Whenever I have the chance to stalk sika deer, I seize the opportunity without hesitation. There's something about it that captivates me—whether it's the challenging terrain they inhabit, their uncanny ability to stay one step ahead, or simply the rarity of encountering them. Sika deer have a unique allure. So, when I found out I had won the chance to stalk a sika stag in Scotland, I was beyond excited. What made it even more special was knowing I’d get to share the experience with my brother Harry.

For as long as I can remember, Harry and I have hunted together. We both got our first air rifles around the age of seven and spent countless hours stalking squirrels, pigeons, and other small game. We relished being outdoors, approaching each outing with the same determination as if we were hunting a red stag. As we grew older, our focus shifted to deer. These days, our weekends are often spent stalking fallow, muntjac, and roe deer in the open arable fields and ancient hardwoods of southern England. The landscapes we know are vastly different from what awaited us in Scotland, setting the stage for an entirely new challenge.

The date was set for the last weekend in September. From where Harry and I live, it was about a seven-hour drive to the outskirts of Peebles. The anticipation was palpable—my day at work seemed to stretch on forever as we eagerly waited to set off. Once we hit the road, the journey flew by as Harry and I reminisced about past hunting trips and speculated about the terrain and whether we might get a chance on a sika stag. As you drive north from England into Scotland, the landscape transforms dramatically—from flat, arable farmland to rolling hills and dense woodlands. It felt like we were leaving one world behind and entering another, perfectly suited to the adventure ahead.

Harry and I were the last to arrive at the cottage, where James and Christoph were already waiting. Though it was our first-time meeting, we were four people united by the same passion and shared excitement for the days ahead. The evening was spent swapping hunting stories, but we didn’t stay up too late alarms were set, and an early morning awaited us.

We were to meet our Ghillie just after 5 a.m. Matt was already there—a tall, fit-looking figure who clearly spent much of his life in the hills. After the morning pleasantries, he outlined the plan: we’d take a short drive to a clear-fell block to see if we could catch sight of some sika heading back into the dense forest from the evening feeding.

As I opened the truck door to climb in, I was met with a pair of dark, unyielding eyes staring back at me, as if to say, “Not a chance mate.” This was Fig—Matt’s German Wirehaired Pointer. She was a strikingly beautiful dog, and over the next few days, we would form a strong bond. There’s something truly special about the working relationship between man and dog, especially when united in pursuit of a shared goal.

As the truck came to a halt, we all fell silent—except for Fig. She seemed to sense what we were there for, letting out the softest whine of excitement. Matt turned to Harry and me and asked, "Who’s shooting first?" Neither of us had decided, so we flipped a coin. Luck was on Harry’s side.

Once we had climbed out the truck and kitted up, we began stalking down a large valley flanked on both sides by dense Sitka spruce. Following the road, Matt mentioned there was a clear-fell area about 500 meters ahead. It was still dark, and the faint outlines of the hills and trees were just starting to emerge around us.

When we reached the clear-fell, I scanned the area with my thermal spotter. Slowly panning from left to right, I took in the expanse—a roughly 500-meter-square clearing. That’s when we spotted them: around ten sika deer, scattered in small feeding groups across the clear-fell. The challenge was immediately clear—how were we going to manoeuvre into a position where Harry could take a shot? The open ground and wary deer made it a puzzle we needed to solve quickly and carefully.

We moved carefully down the road, taking care with every step. I scanned the area again with my spotter, checking ranges to identify a sensible shooting position. That’s when we stopped abruptly. Just ahead, two sika hinds stood no more than 40 meters away. They hadn’t spotted us yet, but if they did, their alarm call—a sharp bleat—would send the rest scattering, and it would all be over.

We were trapped as the hinds moved closer, seemingly unaware of our presence. The situation was almost ironic—one problem I never expected to face with sika was there being too many of them.

We tucked ourselves away, crouching low and staying as still as possible, waiting for the hinds to pass. But time wasn’t on our side. Sika are notoriously wary of open spaces, and as soon as the first light began to creep over the horizon, they would retreat into the dense forest that bordered the clear-fell.

Inevitably, our fears became reality. We could only watch as the deer in the distance retreated into the forest, slipping out of sight. Our first opportunity was gone—and with sika, chances are few and far between. Matt, ever composed, suggested we take a long loop around the forest and come back through the woods where the deer had disappeared. With luck, we might catch sight of one of the stags.

Stalking in a Sitka spruce forest is an intensely close and personal experience. The trees grow so densely that at times, you can see no more than 10 meters ahead. Every step must be deliberate and careful—the deer are perfectly adapted to this environment, and the slightest wrong movement or noise will send them fleeing.

As we moved deeper into the forest, the silence was broken by a sound that sent a jolt of excitement through us: the whistle of a stag. It was the first time we’d heard it on this trip. The call—a sharp, high-pitched whistle or scream—echoed through the trees. It’s the sound of a stag asserting its dominance and attracting females, a clear, drawn-out call that carries far in the stillness of the early morning, we knew we were moving in the right direction.

As we continued along the edge of the ride, each whistle grew progressively louder. Finally, we reached a point where the sound seemed to emanate directly from our right, deep within the forest. Matt estimated it was no more than 150 meters away.

We decided to navigate through the dense woodland in hopes of catching sight of the stag. Harry took the lead with the rifle, adjusting the scope to x4 in preparation for a close-range shot. Step by step, he descended the hill, pausing every two or three steps to scan the surroundings and listen carefully.

Fig, ever alert, suddenly became more animated. Her nose twitched, and she was eager to veer sharply to the left. We were torn—the stag's whistle was unmistakably straight ahead and no more than 80 meters away, yet Fig was convinced there was something to our left. We hesitated, choosing to wait for a moment to assess the situation. That’s when we spotted him.

A sika stag appeared, clearly fixated on the same whistle we were hearing. His attention was entirely focused downhill, giving us a stroke of luck—he hadn’t noticed us, even though he was no more than 30 meters away.

Harry’s instincts took over. In one smooth motion, he deployed the quad sticks, placed the rifle, and locked onto the stag. His movements were slow and deliberate, minimizing any chance of spooking the animal. As the stag moved forward into a gap in the trees, Harry took his shot. The sharp report of the rifle was followed by the unmistakable sound of impact—a solid hit. To our astonishment, the stag dropped on the spot, a rarity for a sika, especially during the rut.

Without missing a beat, Harry racked the bolt and stayed locked on the downed animal, ready for any follow-up. We held our positions, waiting what must have been only 20 seconds but felt like an eternity, until Matt finally gave the nod to move forward.

As we approached the sika stag, the smell hit me first—a sharp, musky scent that left no doubt he was in full rutting mode. The stag was magnificent, a symmetrical and tall 8-pointer. Clearly an older animal, he was a prime example and a great one to take.

Harry got to work gralloching the stag, making sure to reward Fig with some of the prized bits. The shot had been perfect—just behind the shoulder and through the top of the heart. I couldn’t have been prouder or more pleased to share this experience with Harry.

The work wasn’t done yet; we faced a long drag of nearly 2 kilometers. We took turns hauling the stag, replaying the scenario over and over as we went, each of us reliving the moment in vivid detail. It was the perfect end to a fantastic day.

When we finally made it back to the larder, we discovered that James had also been successful, taking an impressive 8-point stag of his own. The evening was filled with stories, laughter, and shared excitement as we recounted the day’s adventures. It had been an incredible experience, but with one more day left, the anticipation was building. Tomorrow, it would be my turn behind the rifle.

The second morning began in much the same way as the first. At 5 a.m., Matt was waiting by the gate outside the cottage, Fig letting out her now-familiar moan of protest as I nudged her over to climb into the pickup. Today, we were heading to a new valley, planning to work our way up along a river while scanning the surrounding hillsides in the hope of spotting a stag.

Having spent a full day with Matt, we’d built a level of trust in his judgment and approach. At his suggestion, Harry brought his rifle along as well. The plan was to drop him at the bottom of the valley, where he’d work his way slowly up the left side, looking for a spiker or any other suitable cull animals.

As the pickup came to a stop, the sheer scale of the valley unfolded before us. The view stretched for miles, a breathtaking expanse of rugged hills and winding waterways. Surely, somewhere in this vast landscape, a sika stag was waiting.

We hadn’t been walking more than 500 meters when Matt suggested Harry take a left up the hill, with the plan to pick him up later on our way back through. As we dropped Harry off, I turned to Matt and said, “I bet we hear a shot within 15 minutes.”

Harry would argue that you make your own luck in these situations—and to his credit, he’s an excellent stalker, though I’d never admit it to him outright. That said, he does seem to have fortune on his side more often than not. Sure enough, not even 15 minutes later, the unmistakable crack of a rifle shot echoed through the valley.

I looked at Matt with a grin. “Told you,” I said, shaking my head at Harry’s uncanny knack for success.

Matt and I continued our way through the valley, constantly scanning the hillsides and clearings for any sign of a sika stag. We spotted plenty of sika, but they were all hinds. For six hours, we pressed on, taking regular breaks to glass the terrain and reevaluate our approach, but no stag ever revealed itself. The hinds were plentiful, yet the elusive stag remained just that—elusive.

The landscape was breathtaking, rugged and untamed, and I found myself appreciating the sheer beauty of the ground we were covering. Still, as the hours passed, I began to accept the possibility that this might not be my time. And honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d shared in an unforgettable experience, met incredible people, and been part of a truly remarkable hunt. Sometimes, the journey itself is the reward.

Matt and I passed several spots that just looked like the perfect place for a stag to appear, but nothing materialized. We finally took a knee, exhausted from covering over 25,000 steps. I’d certainly earned a pint by the end of the day. As we rested, we discussed our options for the final moments of last light. Earlier in the valley, we had passed a large section of clear-fell that seemed as good a place as any to spend those critical final 20 minutes—when so much can happen. With a plan in place, we made our way there.

The conditions were perfect. The wind was directly in our face, and I could see out to about 250 meters as the light began to fade. I knelt down in the long grass, rifle already on the sticks to minimize movement in case something appeared. The minutes ticked by, and with each one, my hopes dimmed alongside the light.

Then, suddenly, around 100 meters away, the shape of a deer emerged from the trees. Through the gloom, I could see it clearly in the scope—a sika hind. Of course, I thought. Just my luck. Still, I held my position, keeping the scope trained on the same gap in case anything was following her.

That’s when I saw him. The stag stepped out, his thick neck and the rough mane of his winter coat unmistakable. My heart raced as I glanced at Matt, who gave me a quick nod of approval. Quietly, I flicked off the safety and settled the crosshairs on the stag. Running the crosshair up his front leg, I placed it exactly where I wanted the round to land.

I exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger. The rifle cracked, and the stag took a few steps before dropping in place. It had taken nearly the entire day, but we had done it. Relief and elation washed over me—I was absolutely over the moon.

The extraction was a straightforward one, thanks to a well-placed forest track that allowed us to get the pickup close to the stag. On the way back, Harry was waiting, his face full of anticipation as he peered toward the back of the truck. As I jumped out, I found him already inspecting the stag. With a big smile, he shook my hand and said, “Well done.”

Harry had enjoyed an equally successful evening, taking a nice cull spiker—perfect for the freezer.

The whole experience was nothing short of incredible. True to form, the sika had been as elusive as ever. The terrain was unforgiving, the weather challenging, but we accomplished what we set out to do. I can only hope I’ll have the chance to experience something like it again.

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