by Colin Elford
Rabbits and hares always leave a tell-tale sign in the form of a clean diagonal cut across the top of a small tree, as if it has been sliced by a sharp knife or cut with scissors. Deer leave a torn, almost ragged, edge due to the lack of top incisors, as they hold, bite and pull at the top or leader.
December
I meet with a farmer who expresses concern over the ‘hundreds’ of deer he sees in the evening when returning to his farmhouse after a night out. I question him on the ‘hundreds’ and reduce him down to ‘loads’; and then I question the word ‘loads’. It eventually becomes apparent that we are talking about five deer, seen regularly, close to the forest boundary, in an area where I have the rights for just the does, and not the bucks.
Normally I carry a portable lightweight high seat on the roof of the truck, which can be put in position almost anywhere at any time. Unfortunately, I do not have it on board right now, so I return, better prepared, that evening.
Before I reach the Douglas fir edge that will give me concealment, I glass a deer feeding close to a crop of turnips, but its antlers give it away as a an out-of-season buck.
When I finally get to the Douglas stand, I settle down and survey the field in the dying light. Two more deer, far away in the gloom, are feeding and walking slowly across the field. After a careful study of them with my binoculars, I can see between their legs a small paintbrush of hair hanging down. Typical: two more bucks, both young.
Finally a doe appears with her young, a buck fawn. She is uneasy and extra alert, and at one point stares in my direction for a long time; I keep as still as a statue. After a series of what can only be described as false bounds, she pauses and glances back at me while standing right on the skyline, which makes her impossible to shoot even if I wanted to. Unknown to her, I would not have shot her anyway, for I never like to shoot a doe with young until at least after Christmas, to give the young more time with their mother. While concentrating on this pair, I don’t notice that another doe has appeared in the field. I quickly switch my interest to her, and although it is fairly dark I can see her outline clearly enough to take a safe shot. While loading her in the back of the truck, I re-count in my head the number of deer I have seen that night. It is far from hundreds, but if six is ‘loads’, then maybe I have seen loads. And when I deduct what I could not shoot, that makes two deer, and one of those is going back to the larder with me.
I turn the heater up in the truck, switch the headlights on and drive through the now heavy rain, thinking it isn’t a bad night’s work.
The full moon is up there somewhere, swaddled in a blanket of blackness. I search for it when I let the dogs out from the kennels for their bedtime walk. The violent sound of the wind slamming into, and bending, the huge beech tree on the periphery of the garden drowns out all the other night-time sounds. Large droplets of hard-hitting rain urge me and the dogs to our warm nests. Oceanic clouds toss and swirl, mixing and churning the blackness throughout the night, while driving rain hurls itself against the bedroom window.
When I awake just before the alarm clock sounds, it is still raining. I snuggle down lower into the blankets, allowing time for another sudden loud blast to extinguish itself on the windowpanes.
I leave for stalking slightly later than usual, after downing a third cup of tea. I drive to the wood aware of a strange light peeping through the eastern sky and casting a gold horizontal hue, which expands as I travel. Two battleship-sized clouds patrol the sky.
Once I am in the wood the wind is everywhere, changing direction at will, but at least the rain has finally stopped.
Slipping and sliding up a slope between the denuded beech trees, I reach a small open area. Taking advantage of the vista, I pause. After wiping off the condensation from the binocular lens I survey the view below, looking into the wide, steep beech-covered valley. The air that rises from the valley is moist and fresh, with a scent of earth and damp bracken.
From where I am standing a panoramic sky of great distance and depth rolls out in front of me. The gold in the east still holds, but in the west the sky supports an enormous, bright, perfect full moon. The battleships have disappeared, replaced by blue woodsmoke-coloured clouds that pass steadily overhead.
About a hundred metres from where I am admiring the open prairie views of the sky, a hawk-type bird alights from the ground. With strong, exaggerated wing-beats it soon accelerates, climbing high and leaving little chance of identification, before turning sharply in a semicircle and disappearing, swallowed up by the cloud.
The ground is uneven and greasy as I make my way down from the vista to the lower ride. Halfway up the ride I find the spot from where the large bird had risen. On a moss-covered stump lies the half-plucked, half-eaten, still-warm body of a young pigeon. Small, light grey and white feathers, strewn around the outstretched corpse, twist and curl in the wind, scattering in a pattern only nature could design.
Although I expected to view many deer after the wet night we have had, the actual number I see is a lot lower. As usual I could have shot several out-of-season bucks, but I saw only one doe, and she had presented herself in an unsafe position.
Throughout the morning the weather slowly improves, so I extend the stalk, working my way around to the wood edge. In a very grey, wind-burnt, unimproved field, I disturb a small flock of timid fieldfare and redwing that explodes in a resentful flight, arching away to the skyline.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Lucy Greig, neighbour and sorceress, who can conjure scribble into text; Kevin Andrews and Robin Elford for welcomed IT support; Chris Yates for pointing the way through the forest of publishing; and, finally, all the friendly staff at Penguin Books, for their support and helpful advice.