Let the devil take the hind most

Sometimes, the hardest part of selecting a cull beast is separating the stag from his harem of hinds, especially when he’s busy showing off to a young pretender

- MEGAN ROWLAND

It feels like autumn has arrived early this year; the bracken turned almost overnight and whooper swans began trailing south from Greenland and Iceland and pitching camp on Loch Brora. Their familiar ‘hoot hoot’ is always a welcome sound, a soft and gentle herald of the season. Skeins of pink-footed geese and greylags soon followed suit, great Vs of dark bodies against stormy skies.

The season isn’t particularly early, but the way this year has been has played havoc with normal routines and the stag season rolled round almost without warning. It’s my fifth season stalking here now, though this year has been a little different to all the rest, given the dearth of clients. Our usual groups of Scandinavians and Europeans have been quarantined overseas and so, besides a handful of UK-based guests, who made the most of the relaxed travel restrictions during August and September, we’ve had to cull the majority of stags ourselves.

Despite having stalked hundreds of deer in the past five years, hinds and stags, red and roe, it’s been many years since I shot a stag in the rut for myself. The last one was my very first stag, the one that started me on this winding road into deer management.

Stalking is always exciting, being so close to and immersed in the world of our largest land animal, but there is something about the roaring, smelly brutes that is utterly bewitching.

There is no experience that can compete with creeping about on the hill, stags bellowing all around you, and it is probably why stag stalking in the Scottish Highlands remains one of the premier hunting experiences in the world.