A Year in the Woods: The Diary of a Forest Ranger

by Colin Elford

  The long shadow of my truck races the double roadside hedge, which is bathed in a cheerful orange glow. The shadow flows smoothly through and over it, sprinting across the top and caressing the sides.

  It is the last hour of evening sun, a beautiful night and unusually warm. Newly hatched micro midges, brought out by the day’s heat, dance in their thousands. Swarming in natural chandeliers, they hover over the road ahead, before sacrificing themselves on to the windscreen.

  I am in a hurry to check a handful of squirrel traps in an outlying block before night falls. Abandoning the vehicle at the barrier, I pause on a steep incline to catch my breath. It’s quite pleasing to see the dogs doing the same.

  The ravens that I know in this area slink away from their nest; as they are secretive birds I have only to enter the wood to make them jumpy. Slipping from its nest a female takes a low erupting flight followed by some minimal slow wing-beats to make her retreat.

  Even from my halfway vantage point I have long-distance farmland and countryside views rolling away from me. Bright yellow fields of rape, hedges and small sheep fields, all glazed in an evening light of crimson and gold that washes around me on a cooling breeze.

  At the top of the hill, and before I even get to the trap, I know I have a catch, for the sound of two angry male squirrels greets me, scolding each other and me as I approach.

  The type of trap I use catches them live, and I visit all the traps at least twice a day. This evening produces several squirrels that are quickly and quietly dispatched; if these animals are left to their own devices they can soon ravage the tops of the trees within this high-quality stand of beech.

  So foxes can live with badgers in the same sett. Tonight I see one leave and cross the track in front of me, its fur coated in the same fine sandstone as that of the badgers who live there and who I have watched so many times.

  May

  A badger-watching evening. I check the wind and decide to wait on the trunk of an old oak that has been windblown for years. Some reasonably heavy rain squalls have made the forest floor damp and uncomfortable. I must admit that I would prefer a backrest as I imagine I may be here for some time.

  From my log I watch a fox as it creeps through the shadows, skirting the edge of the wood alongside the field. Luckily, tonight I do not have a long wait and soon hear the excited, playful squeaks and squabbles of over-exuberant cubs coming from underground.

  Eventually three badger cubs appear in good light. It is entertaining to watch them first scratch, then scrabble about, biting and chasing each other. So I am a little disappointed when, after a few minutes, they move off as a group and soon disappear into the newly forming bracken. There is an enormous amount of noise coming from the cubs but I can see nothing of the action taking place. Then the commotion fades away, and I think that is it for the night.

  I’m pondering whether to slip away now that it is quiet, so as not to disturb any more of the sett’s occupants, when the sounds of the cubs suddenly grow louder and more boisterous.

  Rolling and play-fighting, the three head straight for me, flattening the young bracken. In a flash the leading cub takes a quick glance back at his pursuers, leaping on to the very log I am sitting on, only inches away from me; he realizes something is different and stops in a sitting position like a well-trained dog. Cub number two glances back, chattering in glee at the game, still unaware the leader has stopped – and then crashes into his motionless playmate. Cub one is almost driven into me with the impact; the third and smallest cub attempts to stop but it, too, slides into the others. By now the first two cubs are practically on my lap. As cub three collides he is so close I can hear the noise of his lungs empty out as I am hit in the face by bad badger breath.

  First turtle dove of the year. This migrant is a lot smaller than the common wood pigeon that frequents my woods, but is roughly the size of the garden collared dove. Its call is always welcoming, recognizable by its sleepy, almost purring, sound. This bird appears to favour thickets of birch and willow to nest and rear its young, although I have seen one pair successfully nest high in the crown of a mature Douglas fir.

  A large brown butterfly, fast and erratic in flight, races past me on a warm wind. I follow its exhausting progress through my binoculars, and how it does not collide with anything is a mystery, for it flies as though drunk. When it finally settles I see that it is a favourite of mine, a butterfly with a restless soul: the painted lady. It’s a huge insect, which I have been told emerges from the dry lands of North Africa, migrating north across Europe to England. As with most of the brown/tan butterflies, it is not until they settle and you can study them that you see them in their full glory. Far from dull, their wings support an array of dark bars and creamy spots.

  I’ve had a busy morning and decide on an easier afternoon, checking on future ride-edge work. I look to the sky to see if I need to take a coat as I will be some distance from the truck if it teems down. The sky is a milky green with streaks of grey, but the air is still warm. I decide against the coat.

  I’m taking a short cut across a damp patch of mire when the wind behind me blows up in a sudden strong gust. At first I think it is the sound of a vehicle coming, and I even look behind me. It is the type of wind that builds up, passing over your head in the tops of the pine, screeching like a train. Another gust is approaching, and I can hear it long before I feel it. The blast releases the scent of the pines, which hovers on the wind like an unseen phantom. I cannot help myself and have to stop and listen, breathing in the fresh aroma of warm pine that sweeps around me.

  The caws of a crow draw my thoughts away. I glance up to the sound, high in the sky. At times the noise is drowned out by the constant murmur of the wind in the pines. Flying lower, the crow is joined by its mate and the pair drop low in a dizzy dive. They are obviously chasing something, and when they pass me at head level I see the familiar shape of a tawny owl, with its rounded wings. It does its best to lose its antagonists. Bobbing and swerving, the owl heads over some young pine. While one crow carries on the chase, the other soars skywards, then suddenly and violently stoops at the tawny; the owl crumples like an airborne mass of feathers, the force pushing the bird deep into the pine tops, causing a massive burst of pine pollen.

  Incredible as it may seem, the owl bounces off the tops of the individual trees and, while still in flight, regains its balance and escapes the crows in the pollen screen.

  Without even looking at the bedside clock I know it’s early when I wake up. The unseasonably warm air has roused me several times during the night, making me kick the last remaining sheet off my body.

  It is still dark outside yet I have awoken alert and aware. Lying still in bed I listen to the final fading hoots of the tawny owls before they retire. The rookery is fully awake, though, its inhabitants uttering their constant droning calls that familiarity almost drowns out. In between the occasional departing calls of the owls I can just make out the shrill twittering of the swallows out hawking in the semi-dark. I leave the house without breakfast, and load the dogs into the truck in the half-light. Driving out of the village I surprise a trio of fallow prickets knee-deep in the damp corn, so I slow the truck to get a better look, and they, uncharacteristically, just stand their ground and stare back. It crosses my mind how quiet they all are, for if it was winter, especially at culling time, I would have glimpsed only their fleeing hooves.

  On the ridge of the hill the new morning sky catches my eye. Swinging the truck into a farm gateway I pull over. From this position I have great panoramic views stretching across the valley. In the east a small red dot appears, gradually changing into a thin red horizontal line, like the switching-off of an old television set. The line thickens, seeping around the outline of two cumulus vapour clouds that are growing in size. Below, the valley is still bathed in a light grey-blue haze like bonfire smoke, but above the sky is changing with every ticking second. The red line flickering around the clouds thickens, forcing its way through the canvas, and
suddenly haemorrhages around the cloud’s silhouette, dispersing sunlight and illuminating the sky: daylight has suddenly arrived.

  On the face of the down next to me a lapwing with its unmistakable cry harasses a large raven diving at it from above, driving the raven earthward and forcing it to stoop. The raven folds its wings as though struck, uttering at the lapwing a loud hoarse croak of annoyance. Just as it seems the raven will hit the ground, it swoops skywards with great speed, regaining its poise and position. I watch as it flies slow and low over the ground, unconcerned, and alights on a fence post, much to the frustration of the broad-winged peewit flitting through the air near by. The raven sits quietly and observes, waiting for the ground-nesting bird to land; if the raven identifies where the peewit’s nest is it will move in to steal the eggs or chicks.

  On the down, patches of yellow within the blanket of green sway, cowslips bowing in unison in the breeze. Peering over a large dock leaf, a young rabbit stares at me until a walking rook passes too close, sending the rabbit scurrying to its burrow.

  The lateral lines of the landscape interest me; from inside my moving truck I can only glimpse the views over and through gaps in the hedge. From this position the scenery looks like a picture of straight lines produced by the paint brush of some giant artist. Perfect parallel lines of browns, greens and yellows upon sloping gradients; and rising seams of freshly rotavated ground cresting the summit where only a lone distant tree or copse breaks the divide between earth and sky.

  Overhead the twitter of goldfinch and the rising song of the lark.

  A bad day, beginning with a phone call from a dog walker who has stumbled on an injured deer that apparently got itself caught in a fence.

  I’m glad I still get a pang in the stomach and feel pity for a trapped or injured wild creature. It’s all too easy to become toughened in this job, although at times you have to harden your heart for an unpleasant task.

  No wild animal takes pleasure in having a human near by, no matter how good-willed the person might be. It is in a deer’s nature to flee; it will stress and panic easily when made immobile or contained. When you are called to an injured deer you have to give thought to your own safety as well. No deer will intentionally hurt you, but its flailing legs and antlers can be a real danger.

  Approaching the deer downwind, I hope to have a look at him first, but the fallow pricket senses I am there and lurches away from the fence and the two top strands of wire that hold him. With that slight movement I can see that one leg has been pulled out of its joint – how long it has been held here I can’t tell – and that the other rear leg has bald patches on it, sometimes a sign that it has been trapped for some time. It would be senseless to even attempt to free it.

  After dispatching the poor creature, I inspect the legs, especially near the bald areas; it comes as little surprise that when I skin that part I find bruising and dog-teeth rip marks deep in the flesh. Skinning a deer can reveal many wounds, such as tooth punctures and bruising, that would go undetected otherwise. Chances are the deer has been chased until near exhaustion, reducing its ability to clear such a lethal fence.

  Start early this morning but slip up by choosing the wrong high seat to sit in for the first rays of light. When I leave home the weather looks clear and the stars tell of a fair morning. It is only when I descend into the vale that the fog becomes tricky, hanging low and protesting against the illumination of my headlights.

  A barn owl appears out of the gloom. I catch sight of it in my side lights as it crashs on to the grassy verge. Luckily I miss it; but it was merely doing what all good barn owls do when hunting. First the silent approach and then the plunge, totally disregarding any traffic. Many barn owls lose their lives hunting that way.

  As I arrive at my seat, only the tawny owls are calling to keep me company. Nothing moves. A light wind occasionally rises, rolling the fog away, then falls, letting the fog flood back in circling motions, obscuring and distorting features and distance. Water droplets from the branches above me direct themselves to exactly the same spot on my trousers time and time again. No matter how I twist my body in the seat their aim is perfect. After two hours of this torture they finally drive me down.

  Hoping the view will be clearer out of the valley, I make the slow climb to the high point in the wood. I know the cover is denser there but at least I have more chance of spotting something than if I stay put. Reaching the top ride I find good views across the fields. The field edge is definitely worth exploring, although I know that being higher up means I will be limited for a safe background if a shot presents itself. When rifle shooting you always need a backstop. Even if you hit a deer the bullet will continue its course. Trees are not a backstop; you must always be able to see where the bullet will finally end up.

  Picking a branch off the ride, I toss it to one side, not attempting to be quiet. No one is more surprised than me when I spot two roe deer ahead at about eighty metres. I inch myself to the edge of the ride, then half crawl and half slide into a narrow ditch. In such a position I realize I have no chance of a shot but I decide to stay regardless, to observe and gather information for another day.

  Placing the rifle at my side I glass the two does, one of which looks heavily pregnant. Watching as they eat keeps me amused until a crow calls out an alarm and circles low overhead, at the same time as a blackbird raises its voice. Rolling on my back I must have missed the crow’s departure, although the blackbird is still very vocal. I rolled back just in time to see a fox step out about fifty metres away – so that was what all the noise was about.

  Two does and a fox together on the very same ride!

  The deer stand their ground; the fox stops in his tracks, and as he turns his head towards them I imagine him saying, ‘Morning, ladies.’ After looking them up and down, the fox trots down the ride to the left, towards me. I huddle lower in the ditch, hugging the ground, and slowly put down my binoculars. The fox trots on, oblivious of my presence, for the wind is perfect for me. Like a stone I keep my position, watching him pass me within two feet; I move only my eyes, keeping my head fixed. We are almost face to face and, at this point, out of the corner of my eye, I see that he is carrying a mouse, very much alive, its tiny tail curling out of the corner of his closed jaws.

  Nature has no fixed date for when spring ends and summer begins, and plants and creatures can sometimes get mixed up, delayed and left behind in the ever advancing season. I’ve watched leaves unfurl unusually quickly from tightly wrapped dark cloaks into the most attractive fresh-skinned greenery with vast variation of colour and texture, size and shape, evolving as uniquely as any snowflake.

  At this time of year the downlands take on a new shape, with individual trees and areas of scrub lending the landscape an almost parklike appearance. Viewed from a distance such images mimic the artificial, clustered scenery of a child’s train set. With a late spring, nature accelerates, but while some trees are heavy in flower others can remain almost hidden. Bare and skeletal, some trees struggle to regrow this season’s dress, while hourly changes around them threaten to engulf them in mass cellulose. Around the field edges and within the road hedges the hawthorns flower like a dusting of snow. May blossom exhibits petals of sheer beauty. In the wind, unseen, pollen flies: delicate, sweet and pungent.

  Candles of erect blossom ring the outline of the chestnut, while birch leaves are at their best in the spring, with those fresh green tones that no artist’s paintbrush can capture. Like a cottage-garden border the road edges overflow as masses of cow parsley tumbles into the narrow roads, while white umbellifers dominate and expand the verges. Flower heads of pink campion extend upright and thrusting, attempting to be noticed among the white waves.

  The battle of the seasons carries on hidden within the depths of a roadside hedge, where bryony weaves itself, snakelike, using its tendrils to climb the lifeless broken dry stems of last year’s growth, seeking the light in the higher branches above. The blue dart of the swallow swoops across the road
, cresting the hedge and skimming the bright yellow field of rape. The rape field appears sunlit even in cloud. It always appears to me to attract any shaft of light, extracting and reflecting the light back to the sky even on the dullest of days.

  Today the sky is like a distant seascape, with clouds as white horses. The sun is a clear, colourless perfect disk, hiding behind a transparent cloud. On a small group of colliding clouds a celestial red stain appears. Liquid and flowing, it soon encircles the golden rim of the group, the blend now resembling stained glass. Forever moving, the clouds tumble off some invisible edge before being drawn involuntarily towards a massive formation, dark and threatening. The stain continues to expand, racing fluidly over the outer edge of the clouds like blood on snow, quickly absorbed by the ice crystals, then dissipating.

  Walking today in the glade, I notice a rapid movement in the tall grasses and bluebells in front, and instantly glass the area.

  What I witness I have never seen before: a pair of foxes are attempting to steal a young roe from its mother. The kid is very young, possibly only hours old. The foxes take it in turns to attack the kid, and as the doe butts one of the agitators the other nips in, attempting a snatch.

  It seems to last a long time: a pantomime of attacks and lunges, with both foxes then repelled in a series of violent head butts to the body. This is the first time I have seen a doe so violent, so vicious. At one point in the saga, when the kid is nipped and bleating in pain and fear, the doe actually changes form, standing up on her hind legs and flailing and slashing with her front hooves. Like a crazed stallion she tramples one of the pair. Fur flies, the fox rolls into a ball, shrinking. The doe is intent on killing: she slashes at them again, then gives chase to the larger fox, leaving the kid unguarded. The smaller fox sees its opportunity, dashing in and grabbing the kid by the back leg.