93

It's cold this morning with a keen wind blowing, just on the edge of comfort. Russell leads the way with long easy strides, stick in hand and rifle over his shoulder. He's in charge of stalking for the Forestry Commission in the west of Scotland (too many deer and the forest will suffer) and today we're high in Glen Affric.

His young dog Gus, a German wirehaired pointer impatient to be running, circles round his legs. The dog's old predecessor died recently. ‘This one's still got a lot to learn,’ says Russell, keeping him in check. The dog's coat, typical of the breed, is a coarse dusky brown threaded with white hairs, which makes him look older than his years. He has topaz eyes.

‘All our forestry stalkers have dogs as part of the job,’ Russell says. ‘You may not see a thing in the trees but the dog will know. A good dog will stand and point with his head when he scents deer.’

Down a rough slope we go towards a small stretch of water, Loch nan Sean-each. Two blackcock flying in close formation zip along the edge of the loch showing a flash of white underwing. Running east to west along the lochside is a line of tall rusted iron stanchions supported by angled braces. Old friends, almost – I recognise them as a remnant of the great Iron Fence that William Winans made.

We contour round a craggy heather-covered hillock called Meall Dubh (Black Lump) and raise binoculars to scan the ground ahead, a broad descending valley with scant clusters of pine trees where Russell says the hinds often congregate. The feeding is good there possibly because, in plantation days, the ground was fertilised. But today we're too late and the deer have moved on.

Deer have a regular feeding cycle, Russell says – roughly three hours feeding followed by two hours when they rest and chew the cud. He says that if you know their habits and their feeding pattern, you'll find them. And he's confident that he will –‘Ninety-five per cent sure of a kill,’ he says.

We tramp through high heather round Meall Dubh and suddenly, as we round the crag, we're in a milder climate, sheltered from the piercing wind and warmed by the emerging sun. A reach of Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin lies below.

Russell slips a cord round Gus's neck to keep him close and we enter the pinewood that cloaks the steep slope (this is where the deer shelter after feeding) and make our way slowly through the trees, picking our steps, not talking. Where Russell goes I follow, slithering down a muddy slope, brushing through bracken, ducking under a branch, stretching across a small burn, hoisting myself up a grassy bluff. Russell stops, crouches, beckons and points below. ‘Sika deer,’ he whispers. Just one and it's gone in an instant, slipping into the trees far below before I can catch sight of it. I lack the practised eye.

I remark on the black metal sleeve round the rifle barrel, which he says it to muffle the sound of the shot. ‘If you're firing every day it affects your hearing. Mine's not as good as it was. All stalkers are deaf.’

We sit on a patch of open ground and Russell sweeps the whole slope. He spots a small group of red deer running close to the shoreline but only fleetingly. Again I don't. We resume climbing and find another lookout spot among the rocky outcrops on the eastern face of Meall Dubh, where we perch for another survey. In front of us, a bare notched ridge leads the eye to the rocky top of Beinn nan Sparra. Three lochans glint along the spine of the ridge, the last and largest of which is Loch an Eang. As for deer, we draw a blank. None to be seen.

The circuit of Meall Dubh has brought us back in sight of our vehicle and Russell proposes driving over to the top end of Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin to see what we can find there.

Once there we walk through a fine stand of open pine trees. Here, says Russell, the Forestry Commission hoped to promote natural regeneration from the fall of seed. They lost heart when too few seedlings appeared and resorted to planting among the existing trees. These planted trees are tall now and to the untrained eye they look natural enough. With the afternoon sun shining through the tracery, it's a true walk in the woods – and a far cry from stalking on the open hill.

Somewhere for sure there are deer. Gus, good dog, has the scent. He holds his head high and his nostrils twitch but no deer show. The pine gives way to birch, many of the trees old and twisted, many damaged, snapped at the stem or fallen to the ground where they lie in various stages of decomposition. Broken branches and twigs littler the ground.

This is not easy walking. Russell treads softly, delicately, slowly, and I follow a couple of yards behind, trying to avoid snapping twigs as I go. Once again, we've fallen silent. The loudest sound is the panting of the dog.

At the end of the day, there's nothing to show. Not a shot was fired. But from my point of view it's been a good day out. We got fresh chill winds and sun's warmth on our faces in equal measure. And no creature died because of us.