With the first skylarks of 2015 singing on the Chayne yesterday, it suddenly feels like spring is coming. All of a sudden the pigeons have started to boo and groan in the woods above the house, and it won’t be long until the snipe begin to chack again. In less than a month, the curlews will be back on the hill, and I have been stepping up my efforts to keep on top of the foxes before the waders return.
Oddly enough, I appear to have stumbled on a new and altogether more fruitful technique for catching up with foxes over the past few weeks, and it has taken me by surprise if only because it is so simple. Combining good binoculars with extreme patience has allowed me to take up fox stalking, and the resulting activity has allowed me to double the number of foxes I usually take off the hill by snaring and lamping at this time of the year. To be quite honest, I’d never considered this technique before because I imagined that it simply wouldn’t work – that the fox is too wily and vigilant an animal to allow it. As it turns out, the simplest method seems to be the most effective.
There are several good high points on the hill which are comfortable and out of the wind, and I have taken to sitting out on these with my much lauded and eternally useful Minox binoculars. By spying to and fro across the hillside, seldom more than an hour or two goes by without some glimpse of a distant fox, either lying out in the sunshine or noodling quietly through the long grass in search of a vole. The nature of the ground is such that the resulting stalk takes place on a massive scale. The fox I knocked over last weekend was first seen almost a mile away, busying around on a drift of snow below some broken ground. It took 45 minutes to get up to him, by which time he had lain down in the grass and was totally invisible. I waited for an hour before he stood up, then thumped him amid-ships at 130 yards.
The actual stalk is almost identical to the pursuit of hill roe, but the last three or four hundred yards take place in a pressure cooker of nerves and excitement. There is no margin for error with a fox, if only because he represents the paranoid equivalent of a roe deer after half a dozen double espresso coffees. He is restless and curious and wholly unforgiving of even the slightest creak or twitch of movement. The fundamental difficulty of the operation makes it extremely exciting, and I increasingly think that it can make roe stalking seem very tame. And when luck is on your side, it is an extremely productive way of doing business.
In a tricky situation, I’ve tried to squeak a fox which seemed to be wandering out of my grasp and only succeeded in driving it away in panic – this made me ponder the varying natures of stalking and squeaking. As I understand it, broadcasting a squeak across open country is like dangling a worm for a fish – if the fox wants to have a go, it is in control of the situation and commits itself willingly. But stalk a fox to within 200 yards and then start to squeak and the ball is no longer in his court – he is entitled to feel insecure. At a fairly fundamental level, you are letting him know that something unexpected is happening within his comfort zone – that he is not in control of his surroundings. It is no wonder that they don’t come trotting in like some daft cub in July, and the best reaction I’ve had has been a wary retreat.
Foxes which have committed to the squeak are easily dealt with, but I’ve found that trying to combine squeaking and stalking simply doesn’t work on my ground – This actually adds to the excitement of the game, since there are no gadgets or tricks involved. All of the foxes I’ve had since the New Year have been dogs, but this has largely been the luck of the draw. Sometimes I’ve stalked in to a dog and vixen running together and just happened to shoot the dog, whereas other times it has been obvious from the outset that the object of a stalk was a lone dog. One by one I am making a difference, and I just have to keep it up.