Ordinarily the sportsman does not begin the stalk (during the rut) till just before the break of day. He has to be on the spot at the first signs of dawn, and therefore it is very advisable to pass the night as close to the scene of the stalk as possible. In most preserves small log huts of the most primitive kind are built expressly for this purpose high up on the mountains close to timber-line, and if possible close to some prominent point of rocks or shoulder of the mountain whence the slopes below on both sides can be, as the Germans say, ‘overheard.’ What glorious solos, duets, and trios can the lucky stalker not hear on such occasions, when nought but those weird sounds breaks the great solemn silence of night on the elevated Alpine timber-line regions! And how eagerly does one’s ear follow those sounds as they draw nearer or grow fainter, as the champions, bent on war and love, roam hither and thither on the great pine-clad slope lying in solemn silence at the feet of the midnight watcher!
The rutting stag, ardent with virile passion, is singularly heedless of danger at this season, and were it not for the hinds, who at this period appear to redouble their vigilance, he would be comparatively easy to stalk. In nine out of every ten unsuccessful stalks it is safe to say the failure is attributable to the watchfulness of the hinds, an experience which, it is perhaps needless to say, is by no means confined to the red deer of Europe.
With the exception of a few days at the height of the rut, stags only ‘call’ or ‘roar’ at night-time, and during the early hours of the morning. Not every rutting season affords the same chances for sport. What in the sportsman’s eyes is a good season is marked by its briefness, say ten days, and by a corresponding intensity of its peculiarities. In such seasons, the stag that roars one night at a certain place will, if not disturbed, make himself heard in the same locality the next night. In bad seasons, usually on account of unseasonably warm or wet weather, the stags roam further afield, and ‘roar’ far less regularly, the impelling instincts being apparently less violently aroused. In such cases they will continue the rut fully ten days longer, but far more intermittently than in the former.
The favourite rutting-places, or ‘Brunftplätze,’ of the Alpine stag do not appear, so far as surroundings are concerned, to be subject to any particular rule. They are generally well up on the mountains, not far from timber-line, and ordinarily on clearings or park-like openings of a marshy character, such as often are to be found on the small watersheds separating the head-waters of two glens.
Finally, to speak about the sport itself, it is safe to say that next to chamois stalking it is the keenest sport obtainable on the Continent. Being less uncertain and less riskful, for there is no climbing about it, it is more attractive to the ordinary sportsman, and it leaves perhaps quite as pleasurable memories in the minds of even the most ardent of Nimrods.
Given a fairly well-stocked forest in one of the picturesque regions of Styria, Salzburg, or Tyrol; given clear, frosty, autumn weather, and as your host a fair representative of the truly hospitable and truly sport-loving Austrians, no more delightful last week of September or first week of October can be passed than in the log huts dotted here and there near well-known favourite ‘Brunftplätze’ on the uppermost outskirts of the vast pine forests of the Austrian Alps.
Starting out from your hut, which has given you a welcome night’s shelter, an hour or so before dawn, accompanied if you are a novice by a keeper, you pursue your way silently and noiselessly towards the spot where your quarry has been betraying his presence by lusty notes. Only practised ears can tell exactly where that spot is, for there is nothing more deceptive than the roar of a stag. At one time it seems scarce a quarter of a mile off, two or three minutes later it will sound thrice that distance away, caused by the stag sending forth his challenge in the opposite direction. Moreover, the sound itself, with its deep guttural notes, is by no means always of the same strength.
By the time you have reached the vicinity of the deer, the rays of the rising sun are tipping with a rosy tinge the high snow-clad peaks which form your horizon overhead, and the time when ‘shooting light’ will enable you to finger your trigger is near at hand. If the clearing on which the deer are disporting themselves—as yet only faintly outlined forms—is a large one, you will have more difficulty in getting close to your quarry than if it happens to be merely a glade or park-like opening in the forest.
Now every moment is valuable, for as dawn gives way to broad daylight, the deer are sure to return to the denser forest, where pursuit is infinitely more difficult. If the clearing happens to be an old windfall, or marks the pathway of an avalanche which has laid low the great pines and arves, fallen trunks scattered here and there, or little thickets of young saplings, usually afford means of approach. If you are hardy, and do not mind brushing the rime off the frost-laden grass with your bare feet, your heavy iron-shod boots will about this time be slipped off and the last part of the stalk be performed without them, the best of all precautions against striking stones, or, what is even more treacherously dangerous, treading upon twigs, which snap with an alarming noise. Possibly you may have whispered to you hints similar to the one a keen old keeper once hissed into the ear of an august but inexperienced sportsman, who, in plain view of a fine stag, gaped aghast at the idea of baring his feet to the sharp rocks and frost-coated ground: ‘Don’t be afraid, Highness, of hurting the stones, or crushing the grass; up here God grows a goodly crop of ’em, but he doesn’t make any too many stags such as stands yonder.’[11]
And when finally, with palpitating heart, every fibre in your body set, you have approached your noble quarry, surrounded as you must ever remember he is by keenly watchful members of his harem, brace yourself by a supreme effort for a steady aim; a good stag is worthy of your very best effort. And if you are a true sportsman, and not merely a slayer, stay for a brief moment or two before you end that life, the finger pressing the trigger. The call of a distant foe has just struck the ear of the gallant champion, and with virile impetuosity he steps forth from the circle of graceful hinds to hoarsely answer the challenge to mortal combat. His head is thrust well forward, his shaggy neck distended to twice the natural size, his antlers of noble sweep are thrown well back, one of his forefeet is angrily pawing the ground, whilst his hot breath issues from his nostrils and open mouth upon the frosty air like so much steam; it is a picture which you will never forget.