If it could be done, the plan would be not to decide to enter the valley (i.e. Cashmere) until information of a really heavy fall in December or early in January had been obtained. The late falls of snow do not drive the deer down. The hazel buds are swelling, and they can graze on them; the sap is rising in various bushes and trees, and the deer can eat the smaller twigs, but an early fall forces the animals into the valleys.… In the spring, when the snow is melting, is, to my idea, far the best time, and I would sooner have from February 20 to March 20 after the stags than all the rest of the year. They are then down on the young green grass, and are busily devouring the crocuses.
By the end of March all the big stags and most of the smaller ones have shed their horns, and the deer collect into large herds and begin moving off to their summer quarters, those in the western corner of the valley going to the banks of the Kishengunga river. The herds which strike the river at its nearest point below Gurais cross it, and retire to the range of hills on the southern border of Astor. Only a very few stags cross this range, the bulk of the deer remaining on the Cashmere side. The deer on the northern and eastern sides of the valley retire to the slopes of Haramook and the high ground south of the range which separates Cashmere from Dras and Sooroo, but do not appear to cross it. The farther east one goes from Srinugger the less the deer appear to migrate, merely retiring to the heads of the valleys. The altitude of the birch copses just above the limit of the pines is what they seek, and this they can find close at hand on the north and east of the valley, but they have to travel some distance to it on the west. About September 1 the horns should be nearly free from velvet, and as a delicious wild black currant ripens at the same time, the shikaris associate the two. Up to September 20 the old stags are either alone or accompanied by a youngster who acts as fag, and they are not easy to find; in fact, as a rule, shikaris declare that it is useless trying to find them. But when the sportsman knows, from seeing tracks, that there are big stags on the ground, and the heads of the valleys (not the calling grounds) are the places to look for them, then, by carefully watching some glen where tracks have been seen, particularly just about 8 a.m. when the sun is getting hot, a stag may often be discovered as he rises from where he had lain down shortly after sunrise. He is about to move to a more sheltered spot to spend the day—and it is so satisfactory to have a stag or two to one’s credit before they begin to call. Unfortunately it is not always possible. Some of the best valleys during the calling season do not hold stags before that season begins, as the deer move on to them just then, and very often leave immediately afterwards. Good local information is absolutely necessary, and a shikari who does not know every soiling pool, every deer-path, or likely copse for a stag to lie up in is useless.
‘A SNAP-SHOT IN THE FOREST’
The calling season generally begins about September 20, and varies according to the weather, and also according to the moon. Fine hot weather and a full moon about the 20th mean that every stag in the place will be calling freely. Wet cold weather and no moon mean the reverse, the weather having more effect than the moon. The idea of the stage of the moon having any effect may be considered fanciful, but if it is taken into consideration that the stags usually begin calling at night and almost invariably fight their battles for supremacy then, it follows that the light of the moon is a decided advantage. A good set-to between two old barasingh stags would be a grand sight. The writer once came across a battle-field, but too late to witness the fight, and the way the turf was ploughed up bore testimony to the severity of the struggle. The rutting season appears to be initiated by the hinds; at least I have observed that the short bark of the hinds is usually heard some days before the roar of the stags, and have seen a stag come best pace out of the forest in answer to a hind’s call in the early morning, before a stag’s challenge had been heard on the ground. It is most amusing to watch a young stag calling, the way he swaggers before his lady-love, tearing up the turf with feet and horns as if nothing could drive him from her, till his challenge is answered by a deeper note, when the youngster curls up at once, flees for his life to the thickest scrub he can find half a mile away and cowers among the bushes, while his mate in the most matter-of-fact way at once attaches herself to his lordly rival, who comes swaggering easily along the hillside with the sunbeams glancing from the burnished points of his glorious antlers. A small calling stag should never be disturbed, as he almost invariably draws out a better beast. Great care, too, should be taken not to frighten away unattached hinds anywhere near a calling ground. If left alone they will sooner or later be joined by stags, though occasionally hinds will run from a stag just as if they had scented a man. The writer on one occasion was watching a hind and calf feeding, when they suddenly galloped off, and presently an old stag came trotting down the hill grunting his displeasure and following their scent like a hound, till, coming within range, he paid the penalty. Probably owing to the scarcity of hinds, even the best stags appear never to be able to collect more than two or three, not counting calves, which seem always to run with their dams for a year.
Old writers talk of stags calling all day long. This may have been so years ago; now-a-days they rarely call after 9 a.m., and do not begin again before 3 p.m. at the earliest. I once heard a grand chorus in the early morning. Five different stags were calling at the same time, but as they seemed to be more or less afraid of one another and kept perpetually on the move, I never got a chance at one of them.
To be successful with stags during the calling season, the sportsman should be on his ground as soon as it is light. The stags are moving about all night, and soon after sunrise they retire into the forest, where, unless they keep on calling, it is almost impossible to find them. This, of course, refers to the open ground at the top of the hills. Ward prefers the lower ground in the pine forest, from 8,000 to 9,000 ft. above the sea level, as he says the stags there seem to settle down into certain spots and remain there for days together. The writer’s own experience is that the upper ground is best when the stags first begin calling, as they all seem to collect there, and that later on, about October 1, when there has often been a slight snowfall on the top of the hills, and the frost at night is beginning to tell, the stags should be followed down into the forest. But as different valleys vary so much, according to whether the deer remain in them during the winter or are merely passing through, no general rule applies to all. Hunting the upper ground as long as the stags are on it is undoubtedly far pleasanter than creeping about in the forest down below, and in the gloom of the pines the chances are very much against the stalker. Stags may occasionally be shot by waiting for them at some favourite soiling or drinking pool, and it is by no means a bad thing to try if the pool is in thick forest and some distance from other water. The most likely time to see anything is about 4 p.m., when the deer begin to draw out. Waiting over salt-licks and water at night is an abomination, like all other night shooting. As a rule, you do more harm than good by disturbing the ground, and if you do get a shot and hit (no certain matter even in the brightest moonlight), unless the stag is dropped on the spot you run a very great risk of losing him. Barasingh are very tough beasts, and an ill-placed bullet is not much use. It is very difficult to know what to do when (as often happens) the stags will not call till just before dark. If this happens among the pine forests, any attempt at night shooting is almost sure to end in failure; and even on the high open ground the chances are so much against the sportsman that it should only be tried if every other plan fails. Patient tracking and watching over likely glades for a stag to draw out on are far more effective in bringing eventual success. The two main points to be remembered during a stalk are, first, to try and get a clear chance at about sixty yards, and not creep up too close to the stag before firing; secondly, to avoid going straight downhill on to a stag. A stone dislodged, a pheasant or musk deer disturbed, will be sure to start him off. On the other hand, if the stalker is moving down sixty or seventy yards to one side, any slight contretemps does not necessarily spoil his chance of a shot. Every native shikari, if conducting a stalk, will try to land his master between the beast’s horns if possible. As soon as he sees a stag, he will begin to try to point him out, with the result that before his master can get his wind and take any aim to speak of, the beast is at full gallop down the hill. The second point never enters into a native’s calculations at all. Ward says that natives can imitate the call, and draw stags, but systematic calling as practised in the Tyrol is practically unknown in Cashmere, and a proficient in the art would undoubtedly have success. The point to aim at in calling is to pitch your note a little weaker than the answering stag, so as to give him confidence in accepting the challenge.
A stalk in the open