When a triumphant stalk becomes a drag
I was a latecomer to stalking and my first proper day on the hill came when I was 20 years old. It was destined to be a fruitless expedition, but I was left in no doubt that I had stumbled upon something madly exciting and wholesome. As the day drew to a close, I realised that the stalker and I had walked across almost 18 miles of bad country in the heart of the Monadhliaths. I was shattered but, with the enthusiasm of youth, I was ready and willing to make the same investment of legwork the following morning.
It took another two years before I finally struck gold, pummelling an old switch-headed stag in the far-flung scree of Aberdeenshire. Down he went, but in such an awkward spot that extraction was clearly going to pose a
