How to get into deer stalking: On the hunt with Sam and Ed

From the Winter issue of 'My Countryside' magazine, this article details the Countryside Alliance's Sam Carlisle giving Ed Rowlandson his first deer stalking experience.

Jorge, a Spanish friend of mine, turned up to his hunting ground in Extremadura one May morning last year, in the hope of seeing an old roebuck he'd been monitoring for the past few years. Walking to his favourite high seat, he found it lying on the ground. The ropes that secured it had been cut, the wooden arms and steps snapped to pieces. The remnants had been graffitied: "BAN HUNTING". The hope of an exciting morning ruined, expensive equipment damaged, and the thought that, not only had these people been on your property, but they might well return in the future.

Jorge's reaction was not what mine might have been. His rage quickly turned to more philosophical thoughts. He felt this behaviour was driven by a lack of education; that if only the majority of these vandals could understand the vital link between deer stalking and conservation, they would not be trashing high seats or campaigning for a ban. At that moment he committed to introducing at least one person, who had never hunted before, to the sport each year.

While this isn't a feasible option for everyone that shoots or stalks, I was so struck by Jorge's approach that I wanted to emulate it. When Ed mentioned that he would be interested to stalk a deer, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. This is what happened.

Ed Rowlandson, Political Relations Manager at the Countryside Alliance, writes: "In September my colleague, Sam Carlisle, invited me to go deer stalking in Suffolk. It was an opportunity to be part of vital conservation, source my own food and learn valuable skills and knowledge along the way. I could not turn such an invitation down. And so, it came to be that on a fresh Friday morning I would go deer stalking for the first time.

The evening before we rehearsed what each of us would do when we saw a muntjac – our intended quarry. My role was easy, I was the trigger man. I would be responsible for setting up the shooting sticks that help steady the rifle's aim, and squeezing the trigger. Sam would be responsible for carrying and mounting the rifle on the sticks, and responsible for giving the all clear to shoot. After target practice and being thoroughly safety briefed, I was ready to go deer stalking the following morning.

Waking at 5am armed with a thermos of coffee and .243 rifle, we headed off to find the muntjac. Arriving at the farm around 5.30am, we left the car and set off on foot to a crossing on the edge of a forest with 360-degree visibility. Walking to our spot we could hear the muntjac in the fields beside us, hidden by the cover crop of sunflowers.

When we reached the crossing, I set up the sticks and Sam mounted the rifle in readiness. It is quite remarkable, when simply standing still, how much there is to listen to, indeed, to be aware of. It is no wonder that those who shoot and stalk have such an incredible knowledge of wildlife and habitats. In no less than five minutes a muntjac crossed our path. It took us by surprise, and with not enough time to steady ourselves, we could only watch it continue its journey.

A roe doe then found us, and for 10 minutes we stared at each other, sharing the morning, until it got bored and went on its way. Transfixed on the roe deer and where the previous muntjac had come from, we had forgotten to look behind us. However, when Sam did, there was another muntjac looking at us with suspicion. It chose to not come any closer, disappearing into the forest behind. It really was amazing how much interaction we had with the surrounding wildlife.

We did not have to wait long for another muntjac to cross the woodland ride. I should say that if it were not for Sam, I would have missed this muntjac as spotting, not shooting, is the real skill to stalking. Eighty yards away from our position there was a muntjac about to cross the path from the field into the forest – the same journey the muntjac before had made. As the muntjac walked across the path from left to right, Sam barked, as muntjac do, causing this one to stop and look up. Remembering my tuition, aiming just behind the front leg, I squeezed the trigger.

I was not aware that when one shoots an animal, even if one kills it, it can charge off, propelled by the nervous system. At the shot, the deer vanished into the undergrowth. I thought I had missed. Sam, however, was a relaxed figure and poured us both a cup of coffee.

As we drank, Sam explained that from the way the deer reacted, I had fatally hit it, but that it is customary to wait a few minutes before following up a deer, just in case it is wounded and runs further afield. I commented on how the shot felt. The main difference between shooting a paper target on a hay bale to that of an animal that can run off at any moment is the sense of time vanishing and the opportunity disappearing. Thoughts that should not occupy the mind when about to shoot a deer, but I think expected when it is your first time.
With coffee consumed we walked to where the muntjac had been shot. There was a lot of blood, indicating a clean kill. We then started to track the animal; following the trail of blood it became obvious that it had charged deep into a bramble bush. On my hands and knees, I followed the muntjac into the brambles. Once found, I grabbed the hind legs and retrieved it – it was a beautiful, middle aged, buck with split antlers. Then Sam got to work. With gloves on he expertly gralloched the deer. The innards removed, I dragged it back to the car as the sun rose.

It was not yet 7am and so there was an opportunity for another stalk. We ventured to a new location, a network of open fields divided by paths to accommodate farming machinery. Closing the car doors quietly, after retrieving the rifle and shooting sticks, we set off again. This time we could not enjoy the stillness of our surroundings for immediately Sam spotted a muntjac. We crouched down to remain hidden, and closed the gap between us and the deer, to around 100 yards. I set up the sticks, and Sam placed the rifle. Sam barked, and the muntjac stopped and looked at us. I squeezed the trigger and the muntjac disappeared. Sam was confident I had hit it, this time explaining the different reactions a muntjac expresses when being shot at to being hit. If one misses the muntjac, it either remains where it is, startled, or scampers away in any direction. This muntjac, a doe, was moving from right to left from one field to another, and after being shot leapt into the air, signalling to Sam that the bullet had met its target.

After waiting again, and seeing a further two muntjac go from one field to another, we went to where the deer had been standing. This time there was much less blood. This, Sam said, was a sign that I may have hit a little low. Whether or not the shot had been fatal was therefore more of an unknown. But within minutes, using Sam's thermal binoculars we saw it lying dead in a bed of stinging nettles. As before, Sam set to work in gutting the animal, and with the liver and heart intact we could take more home to eat.

We hung both up in the chiller on the way back and returned later that evening to butcher the animals. Sam, once again teaching me new skills in how to skin and butcher a deer. It is far harder than squeezing the trigger and equally as satisfying. Legs and fillets wrapped up, we went to the kitchen to cook. What a feast we had! Sam roasted the muntjac, fried the heart and fillet and served them with onions, gravy and roasted kale.
Shooting two muntjac meant there were legs to spare. Sam kept one, I gifted another and the third went into my freezer, along with the fillet. I made the liver into a delicious pâté. A few weeks later I held a dinner party, I too roasted the muntjac, fried the fillet in a pan with butter and garlic and served it alongside roasted potatoes, peas and gravy. Not only was I full from the delicious food, but also with the immense satisfaction that this was an animal I had shot, butchered and cooked myself. An experience from field to fork that I will not forget."