The Viper in Paradise

An invitation I couldn't refuse

It all started with a pigeon shoot at Niels Nielsen's. My host offered to arrange both my rifle permit and my accommodation in Ireland — and I accepted on the spot. That was how I ended up at Gary Haran's 'hunting cabin' in County Mayo, one day earlier than planned, staring at the ceiling in the dark and wondering what the next four days would bring.

Gary and I had been corresponding for years. He turned out to be exactly the hunter I'd hoped for — cheerful, hardworking, hospitable, and with the kind of instinct for deer that only comes from decades in the field. Within minutes of meeting him I understood: this man thinks like a fallow buck. The wind, the terrain, the cover — nothing was left to chance. He called it "the hamster wheel spinning." I learned more about fallow hunting in four days than I had in forty years as a hunter.

First blood on day one

The first day the wind was brutal. Almost no deer were moving. But Gary changed the plan and took us deep into a thick spruce forest where the rutting grunts of fallow bucks echoed through the drainage ditches. It was extraordinary to follow Gary's manoeuvres — nothing about our route was random, and it was corrected constantly with the powder bottle. We zigzagged in on one buck but couldn't get him clear for a shot. Then, as we moved back to try for another angle, a second good buck came in from behind.

We were sitting on the forest's one cleared ride. The buck stood at the far end, 130 metres away, his head up in the spruce branches. I was under real pressure — I couldn't tell it was a fallow buck, as I had nothing to compare it with. Gary whispered that it was a buck and that I should take it square in the chest.

It had been many years since I last took a fallow buck. My first ones were shot in grief — my best friend had died at home in Denmark while I was hunting in Ireland for the first time. There had always been a shadow over those trophies. This felt like a release. How beautiful he was, lying there — and now he was mine.

Another on the first day

After the big buck, the hunt went on. We tried several spots, but the hard wind kept the deer still and there was little rut to be heard. In the last of the daylight, on our way home, we passed a field where a young spike buck suddenly appeared.

"Shoot it," said Gary, and started calling with his mewing sounds to keep it curious so it wouldn't bolt. I got the rifle up on the Viper-Flex and pressed off the shot. The buck dropped where it stood. I was still buzzing from the first buck, and now I'd been given a second — what a day.

Gary just smiled and said: Tuesday will be the day! The forecast promised it — dead calm and sunshine. I hardly dared hope. Gary's last goodnight was: Tomorrow will be the day and I have a plan. The hamster wheel had been spinning again, I thought — and then I fell asleep.

Four bucks in one day

The next morning I met an unhappy Gary at the breakfast table and the indispensable cornflakes. "It's foggy," he said, looking downcast. "That's the one thing that mustn't happen." It was still dark when we set out, but I could hear something positive in his voice: "Actually, it's not so foggy any more," he said.

Gary had a plan. We parked the car and slipped into an area with the usual barbed wire fences and steel gates. We crept forward and stopped by a gate into a paddock, where Gary, at the front, glassed the field through his binoculars. And these I have to mention. I'd say they are total rubbish, (no offence, Gary). But these worn-out binos, with a missing eyepiece, were all he needed. No thermal, no rangefinder, just his ears, eyes and then these binos.

He signalled for me to put up the shooting sticks — now it was getting exciting. I stepped to his side and saw some animals a little way in, while I concentrated on getting the rifle into position on top of the Viper-Flex. "Wait," whispered Gary, who just wanted to be sure what kind of fallow deer we had in front of us, because he had seen one more, standing further back in the herd. "It's the one closest to us you should shoot," he whispered, and I let the cross slide up onto the neck of the buck. In the excitement I had forgotten the safety, so the first shot came to nothing. Foolish, I thought — now it had to be quick. Off with the safety, the cross up on the neck, and the buck collapsed in the shot, killed instantly by a 139-grain Sonic Hunt. Three bucks in two days.

The buck with the backward tine

When we had driven a little, Gary stopped and said this was where we were heading out. After walking a while he stopped to listen. A grunt sounded some way off, and Gary raised a finger and nodded with an optimistic smile. We passed an old house where three builders were renovating the roof — the buck must have been spooked, but not so much that he stopped giving voice.

We came to a field with a rise of large stones, and we made for it to see the ground. Gary began to call, and the buck answered from behind trees at the far end. I hurried into position with the Viper-Flex and the 7mm, keeping low so we weren't skylined. He came up at an angle along an old stone wall and finally stepped up onto the wall itself. I had followed him in the scope and was ready.

As the buck reached the top, he turned his head to survey the ground. That movement became my signal that he would stand still for a few split seconds. I was low to the ground with my right leg stretched out behind me, so the rifle lay as if in a vice on top of the Viper-Flex. In one smooth, controlled movement the cross found the neck, and the bullet flew. The result was spectacular, and Gary caught the whole thing with a steady hand. Right then it sank in that I had taken the trip's fourth fallow buck — the way he fell told me he was dead before he hit the ground. The buck had an unusual backward-pointing tine — a very unique trophy.

The mute buck

When we had eaten, Gary said the plan had changed. His brother had texted: three fallow bucks had kept him awake all night with their grunting. That had to be looked into, Gary reckoned. We needed to be ready for "The one o'clock rock," as Gary called it — the magic window when he had the most success on rutting fallow.

There was real music in the forest, for suddenly it sounded like two bucks grunting at once. We crept in to what turned out to be about the middle, and Gary asked me to ready the Sako and the Styx. We reached the corner and could hear we were close. Suddenly Gary began pointing out into the tall grass, and out there stood the buck we were after. He had held this rutting stand for the past two years, but Gary had left him in peace until now.

The buck behaved very oddly — he stood as if grunting, but no sound came out. We later christened him 'the mute buck.' I had to move further left to get him clear, but where I wanted to be, Gary was sitting and filming. I started forcing my way over towards Gary, who tried to shift so he wouldn't be trampled by the hunting-mad Dane. It ruined Gary's focus on the buck, but now I had a clear shot. I aimed right down at the edge of the grass, mid-neck, and let off the trip's second Sonic Hunt. The result was overwhelming — the buck folded as if struck by an axe.

And there he lay — the most beautiful and most symmetrical fallow buck I had ever taken. "That was a fantastic stalk," said Gary. "This is what it's all about." I could only agree, and thanked him for one of the most exciting and intense hunting experiences I had known.

The buck in the wet ground

"My plan is for us to go down and look for the buck we didn't get, down in the wet ground," said Gary. We headed down towards the spruce forest with its deep ditches. Gary explained that before the spruce grew up, the area had been marsh, the surface almost liquid. Now the roots had stiffened it, but it still flooded every winter — and it was also where several fallow bucks held their rutting stands.

I sat ready with the rifle on the shooting sticks, which I had shortened so I could shoot in under the spruce branches. Every time the buck stopped, there was no chance of a shot. I could feel the pressure. And then it happened: the buck stopped broadside and showed his shoulder between two trees, with 10–15 cm of gap. That opening was right over the vitals. Now or never, I thought, and brought the cross in and squeezed off the shot. It worked, and the buck crashed down in the report. "Good shot," came from Gary, sitting behind me.

Back in my room that night I lay in the dark and looked up at the ceiling. What a day — I had never known anything like it. Four different situations, each thrilling in its own way, each with its own challenges. It was more than I had ever dared imagine. Imagine taking four fallow bucks in one day.

When buck fever took over

The next day was to be quite different from what I had imagined — and also a day where it matters to tell the whole story, because hunting can be unpredictable. What happened lies a long way from what I would normally do, but things happen when buck fever rages.

We came upon a group of fallow deer, and suddenly the buck drew out into the open. I got the rifle up on the Viper-Flex and thought, this has to be quick — and it was quick, or maybe just too forced. The very moment I had the cross on the buck's neck and decided to press, he sprang. I was afraid I had wounded him, so I tried to send another shot after him. It was a miss. The buck stood up again, but now a long way out. Almost beside myself, I found him in the scope and sent yet another bullet without coming to my senses. "You shot high," said Gary, and the buck bounded off.

I was boiling inside. I couldn't believe I had let myself be carried away and shot "like a confirmation boy with no arms," as my father would have put it. The self-reproach was overwhelming, and I was angry and bitterly disappointed in myself.

Gary tried to lift me. "You didn't hit it at all," he said, "it isn't harmed." We went out to look for signs of a hit and found nothing. Only then did I realise that the only thing wounded was my pride and my confidence. I had fired three shots I should not have, but thankfully no harm was done.

Later, on the way home, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye — a spike buck running past inside a fenced enclosure. Gary started calling at once, and the buck stopped. I got the Sako up on the sticks and, to be safe, aimed for the shoulder. Nothing would be left to chance this time, and I squeezed off. I breathed out as the buck dropped in the shot. Up close I could see something was wrong with one of his eyes — it was completely clouded, and he had apparently been totally blind on that side. A good buck to take, given his poor condition.

Tarzan's buck

The morning was, as the forecast had promised, absolutely glorious. Gary had promised me a very special place. As we drove up towards the highlands, it was as if the landscape suddenly changed character — as if a picture were lit from a completely different angle. This was Gary's old home ground.

Another man lived up here too, one Gary had nicknamed Tarzan. About fifteen years ago he had been told he had terminal cancer and only a few months to live. The man decided that if he was going to die, he would rather do it here, where he thrived, and refused to go into hospital for treatment. And the man was still going strong, many years later, to many people's astonishment.

Gary explained that the deer up here were rarely as big trophy-wise, but the hunting for them was something special. Suddenly Gary said: "Here comes a buck." And sure enough, a full-grown buck wanted to go over and greet the does standing to the right. I hurried into position with sticks and rifle and waited for a chance to show itself.

The buck came closer and stepped up onto a rise, perhaps to get a better view of where the 'ladies' were. There was a little crosswind, so I held out into the wind, forward on the neck, and squeezed off. As you can see in the clip, the buck literally does a backward somersault, with steam pouring out of the wound in his neck. Gary caught the strike on video with a steady hand, even with a "7-kilometre Remington" hissing in his ears.

Thirty metres further out lay the most beautiful buck, very neatly shot in the neck. I took out my rangefinder and measured back to where we had fired from. A good 200 metres.

A perfect ending

Gary's last plan was to hunt a woodland of big old trees. We stopped to listen — and suddenly Gary's finger shot up as I, too, heard the lovely grunts of a fallow buck. After a couple of puffs of the powder bottle, Gary put on his knowing look, made a few rotating 'hamster-wheel' gestures, and waved me forward.

Very slowly we closed on the sound, behind the great root-plate of a fallen tree. Gary settled to my left so he could see the buck under the branches without being seen himself. Just as carefully I raised the Viper-Flex and got the Sako settled. It was very dark in the dense forest, but luck was with me, for the buck stood behind a big trunk in the one strip of light that reached the forest floor.

When Gary saw I was ready, he began to grunt. The buck moved left, stopped briefly, turned and showed neck and shoulder. I lined up and pressed — but in all the excitement I hadn't released the safety, so nothing happened. Luck was with me once more, for I managed to flick the safety and squeeze off the shot before he had gone. In the shot he folded and slid down, right in his strip of sun. "Good shot," came from behind.

"Now listen," said Gary. "What if we stop now and take the time to boil out the trophies this afternoon?" I couldn't have agreed more, for this stalk was the perfect full stop to our four days of hunting together. I had perhaps hoped to take a buck or two, but this trip became a true horn of plenty. Never have I known anything like it.

Back home we tidied up, and it was an impressive sight — the seven trophies strapped to the gate out to the paddock. Over dinner we sat and relived the many memories. So with these words I'll once more say what almost became a refrain: thank you, Gary, for a wild and wonderful experience. Whether I can ever repay that hospitality and these extraordinary hunts, I don't know. The only thing I do know — and Gary will find this out — is that I'm working on it, because: I have a plan!

The Viper-Flex in the field

Over four days of hunting in varied terrain — open fields, dense spruce forest, deep ditches and highland — the Viper-Flex was part of every shot. Kneeling at a gate, standing on a stone wall with my right leg stretched out behind me so the rifle lay as if in a vice, and shortened right down so I could shoot in under the spruce branches. Wherever the ground dictated the position, the sticks went with it.

They also took on a role I hadn't foreseen. When we had to hang a buck in a tree overnight, we used the shooting stick as a lever to lift the heavy hind legs over the lowest branch — the kind of trick you only think of when you're standing with 60 kilos of deer in the dark.

I have been hunting for over forty years and used many shooting sticks. The Viper-Flex is the only one I would carry into an Irish spruce forest on a rutting fallow hunt and trust with every shot.