top of page

Red Stags in the Rain

Doug Pelton


Niall motioned me to crawl toward him. As I crept forward, low to the ground, through the water and the mud I could feel the cold seeping into my bones as the wet earth stuck to my face, hands and clothes. I wondered if it was all worth it. I soon got my answer. The Scottish highlands stretched out as far as I could see in every direction. It's a mix of rolling hills, jagged peaks, and marshy ground, where the wind howls and the rain rarely lets up. It's a place where the wild feels alive. A place where I became part of the ancient rhythm of the land. I was there to stalk red stag and I got my wish. We glassed a group of stag far off in the distance earlier in the day. There was a nice, mature eight point in the group, and he was the one we were after. Niall felt like he knew what direction they would head, so we made a plan to intercept them by hiking up through an evergreen forest and then ascend a steep hillside to a bench. Then traverse to ridge to the next glen. Hiking up through the moorland tested my endurance. The moor fights your every step, swallowing your boots to your ankles as though you are walking on a soaking wet, uneven sponge that makes every completed step feel like a triumph. As we ascended up through the forest navigating the challenging terrain, my lungs began to burn. Every step another challenge, every stream crossing becoming just a little more difficult than the last. My damn knee reminding me of it's presence the entire time. As we made it through the forest and continued our climb up, the rain came again. Cold and sideways in the harsh wind. Pelting me in the face, I tugged on my zipper and fastened the collar on my coat to combat the storm. I was losing the battle. I glanced skyward hoping for a glimpse of the absent sun. I was rewarded with the view of seemingly endless grey clouds and more rain in my eyes. Upward we marched through the rain, water and mud until, at last, we reached our vantage point. From here, we could see the small lake where we first caught sight of the big stag far off in the distance. We turned to traverse the bench a few hundred yard to the top of the ridge where could peer into the small valley where we hoped to find the stag bedded down to escape the wind. As we appraoched, we slowed and walked bent over, low to the ground as to not silhouette ourselves on the skyline as we approached the glen. About 100 yards out, Niall motioned for us to wait as he moved slowly forward at a low walk and then a crawl to the edge of the glen where he could peak over. He looked back at me, smiled and motioned me forward to his position slowly. I knew our stag was there and my heart jumped to my throat. The long flights, the delays, the frustrating hotel reservation mishaps. None of that mattered now. Not was time to focus on our objective and nothing else. Every step forward mattered even more now, had to be planned carefully. A stag's senses are sharp, and one wrong move will send it bounding over the hills. Lost forever. 40 yards out and Niall motioned me to drop down. The mud was thick and unforgiving. It pulled at my limbs with every inch forward. Streams cross throughout the land. Shallow but icy, soaking my hands and sleeves as I inched through, determined not to break the horizon. The scent of wet earth filled my nostrils, and the only sound was the squelching of mud beneath me and the soft rustle of the heather while the wind and rain continued it's assault. My breathing finally slowed from the climb, although not in sync with my heart. Finally, I reached a small rise just on the edge of the glen. As I part the grass to look down the valley, I notice four stags, one considerably larger on the left. 130 yards out. Close enough to make the shot, but the wind is fickle in the highlands. I waited motionless for the perfect moment. Watching the stag through my optic as the cold rain ran down my back and into my eyes. Mentally, I was capturing images in order to forever relive this moment. With the rifle stead on the bi-pod, I took a dep breath, settled the crosshairs on his massive shoulder as I slowly squeezed the trigger. The tell tale "thunk" of the 200 grain bullet was all I heard after the firing of my suppressed 300 Winchester short magnum. And the great monarch fell to the noise. His final moment a testament to the age-old dance between hunter and hunted. Rising from the mud, cold and soaked, we hiked down toward my stag, the sense of accomplishment deepened by the harshness of the pursuit. In the Scottish Highlands, nothing comes easy, but the reward is a memory of the wild, the grit and the primal connection to nature that will stay with you long after the hunt is over. Suddenly, the rain shut off. I looked up to see a rainbow off in the distance. It was at that moment that I knew this hunt was not over. This was just the beginning of my time in the highlands.

bottom of page