The red deer is Britain’s largest land mammal. It is estimated there are 400,000 in Scotland, and approximately 50,000 in the rest of the UK. There are around 700 on Glenfalloch. This is hill country, and most of the folk walking on this land will be Munro-baggers, but, keeping off the paths, we don’t see a single soul all day. What we do see is deer, and plenty of them.
From mid-September to early November, red deer display rutting behaviour; stags battling for the right to mate with as many hinds as possible. The biggest stags, when I see them roar, tilt their heads back and gape wildly, drawing attention to their powerful neck muscles and shaggy manes. This is usually enough to make challengers walk away, but sometimes it comes to a fight: the butt and clash of antlers.
We are here just a bit too early in the season for me to witness these battles, but my guide explains that these great warriors, testosteroned and reckless, do sometimes get hurt or even killed, especially if one of them is a switch, also known as a murder stag, meaning that his antlers end in sharp points rather than cups.
Experiencing the rut in the wild like this is utterly different from seeing it in the likes of Richmond Park. We walk for hours and miles for glimpses of deer, but what glimpses? Sixty or more gathered on a hillside, the biggest stag charging around, keeping his hinds together, warning off rivals. Smaller, younger stags loiter on the edges of the herd, newcomers at a dance, waiting for a chance to cut in and make a conquest.
Stalking deer – getting close enough to hear the roar – is hard going. You walk into the wind so the animals don’t smell or hear you coming. You walk up the course of burns, keeping below the level of the bank, sometimes wading against the icy current. You crawl over cold bog, wrist deep in peaty water. There is a lot of sitting in silence, face lowered close to the ground.
At a little before 5pm, my guide leads us on. The cloud has come down, grey and blinding. But we can hear the roar. Five or six stags, lost in the mist, bellowing at each other. It is a deep and defiant grunt, zealous and jealous. When one of these beasts appears in silhouette, black-antlered and roaring on a nearby ridge, it has a heraldic quality.
Their roar is a rage against the dying of the year. It has been a privilege to experience it, especially in such a raw environment, feeling something of the wet and cold that these animals must endure as they struggle to survive as both individuals and a species. The rut has been going on forever, and forever may it continue echoing through these glens.