Part 1

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations, sixteen of which are in color. See 63104-h.htm or 63104-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/63104/pg63104-images.html) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/63104/63104-h.zip)

Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/amidhighhills00frasuoft

AMID THE HIGH HILLS

* * * * * *

AGENTS

AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

AUSTRALASIA THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE

CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD. ST. MARTIN’S HOUSE, 70 BOND STREET, TORONTO

INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD. MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY 309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA INDIAN BANK BUILDINGS, MADRAS

* * * * * *

AMID THE HIGH HILLS

by

SIR HUGH FRASER

“But on and up, where Nature’s heart Beats strong amid the hills.”

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

A. & C. Black, Ltd. 4, 5, & 6 Soho Square, London, W.1 1923

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.

TO ALL WHO LOVE THE HIGH HILLS, AND PARTICULARLY TO THOSE--MY DEAR KINSMEN AND FRIENDS (SOME OF WHOM HAVE PASSED TO THE GREAT BEYOND)--TO WHOM I AM INDEBTED FOR MANY HAPPY DAYS ON HILL, LOCH, AND RIVER.

PREFACE

For many years past from time to time I have contributed articles on sport and natural history to various journals.

It was recently suggested to me that I should publish these articles in book form, and I was fortunate enough to have friends who kindly offered to illustrate them. I have accordingly selected some of these articles, and have included others which have never been published before. Amongst the former are some which in the same or a slightly altered form have appeared in _The Field_, _Country Life_, _The Scottish Field_, _The Salmon and Trout Magazine_, and _The Saturday Westminster Gazette_. To the editors of these journals I tender my warmest thanks for their courtesy and kindness in allowing me to republish the articles in question. To my friends, Mr. Finlay Mackinnon, Mr. Vincent Balfour-Browne, and Mr. Frank Wallace, I am greatly indebted for the pictures in colour and black and white, and the pencil sketches which they have contributed.

To my friends and neighbours, Lady Anne Murray of Loch Carron and Mrs. Schroder of Attadale, my grateful thanks are due--to the former for the photograph, “Winter Sunshine--Wild Geese at the foot of Applecross Hills,” and to the latter for the water-colour drawing, “An Autumn Day--Loch Carron, looking West.”

To my friend, Miss Diana Darling, I am indebted for the photograph, “Among the Western Islands,” and to my son-in-law, Mr. Noel Wills, for the pencil sketch of Donald McIver, my gamekeeper and constant companion on the hill for many years.

I wish to thank Mr. W. R. Bousfield, K.C., F.R.S., for helpful criticism from the scientific point of view on my article “Birds of Fastest Flight in the British Isles,” and Mr. A. D. Bateson, K.C., for his kindness in reading the book in manuscript.

In conclusion, I should like to say that, having derived so much pleasure from reading the experiences of others who love sport and natural history, I venture to hope that these pages may bring back to some of my readers recollections of their own delightful days amid the High Hills.

H. F.

STROMEFERRY, ROSS-SHIRE, _August 7, 1923_.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE CHARM OF SPORT AMID THE HIGH HILLS 1

II. STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM 6

III. A GREAT FISH AND A GREATER FISHERMAN 12

IV. THE BIRDS OF FASTEST FLIGHT IN THE BRITISH ISLES 23

V. A GOOD DAY IN THE FOREST OF COIGNAFEARN 71

VI. A STALKER’S PERIL 81

VII. THE LUCK OF SALMON FISHING 85

VIII. A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST 97

IX. A SALMON LOCH IN SUTHERLAND 113

X. THE HOMING INSTINCTS OF WOUNDED DEER 123

XI. THE METHOD BY WHICH EAGLES AND HAWKS SECURE THEIR PREY 136

XII. INSTANCES OF WOUNDED STAGS ATTACKING STALKERS 155

XIII. TRAPPED 165

XIV. THE LAST STALK OF THE SEASON 170

XV. THE LOCH PROBLEM 182

XVI. THE SURGEON OF THE DEER FOREST 197

XVII. THE SECRET OF THE HIGH HILLS 215

INDEX 221

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

* _Those marked with an asterisk are in colour._

*September Snow, Loch Carron, Ross-shire. _Frontispiece_ By Finlay Mackinnon.

FACING PAGE

*“The joy of watching deer when they have no suspicion that they are being watched” 1 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

Golden Days 4 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

*“See! from the tops the mist is stealing” 6 By Finlay Mackinnon.

*“The salmon leaped twice straight up into the air” 16 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

The Peregrine Falcon 26 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

Winter Sunshine--Wild Geese at the Foot of the Applecross Hills 36 From a Photograph by The Lady Anne Murray of Loch Carron.

*The Spine-tailed Swift 40 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

*The Golden Eagle 64 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

Where the Golden Eagle reigns 68 From a Photograph by Frank Wallace.

*Preparing for Battle 76 By Frank Wallace.

*“Take the fifth, he’s the best” 80 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

In the Forest of Fannich 82 By Finlay Mackinnon.

“He had the advantage of some inches over my little grandson, who was nearly five years old” 90 From a Photograph by Mrs. Noel Wills.

*Sligachan, Isle of Skye 96 By Finlay Mackinnon.

“Lying on a ridge we spied some deer” 98 From a Photograph by the Author.

The Five Sisters of Kintail 104 By Finlay Mackinnon.

Old Angus nearing Home 110 By V. R. Balfour-Browne.

The Sanctuary, Kinlochewe Forest 124 By Finlay Mackinnon.

“The trusty allies of our fathers on the hill” 128 By Philip Stretton.

“I was spying for some time” 134 From a Photograph by the Author.

*The Applecross Hills, and a Highland Fishing Village 142 By Finlay Mackinnon.

Death of the Mallard 148 By J. Wolf.

Among the Western Islands 166 From a Photograph by Miss Diana Darling.

*Where Strome Castle looks over the Sea to Skye 168 By Finlay Mackinnon.

*“The big stag is still there” 176 By Frank Wallace.

*An Autumn Day, Loch Carron--looking West 184 By Mrs. Schroder of Attadale.

Sunset on the Shores of Loch Carron 192 From a Photograph by Miss Alexandra Fraser.

*On the Edge of the Deer Forest 200 By Finlay Mackinnon.

In Achnashellach Forest 204 By Finlay Mackinnon.

*Evening Glow, Poolewe, Ross-shire 212 By Finlay Mackinnon.

*“The morning cometh” 218 By Finlay Mackinnon.

Also pencil headings to each Chapter.

I

THE CHARM OF SPORT AMID THE HIGH HILLS

The fascination of deer-stalking is largely due to the romance of the hill--the hill as it is known only to those who love it and understand something of its hidden mysteries. The long day, all too quickly ended, with the silent but sympathetic stalker--alone with Nature in its most inspiring and elevating form--the ever-changing beauty of sky and hill--the joy of watching deer when they have no suspicion that they are being watched--the opportunities of seeing rare birds and finding rare plants--all these things apart from the difficulty and interest--and the greater the difficulty the greater the interest--of trying to outwit--in other words trying to get within shot of the particular stag one is after--go to make up the attractions of what some of us think is the very best of true sport.

I well remember a famous statesman, who had himself owned one of the best deer forests in the Highlands, saying to me that the greatest attraction of stalking is that it takes one to places where otherwise one would never go, and enables one to see the most wonderful things which otherwise one would never see. Further, there is probably no form of sport where less pain and suffering are inflicted, assuming that any one who stalks will take the trouble to know his rifle well, and will not take a long or risky shot. The shot itself after all plays only a small part in the pleasure of a day’s stalking. I have friends, first-class rifle shots, who delight in stalking, and who, when they have arrived within shot of the stag they have stalked, will sometimes not shoot at him at all. This would not always be easily accomplished by those who have strongly implanted within them the instincts of the hunter, or perhaps I should say the primitive man.

Again, to pass from stalking, what is the real explanation of the intense enjoyment of ptarmigan shooting on the high tops after the close of the stalking season? I have more than once heard this described as the most enjoyable of all kinds of shooting. As is well known, on a still clear day the ptarmigan is the easiest of birds to shoot, but on a wild windy day one of the most difficult--twisting and turning with extraordinary rapidity. Neither this latter fact, however, nor the exhilarating and bracing air at the altitude where these birds are to be found wholly explains the enthusiasm of those who have had this sport. I have no doubt that the environment of the high hills and all that this means are largely the cause of this enthusiasm. The delights of grouse shooting, whether in the case of driven birds, or over dogs, are greatly increased by the same cause. Without entering upon the well-worn controversy as to the respective advantages and disadvantages of these two forms of sport, is there any one who has enjoyed both of them amid the hills who has not ineffaceable memories of the vistas of marvellous beauty which he has revelled in again and again while waiting in his butt for the first birds of the drive, and--to change the scene--of the pleasures of many a glorious twelfth in the company of an old friend with whom he was in perfect sympathy, watching the dogs at work amidst the purple heather on the side of the hill or along the heather-clad banks of a burn?

It is true also of salmon and trout fishing in the Highlands that the angler’s sense of peace and contentment is largely due to the influence of the hills. This is especially so in the golden days at the beginning of August, those glorious days before the serious fun begins, when the trout in the loch are more of an excuse than a serious ploy, when one discusses the growing antlers of the big hart on the Home beat, when one basks in the sunshine of the High Hills.

Whilst writing what I have already said about stalking I recollected the following verses, which I intend to keep and read for my encouragement in days to come--days which are, I hope, still very far off:

NORTHWARD BOUND

(ONCE MORE)

Does your heart still beat with the old excitement As you wait where the Scotch expresses are? Does it answer still to the old indictment Of a fond delight in the sleeping-car, As it did when the rush through the autumn night meant The Gate of Desire ajar?

Or has the enchanting task grown tougher, And has that arrow beyond you flown? For the hill that was rough enough is rougher, The steepest climb that was ever known, And the forest appals a veteran duffer Sorely beaten and blown?

Oh! the years, the years, they be rusty and mothy; Oh! the flesh it is weak that once was strong; But the brown burn under the stone falls frothy And the music it makes is a siren song; Then the pony’ll take you as far as the bothy, And that’ll help you along.

See! from the tops the mist is stealing, Out with the stalking-glass for a spy; Round Craig an Eran an eagle’s wheeling Black in the blue September sky. A fig for the years! Why, youth and healing At the end of your journey lie.

(Reprinted from _Punch_, Sept. 14, 1921, by kind permission of the Proprietors.)

II

STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM

By far the most enjoyable form of stalking is to be one’s own stalker, but this can only be done satisfactorily in a forest with which one is thoroughly familiar. It is astonishing what tricks the wind will play in certain corries, and as a result what mistakes even a good stalker will make in a forest which is new to him. Moreover, any one stalking by himself, unless he has experience, may easily make another kind of mistake. He may think that he has missed a stag when he has in fact killed him. Any one who has had experience in shooting deer knows that a stag when shot through the heart will sometimes gallop for forty or fifty yards or even further and then fall down dead.

Some years ago, preparatory to a few days’ stalking in a deer forest in Inverness-shire, I arrived one evening at the Lodge; and later on about half-past ten there returned from the hill a guest in a state of great dejection who had never stalked until he went out in this forest a few days before. I felt very sorry for him, for he had been keen to secure a good head and said that he had had a splendid chance of a fine stag standing broadside at about eighty yards and had missed him. This was his last chance as he was leaving early next morning. Two days later I was out on the same beat when the stalker suddenly grasped me by the arm and said, “There is a stag lying down there to the left of that hill below us. Are you seeing his horns above the ridge?” We went cautiously down in the direction of the stag, but had not gone far before we discovered that the stag was dead. “That,” said the stalker, “must be the stag Mr. X. shot at two days ago.” We examined the stag and found that he had been shot apparently through the heart from the knoll from which X. had taken his shot; it was obviously the same stag. The stalker then told me that X. wished to stalk the last hundred yards alone and had asked him to stay behind, that X. had the shot and came back saying that he had missed the stag. Neither the stalker nor X. had thought it worth while to look for the stag. In the case of X., who was a novice at stalking, I was not surprised, but I was amazed that the stalker had not done so, although he was young and not very experienced. So X. secured a good head after all, and no doubt both he and the stalker learnt a lesson which neither is likely to forget, but at the cost to X. of much unnecessary misery and humiliation and incidentally to his host of much good venison.

It is sometimes difficult to be sure what is the result of one’s shot, and it is a great assistance to have the opinion of an experienced stalker whether he has his glass on the beast at the moment the shot is fired or not.

I was coming back one evening after a delightful day’s stalking in Glen Carron, when the stalker Macdonell said, “One moment, sir, there is a stag down there just gone out of sight. If you can shoot off your knee downhill you will have a chance directly.” I sat down and waited, and in a few minutes the stag appeared. I believed I was steady and on him in the right place. Directly I fired he galloped off. “I’m thinking you’d better shoot again,” said Macdonell. “What’s the use,” I replied, thinking I had shot the stag through the heart. However, as I spoke, I did shoot again out of respect to Macdonell, whom I knew to be a very experienced stalker, and the stag rolled over like a rabbit which has been shot in the right place. “Now we will see,” I said, “where the two bullets went.” “I’m thinking,” said Macdonell, “you missed him the first time.” “You may be right,” I replied, “but I don’t think so; one thing I know, and that is that if I did and had known it, I should probably have missed him with my second shot also.” On examining the stag we could only find one bullet mark, and on skinning him we found that one bullet only had struck him, and that was through the heart. Macdonell no doubt thinks to this day that I missed the stag with my first shot, and killed him with my second when he was galloping; but I still have my doubts. The moral is that though one sometimes hears the unmistakable thud of the bullet striking the stag, there are other occasions when it is difficult to be certain as to what has happened, and therefore it is always wise to satisfy one’s self in the matter as far as possible. Still more is this essential when stalking alone. In stalking alone, there is this advantage, that one can always secure the best position in which to shoot, whereas if one is accompanied by a stalker, he sometimes takes that position himself and it is not easy to get him to move on, or, as is more often the case, there is no time for him to do so.

Charles J. Murray of Loch Carron, to whose kindness I am indebted for many delightful days’ stalking, is particularly devoted to this form of sport. A few seasons ago I was obliged to come south before the end of the stalking season, and received from him a letter which describes, far better than I can, the pleasure of being out alone on the hill.

“You are missing the West Coast,” he wrote, “at its (_weather_) best! for we have a spell of gloriously fine weather when the stag can hear a footstep half a mile off, and the wind is so gentle that it cannot make up its mind which way to go, but strays gently to and fro and round in little circles, stimulating evil words among the stalkers.

“Yesterday I was out alone and worked up to a Pasha and his Harem--the ladies between him and me--he just out of shot on a hillock behind them--approach from the front impossible, but just a chance--almost a certainty with a fair breeze--from a rock to one side, _if_ he should come down to his ladies before they got a puff. I risked it and got a comfy corner in the sun and waited to see which would win--the affectionate impulses of the stag or the more wavering evolutions of the scarcely perceptible puffs of wind, the old lady sixty yards away looking serenely at the top of my head. Needless to say that after two hours, just when the stag stretched one fore foot and began to hum a love ditty, I felt a well-known cool feeling at the back of my neck, and the party adjourned the meeting. Luckily I am not bloodthirsty, but enjoy being among deer, and on these occasions driving snow and rain, or sunshine and a dry tussock to curl up on, make all the difference.”

III

A GREAT FISH AND A GREATER FISHERMAN

The river Wye goes out to sea By stealth, in silent secrecy: Among the hills she winds and wends And wanders by the sombre woods, And cleaves her way in circling bends Through mountain solitudes.[1]