Chapter XVII: The Secret of the High Hills 215 (5)

It was a fairly quiet though misty day when we set out, but there were clouds gathering in the east, and it looked as if there would be a storm before long. In due course I was landed on the little island, which was quite small and consisted of low-lying rocks. I said to my old fisherman, who with another man was rowing the boat, “Are you sure that these rocks are never covered by the sea?” and he replied, “Ach, no, it is arl richt.”

Away went the boat, and in it besides the two men rowing were an old friend of mine, who was a cautious Scot, and two ladies.

From a Photograph by Miss DIANA DARLING.]

Not long after it was out of sight the wind rose and rain began to fall. After a time some duck passed out of shot, then a single bird which I killed, then after another interval a big lot well out of shot, and then at intervals two single birds, one of which I brought down. The spaniel had enough to do to retrieve the birds with the strong tide and high wind. Just after this a storm of wind and rain swept down the loch, and the sea became very wild. I was still thinking about the duck, but felt no anxiety after what the old fisherman had said. After a time, however, I began to feel some apprehension, as the tide was rising very rapidly and there was only a comparatively small part of the island uncovered. I thought I had better make up my mind as to which was the highest point on the island, and particularly where I should have the best chance of retaining my footing if the sea rose much higher. I selected what seemed to be the best place for this purpose, with some short rocks in front of me, and took up my stand peering into the mist from time to time for a sight of the boat and hoping every moment to see it. There was now so small a part of the island uncovered that I was getting very wet from the waves, which were breaking with some force, and my dog was very excited, barking and whining and making a great fuss.

Things were becoming very serious, and I could see that unless the tide turned within a few minutes the rocks would be covered. The water rose so high and so rapidly that I was now standing in water and the ducks I had shot were washed away. Still no sign of the boat, and the tide still rising.

The waves by this time were breaking over the rocks, and for a few moments I was thoroughly alarmed, as I realised that if the tide rose a little higher I should probably be washed off, and though I could swim I had no reasonable hope of being able in that sea to swim the considerable distance which separated me from the mainland. However, the feeling of fear was very short, and was followed by a grim determination to hold on for all I was worth, and, strange as it seemed to me afterwards, a pleasurable excitement in what I realised was going to be a desperate effort to keep my footing. There were very few points of the rock left uncovered now, and the tide was still rising, when suddenly out of the mist I saw the boat coming, rising and falling in the angry sea.

To cut a long story short, it was a most dangerous and difficult job to take me off the rocks without upsetting the boat, but it was managed all right by the two men, the older of whom was a very experienced seaman. In less than three minutes after they got me off, the point of rock that I had been on was covered and there was nothing of the island to be seen.

My friend, to whom I shall be ever grateful, declares that he saved my life, and this I think was the fact, for when the wind got up he insisted on the men going back to the island at once, feeling very nervous on my account, and they had a tremendous pull to get back in time as the sea was very rough and the tide was running strongly against them.

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]

The cause of the rocks being covered by the sea--a very rare occurrence--was an unusually high spring tide coupled with a strong gale from the opposite direction, which made the waves much higher than they would otherwise have been in a loch which has the reputation of being one of the most dangerous lochs on the west coast for squalls.

XIV

THE LAST STALK OF THE SEASON

It was the last day of the stalking season in the forest of Fealar, where it had been my good fortune to spend the first ten days of October. I had been out stalking for eight days, during two of which I did not get a shot, but, with the exception of the preceding day, which had been a black Friday for me, I had been very lucky, having shot eight stags, and three of these I had stalked without the aid of a stalker, which had added greatly to my pleasure. But it was a melancholy fact that the last day had arrived, and what had it in store for us? On the preceding day I had had a series of misfortunes, and when I got up and looked out of my bedroom window the prospect was not a cheery one. A thick mist enveloped everything all round the lodge, which is one of the highest, if not the highest, of all the shooting lodges in the Highlands, 1764 ft. above the level of the sea. On coming down to breakfast my host said to me, “Well, I don’t think it is any use going out to-day. What do you say?” But I knew quite well that my host, one of the keenest and best of sportsmen, was only poking fun at me on this the last day of the season. By ten o’clock the mist had slightly lifted. There was a steady drizzle; the high tops were still covered; the wind was east to south-east--the wrong wind for this forest--and the prospect was certainly not inviting. However, we determined to make a start, and I was sent out on the beat of the head stalker, Macdougall. We had not gone more than a mile from the lodge when we saw a shootable stag with some hinds, and after a stalk up a burn and a considerable crawl over a peaty bog, we got to a point within shot of them. Macdougall was just getting the rifle out of its cover when something disturbed the deer, and away they went. Macdougall said he thought I must have shown myself, though I was not conscious of having done so. At any rate, I had succeeded in getting wet through in my efforts to keep flat and out of sight.

The weather continued thoroughly unsatisfactory. It was impossible to spy, and for the following hour we saw nothing. About the end of that time it cleared up a little, and we spied about a mile off a large herd of deer, between 200 and 300, and amongst them what appeared to be some very fine stags. We had to make a long détour, and then, by walking and crawling along the side of a burn, we succeeded in getting within what we thought must be a very short distance of some of the stags, judging from the sound of their roaring. We crawled up the bank of the burn, and found ourselves within about 200 yards of one end of the herd, where there was a fine 10-pointer continually on the move, rounding up the hinds. Macdougall said he thought we could get in much nearer by going back into the burn and crawling further up it. This we did, and then, after crawling a little way up the side of the hill, we got to within 100 yards of the 10-pointer. Almost immediately after I had got the rifle into my hands the stag, which had been perpetually on the move, stood for a moment broadside on, giving me a splendid chance. I fired, and the stag bounded forward a few paces, and then fell dead. He had a fine, regular head of ten points, certainly the best head I had obtained this season, although I had been fortunate in shooting a good many stags. It was by this time just twelve o’clock. Macdougall said we had better have lunch in order to allow the deer to settle down, and added that he did not think they would go very far. He said he was quite sure that there were at least other two very fine stags amongst the deer that had gone forward.

The stag was soon gralloched, and the gillie was sent back for the pony. We did not take long over lunch, and then set off in the direction in which the deer had gone, being guided by the perpetual roaring of the stags. After going some little distance we located the deer on the face of a hill rather less than two miles from us. Though there was still a drizzle and the light was bad, the wind had risen, and the mist had to some extent cleared from the lower ground.

After walking and crawling along the bed of a burn for about half a mile we got into a position from which we were able to spy the deer, as it had ceased raining and the light was better. We made out that there were two lots of hinds on the face of the hill with stags in both lots, and between them five stags. The largest of these stags had a very fine head, and, as often happens in the case of a big stag, had in attendance on him a smaller or sentinel stag. The stalker said he thought the big stag was a Royal, but was not quite sure. This stag and the others which were with him had evidently been driven away from the hinds by a heavy 10-pointer, who was the master stag, and who was making a great disturbance, chasing the smaller stags away, and rounding up the larger lot of hinds.

After a very laborious crawl, sometimes on all-fours, sometimes flat, sometimes in the burn, sometimes out of it, for about three-quarters of a mile further, we reached a point in the burn about 600 or 700 yards below the five stags which I have before referred to. In the meantime the wind had risen, and the weather was now very rough and stormy. Macdougall whispered to me that we should have to crawl up the hill in full sight of the deer, and this we proceeded to do for some 500 yards, watching the deer with the greatest care, and whenever one of their heads went up instantly becoming as motionless as statues, and so gradually getting up the hill until at last we got behind a little tussock. The little stag was in front of the four stags, close to him was the big stag, and some little distance behind the latter were the other three stags. Macdougall pulled the rifle out of its cover and beckoned to me to crawl up. He then whispered, “You’ll have to take him now, sir; it’s the only chance you’ll get. We can’t possibly get a yard nearer.” “Take him now,” I said; “why, how far off do you say he is?” “Oh, maybe 330 yards,” said Macdougall. “He’s too far,” I said. “I shall probably wound him, or more likely miss him.” Macdougall’s reply was, “I think you can manage him, sir, and, anyhow, it’s your only chance; we cannot get nearer.” “Why not try to get to that next knobby,” I asked, “about 100 yards further on, behind which the big stag is just going?” Macdougall said that if we tried to do that the other three stags behind the big stag would be certain to see us and would bolt and put the whole lot off. “Well,” I replied, “if they do, we shan’t be worse off than if I fire now and miss. Come on, let’s do the bold thing, it sometimes pays.” Macdougall shook his head and said, “It’s no wise, I’m thinking.” “Come on,” I said. “Well, sir,” said Macdougall, “if you will have it, we’ll try, but I don’t think it will be any good; we shall have to crawl as hard and fast as ever we can up the hill, quite flat the whole way.” Away we went as hard as we could, and it took me all my time to keep up behind Macdougall, who propelled himself along at a prodigious rate. Arrived behind the knobby, we very carefully raised our heads, and found that Macdougall’s prophecy had fortunately proved only partly correct. The three stags behind the big stag and his fag, the little stag, had seen us and had bolted, but instead of going forward, as Macdougall had expected, they had turned tail and made off in the other direction, with the result that they had only put off the deer behind them and none of the deer in front of them. Macdougall hurriedly whispered, pulling the rifle out of the cover: “The big stag is still there, sir, but he and the wee staggie are getting varra suspeecious, and you’ll have to take him varra quick. He’ll be about 220 yards.” “Well,” I said, “I must get my breath; I’m absolutely blown,” the fact being that at the moment I felt absolutely done to the world and was quite incapable of shooting straight. The big stag had slightly moved and was now standing about three-quarters end on, a very difficult shot. I raised the rifle, sighted the stag, and pressed the trigger. There was a sound of a little click, and that was all. “A misfire!” I muttered below my breath. “Are you sure you loaded the rifle after lunch?” “Yes, sir, I am,” said Macdougall. “Very well, then,” I replied, “I’ll try him with the second barrel,” and raised the rifle. “Don’t fire,” said Macdougall; “we’d better make sure.” With some difficulty, owing to the position I was in and the necessity of keeping as flat as possible, I opened the rifle, and lo and behold it was empty! I loaded it as quickly as I could. Meantime, the stag had moved on a few yards, and was now standing broadside on. I put up the rifle, took a steady aim, and fired. There was a thud; the stag gave a start and then moved slowly forward. “You have him,” said Macdougall. I said, “I don’t know that.” “He’s varra sick,” said Macdougall, “and will never get over the hill.” The stag had evidently been shot in the stomach. He was looking very sick, poor beast, and was walking slowly forward, stopping every now and then. All the other deer had disappeared as if by magic except the little stag, who kept some distance in front of the big stag, constantly looking round at him, evidently loth to leave his lord and master. I said, “I’d better fire again,” and put up the 250 yards sight, as I estimated that the stag was now nearly 300 yards from us, and fired. “Over him, sir,” whispered Macdougall. “We must get a bit nearer,” I said. “I’m afraid if we move he’ll see us and begin to run,” Macdougall replied. “Well,” I said, “we’d better try and get round him.” So we crawled right round behind the stag, who kept on moving slowly and then stopping, and got to within about 220 yards of him. “Tak’ your time, sir,” said Macdougall. The stag gave me a good chance, broadside on; and I fired, believing that I was quite steady. “Missed him, sir,” said Macdougall; “I saw something fly up behind him.” “I’m not so sure,” said I, and as I spoke, the stag, who when I fired had bounded forward three or four paces, staggered and then fell and rolled over and over down the hill, shot through the heart, as we subsequently found. Macdougall seized my hand and shook it vigorously, saying, “I hope, sir, he’s a Royal. I believe he is.” As we were getting up to the stag I said, “I see three on one top, but not on the other.” “Ach, yes,” said Macdougall, “he has three on both tops. Yes, sir, he’s a Royal, and we shall have to fine you a bottle of whisky according to the custom of this forest.” “You may be quite sure I shall not mind that,” I replied. On getting up to the stag we found that his head was a fine wild one, with exceptionally long horns. My first bullet had passed through the second compartment of the stomach, or, as it is called in Gaelic, currachd an righ, close to but a little below the heart.

By FRANK WALLACE.]

Currachd an righ means in English “the King’s cap,” though it is sometimes called “the King’s night-cap.” Turned inside out it resembles in shape and dice pattern the old-fashioned night-cap. It is said that certain internal parts of the stag and other ingredients cooked in this “bag” or “currachd” was a favourite dish in the olden days, “fit for a king,” or such as only a king could afford. That may be why it is called “currachd an righ.” The corresponding small bag in the stomach of the sheep is also called “currachd an righ,” and in English “the King’s hood.” The same word is used in Gaelic to signify Hood and Cap. _Night-cap_ translated literally is “currachd oidhche,” but in Gaelic the word “oidhche” or “night” is omitted; presumably because there was only one kind of cap.

“Poca buidhè,” which means yellow bag, is the Gaelic name of the first compartment or large bag of the stag’s stomach, and is a name used only in the case of the stag.

Macdougall signalled for the pony, and then gralloched the stag. It proved to be a very troublesome job to get the stag on to the pony, although the latter was usually very quiet under such circumstances. Macdougall said the reason for his being so restive was that he could see the very long horns. After helping the gillie and the pony-man to put the stag on the pony, Macdougall and I tried to find some other stag, but in the time still at our disposal we saw nothing more except a few hinds. Curiously enough, the weights of the 10-pointer and the Royal were exactly the same to an ounce--namely, 15 st. 7 oz. clean, without heart and liver--and were the two best heads of the season in the forest of Fealar. Macdougall, who was a stalker of long experience, told my host that he had never had so strenuous a stalk as the stalk after the Royal, and he said to me on the way home, “I shall never believe in thirteen being an unlucky number again, sir, for I found just after we had started that we had only thirteen cartridges, and very nearly went back to leave one of them at home.”

On our way down from the hill there kept ringing in my ears the familiar lines of Ruskin in _A Joy for Ever_, lines so true in the experience of those of us who are no longer on the threshold of life:

“It is wisely appointed for us that few of the things we desire can be had without considerable intervals of time.”

My host had also shot two stags, though he had not met with the wonderful luck I had had. No one could have been more genuinely pleased at my good fortune than he was. So ended for me the last day of the stalking season of 1913, which was one of the most enjoyable and lucky days I have ever spent in the Highlands, and will always be to me a red-letter day.

XV

THE LOCH PROBLEM

For some twelve years I have been trying experiments on lochs on my ground in the North of Scotland, and have written what follows mainly because I hope and believe that the result of these experiments may prove useful to some of those who love trout-fishing as I do, and have the means at hand, possibly without fully realising their opportunities, of increasing their sport and that of their friends. I have spent much labour and a good deal of money in attempting to improve the fishing in various lochs. In some cases these efforts have proved useless; in others the labour and money expended in stocking the lochs and increasing the food supply have been altogether out of proportion to the results obtained, but in one case, and one case only, the results have been phenomenal, not only in my own experience, but also in that of my keeper, who, like myself, has all his life been keenly interested in and familiar with trout-fishing in the North. In the case of those lochs where no good result has been achieved, I have at least learnt something from my failure. The loch upon which I experimented with such wonderful results must have been a veritable larder of food for the trout when I put them into it, for there was a large quantity of water lizards, leeches, frogs, and above all, fresh-water shrimps; there were also various kinds of insect life, water beetles, notably the coch-y-bundhu, and a smaller beetle with a silver body which moves with a swift darting movement. It is impossible for the trout to spawn effectively, as there is no burn coming into or going out of the loch and no water continually moving over a shingly bottom. The loch is not more than six acres in extent, and is about 500 feet above the level of the sea. At the time, just thirteen years ago, when I began to put fish into it, there were no fish in it, and so far as I know there never had been any, except some years ago when a few trout were put in, but these had no doubt been caught or died long before I began my experiments. I am also quite certain, for the reasons already mentioned, that they had left no descendants. Every year, in May or June, about 2½ acres of the loch are covered with a common kind of rush, the “Horse-tail,” _Equisetum maximum_, and about one-quarter of an acre with grass, which, I believe, is a species of _Scirpus_. In the rushes and round them are patches of a kind of surface weed which is common in Highland lochs, and which, as every fly-fisher in the Highlands knows, is a great danger to him. This weed, the scientific name of which is, I am told, _Potamogeton polygonifolius_, covers an area of some 20 square yards. Lastly, and most important of all, there is in the loch a considerable quantity of the well-known Water Milfoil or shrimp-weed, _Myriophyllum verticillatum_, which in this water produced quantities of fresh-water shrimp.

By Mrs. SCHRODER OF ATTADALE.]

By August and September the rushes have, of course, largely increased, and extend to nearly four acres, leaving a comparatively small part of the loch which can be fished. The depth of the loch is about 3½ feet all over with the exception of two places, a very small part of it, where it is about 5 feet. Its bottom is for the most part fairly hard ground, but on one side there is soft mud, and on another side, for about an acre and a half, the bottom is rocky. I began stocking the loch in 1910, and during the first three years put into it small trout from burns and other lochs on my ground, but in 1913 and 1914 put into it 150 and 200 Loch Leven yearlings respectively. These yearlings were supplied from one of the well-known hatcheries. In 1915 I put no trout into the loch, but since, and including 1916, I have put in every year on an average about eighty small trout taken entirely from burns--one of which runs into the sea and contains the young of sea-trout as well as small brown trout. The following table shows the exact numbers of fish put into the loch, showing a total of 1062.

1910. Aug., Sept., Oct 62 (20 fair size)
1911. July, Aug., Sept 61 (16 fair size)
1912. July, Sept., Oct 20
1913. April 150
1914. April 200
1916. June, July 104
1917. June, July 105
1918. June, July 96
1919. August 74
1920. July 96
1921. July, August 44
1922. July 50

I have taken care that the loch should not be fished too much, and nothing has been used but the wet fly. It has only been fished in May and June and in August and September. In May and June, which are, of course, the best months of the year, it has only been fished for two or three weeks, and in August and September it is very difficult to persuade the trout to rise, and a rare experience to catch one. It has been suggested to me that I should introduce rainbow trout into the loch, as they would rise freely in August and September, when the large brown trout will not do so.

In May and June there is a hatch out of flies from the weeds on the loch and from the heather on the adjoining moorland. In particular there is a hatch out of a large fly, of which I have caught specimens. These I have sent south for examination, and am told that they are all sedges, the largest being the large red sedge, _Phryganea grandis_, those next in size being cinnamon sedges. I have had flies dressed in imitation of these, and if one is fortunate enough to be on the loch when the sedges are hatching out, there is grand sport to be had, and sport which is greatly increased by the presence of so many troublesome weeds. The loch was not fished until 1913, three years after trout were first put into it. Every fish caught under a pound, with very few exceptions, has been returned to the loch, but it is a curious fact that the fish rise very little until they reach about a pound in weight, and so we have not been troubled much by catching the smaller fish which would have to be returned to the loch.

The following is the record of fish caught, showing a total of 216, weighing 482 lb. 1 oz., and averaging nearly 2¼ lb.

1913. 6 trout, weighing 8 lb.; average 1⅓ lb.; largest 2 lb.;
smallest ½ lb.

1914. 19, weighing 29 lb.; average slightly over 1½ lb.;
largest 2½ lb.; smallest ¾ lb.

1915. 14, weighing 29 lb. 11 oz.; average just over 2 lb.;
largest 3½ lb.; smallest 1 lb. 1 oz.

1916. 20, weighing 58 lb. 9 oz.; average nearly 3 lb.; largest
4 lb. 7 oz.; smallest 2 lb.

1917. 18, weighing 58 lb. 11 oz.; average about 3¼ lb.;
largest 4 lb. 10 oz.; smallest 2 lb.

1918. 44, weighing 98 lb. 5 oz.; average nearly 2¼ lb.; largest
6 lb.; smallest ¾ lb.

1919. 13, weighing 28 lb. 4. oz.; average over 2 lb.; largest
4¼ lb.; smallest 1 lb.

1920. 20, weighing 59 lb. 6 oz.; average very nearly 3 lb.;
largest 7½ lb.; smallest 1 lb. 2 oz.

1921. 30, weighing 48 lb. 13 oz.; average about 1⅝ lb.;
largest 4¾ lb.; smallest ¾ lb.

1922. 32, weighing 73 lb. 6 oz.; average slightly over 2¼ lb.;
largest 5 lb. 2 oz.; smallest 1 lb.

The exact weights of the 20, 18, 20, and 32 fish caught respectively in 1916, 1917, 1920, and 1922 (in which years the highest average was reached) were as follows:

1916. 1917. 1920. 1922.
lb. oz. lb. oz. lb. oz. lb. oz.
4 7 4 10 7 8 5 2
4 1 4 1 4 10 5 1
3 13 4 0 4 8 4 8
3 10 3 14 4 7 4 4
3 9 3 14 4 4 3 4
3 6 3 10 3 10 3 4
3 1 3 9 3 10 3 4
3 0 3 8 3 0 3 0
3 0 3 8 2 9 2 12
3 0 3 5 2 8 2 8
2 12 3 1 1 12 2 4
2 12 3 ½ 1 10 2 2
2 9 2 13 1 10 2 1
2 8 2 8 1 10 2 0
2 8 2 8 1 8 2 0
2 4 2 4 1 8 2 0
2 3 2 4 1 8 3 of 1 12
2 2 2 0 1 4 7 of 1 8
2 0 .. 1 4 5 of 1 4
2 0 .. 1 2 1 0

The fish caught have been remarkable not only for their weight but also for their extraordinary beauty and condition. Those of us who have seen them have seen many trout in our time, but have never seen trout to compare with those caught during the first four or five years after we began fishing the loch. Several of these, which we measured, were as much in girth as in length from the gills to the point of the tail where the flesh ends. They had small heads and were most beautifully coloured. Their flesh was in colour a deep red--no doubt due to the pigment in the fresh-water shrimps which, as I have said, abound in the loch.

It is an interesting fact that, although the loch was very little fished by ladies, they secured the two largest fish, one of 7½ lb., which took over three-quarters of an hour to land and gave splendid sport, the other 6 lb. The former was a most extraordinary fish. It was 22 inches in length, 16 inches in length from the gills to the point where the flesh ends at the tail, and 16 inches in girth. There is, however, no doubt that, with the exception of this particular fish, the fish caught during the last four or five years, whilst in excellent condition and comparing very favourably with the ordinary large brown trout caught elsewhere, have not been so extraordinary in their girth as in the first few years after the loch was stocked.

These experiments show the correctness of the opinion expressed by one of the most experienced of writers on the subject of trout culture, Mr. P. D. Malloch, who says in his well-known work on the _Life History and Habits of the Salmon, Sea-trout, Trout and other Fresh-water Fish_[31] (p. 186): “When a farmer rents a piece of land for grazing he knows how many sheep or cattle it will pasture, and that if he puts on more than the proper number they will not grow. He also knows that if he introduce too few they will become fat and too lazy to eat up all the pasture, and he will thus lose part of the money paid for the pasture land. If the proprietor or the tenant of a loch would consider the matter in the same way as the farmer, he would obtain full value out of his lochs, be saved a deal of grumbling, and find life more pleasant.” The same writer also says (p. 157): “Many naturalists maintain that there are different species of trout in the British Islands--Loch Leven trout, Gillaroo trout, tidal trout, and many others--but from a close study of all these trout for the last forty years, I have come to the conclusion that there is only one species of trout in Great Britain, and that in the different varieties the differences are caused by the nature of the water in which they are found and by the food they eat.” Thus, as would be expected, there is no apparent difference between the so-called Loch Leven trout which were put into the loch from the hatcheries and the little trout from my own burns. Numbers of these splendid trout running up to 5, 6, and 7 lb. must be the brothers and sisters of the little fingerlings of the same age in the burns. The best authorities are apparently agreed[32] that the average life of trout is about ten years (although there are authenticated instances in which they have lived for a much longer period), that they reach their prime in six or seven years, that they remain in their prime for a few years longer, and then begin to lose condition and weight as old age creeps on. Those of the trout put into the loch in 1910 and 1911 which I have described as of fair size were about three to the lb., some rather larger and could not then have had many years to live. Those from the burns were probably of different ages, but it is highly likely that in 1913 and 1914, when the yearlings from the hatcheries were put into the loch, there were very few of such other trout as were still there that could live more than three or four years longer.

So far there has been little indication that any of the trout caught have been cannibals--probably because they can obtain plenty of other food, and since their transfer to the loch have not been in the hungry condition in which they certainly were when they lived in the burns. On one occasion we found when carrying some of the little brown trout from one of the burns to the loch that one of the captives on the journey in the small can in which they were being carried had caught and succeeded in half swallowing another little trout half its own size.

Both Mr. Malloch (see pp. 130-132 of his work mentioned above) and Mr. Hamish Stuart (_The Book of the Sea-Trout_,[33] p. 240) agree that the young of the sea-trout, if confined in a loch, grow rapidly if the feeding be good, and are as silvery as sea-trout that are fresh run.

My experience in regard to the young of the sea-trout put into this loch confirms this view, as I have caught sea-trout up to nearly 2 lb. in the loch, which are in no way distinguishable from the ordinary fresh-run sea-trout. It is curious, however, that so far no sea-trout larger than 2 lb. have been caught in this loch.

From a Photograph by Miss ALEXANDRA FRASER.]

To summarise the results of these experiments, it seems clear that in order to obtain the best results the following conditions should be fulfilled:

1. _There must be a sufficient supply of the right kind of food for the fish in the loch in order that they may grow to a large size._

In order to attain this object, it is desirable that the loch should not be too high above the level of the sea. As Mr. Malloch says in the work to which I have already referred (p. 179): “Lochs over 1000 feet above sea-level, fed from snow from surrounding hills, produce little feeding until May, and owing to the cold fall off in September, thus giving the trout only four months of good feeding. On the other hand, lochs at or near sea-level produce good feeding in March, and continue to do so for three months more than their Highland brethren. It will be seen, then, that this extra time for feeding, when extended over the seven or eight years which constitute the life of a trout, easily accounts for the difference of size.” Moreover, as the same writer points out, in a loch which is very high above the sea-level, not only is the feeding-time shorter, but the food is much scarcer.

On the question of food supply it is worth while to recall the words of Mr. F. H. Halford:[34] “Food supply generally is ... chiefly dependent on the presence of the weeds in which the best forms of food for the fish are to be found.... It must not, however, be forgotten that, in Marryat’s terse words, ‘while floating food is caviare, sunk or mid-water food is beef to the fish.’ Hence, when engaged in his examination of the weeds and the animal life contained therein, the fisherman should remember that he can only expect well-fed, good-conditioned, healthy, and consequently game trout in a (loch) which contains a bountiful supply of crustaceans, such as fresh-water shrimps and mollusks such as snails of the genera _Limnaea_, _Planorbis_,” etc., etc.

Further, it is of the utmost importance that the number of fish in the loch should be regulated in such a way that the food supply may be sufficient to enable the fish to grow to a large size.

Where the fish cannot spawn effectively, and it is therefore necessary to renew the stock, experience alone can decide the number of fish which should be put into the loch every year. Spring is the best time to do this. The number of fish which should be put in will obviously depend chiefly upon the amount of food in the loch and the number of fish caught, and destroyed by their enemies, during the preceding year. In many lochs there are stones under which the small trout can find protection from the large ones, but where there is no protection it is worth while to put stones or small drain tiles round the edge of the loch.

In lochs where, as is usually the case, the fish can spawn effectively the fish increase so rapidly that there is not a sufficient supply of food, and the result is that the loch is filled with hungry small trout. When it is remembered that it is reckoned that every spawning trout produces 800 to 1000 eggs for every pound of its weight, some idea is obtained of the rapidity with which fish increase. In many lochs Nature intervenes and the enemies of trout--divers, herons, ducks, otters, etc.--keep the numbers down, sometimes to the point of extinction; in other lochs, owing to the severe frosts and other causes, it is only occasionally that the eggs are hatched out.

2. _The lock must not be too deep or the trout will not rise or will not rise well._

This, I believe, is the cause of my failure in several of the lochs upon which I have been making experiments. As Mr. Malloch truly says:

“When a loch is more than 12 feet deep the supply of food soon becomes scarce and the trout small, while shallow lochs produce plenty of food, therefore large trout.... In constructing new lochs, one should endeavour to have as much shallow water as possible.... The best depth is from five to nine feet; beyond twelve feet food becomes scarce and trout do not rise well in deep water.”

XVI

THE SURGEON OF THE DEER FOREST

“In the Forest and on the moor there is a mighty Doctor before whom the greatest physicians and surgeons in the world must bow down. Nature acting in a pure air on an absolutely healthy subject will work wonderful cures.... It seems marvellous that the broken leg of an animal so restless as a stag should heal, but it is the case.... Such a wound will heal and the animal ultimately be little the worse for it.”

Such are the words, in his book _Wild Sport with Gun, Rifle, and Salmon Rod_, of Mr. Gilfrid W. Hartley, a stalker of great experience, and the author of some most fascinating reminiscences on stalking.

Every good sportsman is, of course, greatly distressed if he has the misfortune to wound a stag without being able to kill him. No matter what care may be exercised, it is impossible, even for the best of shots who has been accustomed to stalk for many years, not to experience some time or other a catastrophe of this kind. It is at any rate some slight consolation to know that Nature can effect the marvellous cures of which there is authentic record.

Much can, no doubt, be done to improve one’s shooting by regular practice. Some years ago I was discussing the subject with one of the old Highland proprietors who is a first-class rifle shot, and he told me that for many years he had been in the habit of practising shooting at a small wooden stag, which he had placed in all kinds of different positions and at different distances on the hill. He added that he was sure that this had greatly improved his shooting. This interested me greatly, for I had for a long time been doing the same thing and am a great believer in its advantages. Amongst other things which it teaches one, is to judge distances more accurately.

In the course of my wanderings through many forests, I have often discussed with experienced stalkers the subject of Nature’s wonderful cures, and as recently as the year before last, whilst I was stalking in a forest in the Western Highlands, the head stalker related to me a remarkable experience of his own. I thought the story worth recording in some permanent form, but felt that I myself could not do justice to it. I therefore asked my friend the stalker if he could find time, after the stalking season was over, to write out for me the account of this particular experience.

Some five months later I received the account from him, accompanied by a letter which contained the following words: “You will find the enclosed story about the wounded stag. And indeed, I would prefer stalking through wet and bogs for six hours than one hour trying to put my experience on paper.” Here is the story in question:

“As I promised, I am writing about one of my experiences which fixed it greatly on my mind as to the power of a stag to recover from a serious wound.

“The year 1905 was a very wet season in this district, and while stags were not good in condition, there were some good heads to be seen. I had that season one of the best of sportsmen who knew a great deal about deer and their ways, and had an experience of thirty years behind him.

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]

“My beat is a narrow long piece of high ground and stretching well in between three adjoining forests coming to a narrow point, and on this narrow part there is a small corrie. This corrie is the best for keeping stags I know of, but rather difficult to stalk except with north-west wind. With other winds, although successful in a stalk, one is sure to drive the rest of the deer into one of the adjoining forests, the stalkers in which were very much on the alert at that time to make the best use of any move in their favour on the marches. There was a long spell of south and south-west wind, and although there were quite a lot of stags in this corrie we had to wait long for favourable wind so as to move them further into our own ground. About September 25 we were having a spy at the corrie, and noticed a newcomer with quite a big, strong head of ten points, and on each horn very peculiarly shaped tops with cups, the three points on the top in each horn curving towards one another until the tips almost touched. We at once came to stalk him, while keeping so far as safe with wind between them and the boundary. We came to a point we considered likely if they kept on their way feeding, as in so doing they would pass us within a reasonable distance. This they did, but the ten-pointer keeping well at the end. When he was within 150 yards head on, all of a sudden he turned right round and began feeding quietly away tail on, with haunches towards us. We were in a high fever discussing whether he would still turn and follow the rest of the deer or had made up his mind to part with them altogether. We concluded the last was his decision, and so prepared to have a long shot if he would give us the best chance. When well over 200 yards, he turned half-broadside, and immediately the gentleman had a go at him. His first shot went high, and the stag bolted down the corrie, and with his second got him high in the offside hind leg and broke completely his thigh-bone, as I could see his leg swinging out to his side at every jump. We sat down, watching him going down the lower corrie until he came to a shoulder, and began to climb up the ridge towards the highest part of the mountain. When almost on the top he stood looking towards us, and after a long time lay down. When we saw him settling we moved quietly to where we left the gillie, and gave him instructions to watch and let us know which way the stag went if he got up and went away, for we had to make a long detour out of his view to get round and, if possible, to get above him. When we arrived he was not to be seen anywhere, so we began to spy and get directions from the gillie, who signed that he went round the shoulder before us. It was getting late and dark, so we hurried after the stag. When we got round the shoulder we could dimly see him limping away a good deal below us, and towards the boundary, so we considered it was best not to follow further in case we forced him over the march and then lost him in the dark, for we were in hopes to find him next morning near this place, and possibly dead. As he did not catch us following him, he slowed down to a stand, so we left him there.

“Next morning, we were on the move early and got up to where we left him, searched every hollow and corner on our side and as far into the other side as I dared, but could not find or see him anywhere. So, when home, we wrote to the surrounding tenants with a description of the head, and to have a look-out, when we would expect the head to be sent to us if the stag were found dead. But none ever came across him, so we gave up hopes and expected he was dead in some hole.

“The following year the forest was taken by a new tenant, and there was no more thought about the lost wounded stag till, about the beginning of October, what was my surprise to see, and very near the same place and corrie, a stag with the same kind of head and peculiarly formed tops. I mentioned to the gentleman our experience last season with one very like this stag in the same corrie, but I remember our remark was that it was more likely one of the same breed, so lost no time in spying, as everything was favourable for a successful stalk. We got to a nice distance, and shot him dead. When I went down to examine him I was surprised to find that he had no brow-points, and instead of being a ten-pointer he was only an eight-pointer. I could not see anything like last year’s wound at the time, but next morning, when I went to the larder where he was hanging skinned, I noticed at once his right leg showing exactly where our last year’s bullet had broken it, but now nicely healed up, and it looked as though both legs were exactly the same length. I could not say if he had a limp, as he was standing all the time till we had our shot. I got this haunch for my own use and had it boiled and stripped of flesh, when I could see plainly how well it joined. The bone was jagged at both ends, and the longest points exactly touching, and the missing parts were filled up with tough hard flesh. I noticed a splinter on the outside which lay so neatly in place, and even to both ends. The stag weighed 15 st. 11 lb. He was in fair condition, but not up to the average; he looked to me to be much heavier the year before, although that year we had much better average weights.”

Lieut.-General Crealock, in _Deer Stalking in the Highlands of Scotland_, relates a case of the same kind:

“I remember,” he says, “wounding a Royal Stag some years ago at Loch Luichart--I broke his fore leg at the shoulder. Having no dog with me I never succeeded in getting up to him to finish him before dark, and so lost him. The wound was not mortal--it had shattered the bone; he recovered and lived for several years after, but he always had a stiff joint. The first year he never shed his velvet and dropped a point from his royal head; the second year he cleaned, but never regained his royal head or even a good one again.”

By FINLAY MACKINNON.]

In Speedy’s _Natural History of Sport in Scotland with Rod and Gun_ there is an interesting account of a thirteen-pointer whose hind leg was broken above the hock. In the forest in Inverness-shire where this stag was, the deer were regularly fed during the winter. “When feeding commenced he came regularly as before; but in consequence of his wound he was reduced to a skeleton, and, being very weak, was kept off by the other stags. He used to hide, however, not far off, and when the others took their departure he returned to the feeding-place, when the keeper attended to him and had opportunities, with the aid of his glass, of noting the injured limb at a comparatively short distance. Within a month after feeding commenced, he was able to use it, and in three months was master of the herd.... As the new antlers grew it was found that the one on the opposite side from the broken limb was minus the brow-point.” He was shot in that season, and scaled 17 st. 12 lb. clean, being then nine years old.

I myself had a personal experience which is perhaps worth recording in this connection. I was stalking late in the season--indeed it was the last day that I was out--and we had been unable to get a shot until late in the evening, when I killed a good stag. We had some miles to go before we reached the end of the road in the forest where the motor-car from the lodge was to meet us, and the light was beginning to fail. We were high up on the side of a corrie, and were preparing to start on our homeward journey, when Sandy, the stalker, suddenly turned to me and said, pulling out his glass, “I see some deer down there on the flat.”

In a moment he had his glass on them, and said: “Would you be liking another stag? There’s a fine stag with hinds, and we shall not be long getting down to them. It’s been poor sport to-day.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then, I am afraid, considering how late it was, weakly yielded to the temptation. I said: “All right! We shall have to be quick, otherwise we shall not be able to see what we are doing.” We soon decided our method of approach, and lost no time in getting down the hill. The deer were feeding on a small flat piece of ground near the ruins of what had been a watcher’s cottage many years ago, and we hoped, by getting into a broad and fairly deep burn, to reach a point about 200 yards further down, from which I could get a shot. The water was sometimes up to our waists and bitterly cold, and our movements were necessarily slow, but we arrived at last at a point which was about 140 yards from the stag. Peering over the top of the bank of the burn, we saw that the stag was on the far side of the hinds from us, and was lying down in a dip of the ground, so that only the tops of his horns were visible. After we had been waiting in the burn for some time, the stag got up, and, without giving me a chance for a shot, walked on to lower ground, where he began to feed in such a position that it was impossible to see him until he put his head up, and then we could only see the upper part of his horns. After a few minutes I whispered: “I really can’t wait here any longer, it is so frightfully cold, and the light will soon be gone. Let us get out of the burn and chance our being seen: at any rate, we shall be higher up there, and be more likely to see the stag.”