've divided it into two posts....
For the last four roars I’ve returned to the same corner of the forest chasing my nemesis ‘Saddle Stag’. I’ve written about my attempts before, I’ve had many exciting stalks but never managed to close the deal. The area is dense bush, beech forest with a lot of regen and dirty belts of lawyer and supplejack. Consequently the deer are hard to spot and really tough to sneak up on. Typically you hear them, see their sign but don’t lay eyes on them.
I’ve got to know ‘Saddle’, his habits and his territory by piecing together evidence found on each outing.
Essentially when I first came on the scene he really dominated the area. He wasn’t huge [this isn’t an area with great genetics] but was bigger than his neighbours, going by the rub trees, and each night would assert himself with some impressively deep roars.
Over the last two seasons, however, his neighbours were getting more stroppy and would challenge him more freely. I can remember laying awake several times for hours listening to him and another stag chasing each other about. In the fights that I’ve overheard he has eventually been able to hold his ground, but with the with the challenges becoming more common I had the impression that his young neighbours were gaining strength each year, while he perhaps was now past his peak.
This year the walk in is very quiet as far as roaring stags go. It’s hellishly windy and I think the stags just don’t bother competing with the noise. The gusts really lash at the forest and windfall litters the track all along it’s length.
The wind literally breathes life into the forest –tree tops swaying, limbs waving madly and leaves and dust flying about. All accompanied by the creaks and groans of the straining timber. At times I’m left with the impression that, like me, the surrounding forest is on the march.
Between gusts the relative calm is a real contrast, the gentle background hum of wasps punctuated with the chimes of bellbirds or the excited twitter of fantails. Then you would pick up the distant howl of another inbound gust, building in sound before it reached your spot, quietening the birds and setting the trees spinning. It puts me in mind of the earthquakes where you could hear the buildings down the street rattling in advance of your own place starting to shudder. But somewhat less poetically, my thoughts get directed to the concern that I’m at risk of being clobbered by a hefty piece of flying windfall.
Storm damage was evident everywhere and happening all around me.
By early afternoon I’d reached a portion of the route that was more sheltered, the gusts were far less regular and had lost their bite. As the track came up towards a large slip I started to get the whiff of stag. ‘Time for a break’’ I think, and settle down to lunch as I glass the slope of scattered trees and shrubs. With nothing seen, I start to explore the area and let out a moan to see if I can entice an answer. I’m glad you guys weren’t there to hear this effort, I sounded like an asthmatic poodle struggling to let out a growl [in my defence, I was getting over a nasty cold]. I’m not convinced there is an animal present, thinking instead that maybe a stag had just sprayed it’s calling card and passed on through. Enough time wasted here, I too continue on my journey.
An hour or so later I pull up at the hut –time for another break. No one is in residence and digging into second lunch I peruse the hut book and write in my own intentions. Just a couple of hours walk now to my proposed camp, I set off up valley. Highlights of this last short haul were the discovery of several sets of deer prints along the trail [at least one of which had to be a stag] and hearing a couple of distant and very lazy moans. Camp was set up quietly as I’m pretty close to Saddle's territory [too close really] and I demolish my last chicken wrap for tea. As the light was fading, various animals started moaning along the length of the valley- down valley, over on the opposite slopes and finally up above in Saddles territory. “Great someone is home, see you tomorrow”, I think to myself. These vocalisations were lacking any real energy or intensity, the rut, it seems, is at an early stage and yet to really amp up.
My set up is a bivy bag with a light DIY polycryo tarp. I’d noticed on my last trip that a small tear had appeared on one side of the tarp and had resolved to tape it up on my return home. And did I? naaahh of course not. Once I pegged out the tarp it was not long before one of the violent wind gusts extended the tear right up to the ridgeline –‘bugga’. I cursed myself, but in fact it wasn’t a disaster as there was only light drizzle overnight and my bivy bag had me covered anyway.
