Killing The Thing You Love - Part 1

In this article a student of mine shares the story of his first deer stalk, and his motivations for seeking a sustainable, eco-friendly way to source meat.  From here on are Sharif's own words...

It's Joe Rogan's fault.

He's why I'm here in this bit of English countryside, laying on my belly on a wet mat, holding a wet rifle, firing bullets through a target shaped like a deer.

I'm being given a two-hour marksmanship coaching session in an empty field that's far enough away from civilization that Google Maps needed exact coordinates to get me here. An address and postal code would not do for this place.

As a lifelong Londoner, having only moved to this part of the country a couple of years ago, being anywhere outside where I can't hear traffic is still a novelty to me.

The paper target sits on a slight hill that'll catch the rounds that are punching through it. A light rain blowing into our faces, my instructor Ben explained the importance of always being aware of what’s behind the thing you’re shooting, reminding me that these rounds can travel over a mile.

I had the mental image of a dog walker somewhere in a neighbouring field suddenly having their life changed. Or a farmer returning home and wondering why there is a bullet hole in his front door.

On the one hand, this session was to teach me how to use the rifle – there’s more to it than looking through a scope and pulling a trigger.

But the other function was for Ben to get a sense of me and the subtle tendencies my mind and body have when behind the gun. Despite my prior shooting experience, he could see what my body wanted to do better than I could feel it in myself.

He needed to know these things because within the next few hours my paper deer could become a real one, when Ben stopped being my shooting instructor and became my deer stalking guide. And while I was being encouraged to take as much time as I needed now, in this field, with this paper deer, I would have to act fast if we did encounter a viable animal on our stalk later on. Calm, but fast.

And that was the real purpose of this session. The truth is, if I had been a terrible shot, the next part of the day wouldn't happen. Or at least not with me behind the rifle.

The primary reason for me needing to have good 'shot placement' wasn't about increasing my chances of success. No. Plain and simply, the most important thing is to ensure the absolute minimum suffering for the animal.

But why would I want to shoot an animal at all? And why is it Joe Rogan's fault?

A Curious Hypocrisy

To answer that, we'll have to rewind to over a decade ago. That was when, in the early days of his podcast, the subject of animal welfare became a frequent topic of conversations Joe was having with guests.

Including Steven Rinella - hunter and author of the book 'Meat Eater - Adventures From the Life of an American Hunter'.

Joe brought him onto the show to learn more about getting meat from somewhere other than supermarkets - i.e: hunting. Having learned about the unhappy lives of the animals his burgers, steaks, and chicken nuggets came from - and their deaths - Joe's conscience took a hit.

And as an animal lover myself, I couldn't ignore the conversation.

Steve Rinella introduces Joe Rogan to Elk hunting in his program 'Meat Eater'

For an animal to be happy, it has to live the way it wants to. An obvious statement at first. But what does that mean exactly? Put simply, it means eating the food that is appropriate for its species, living outdoors, and getting to be with its own kind in a way that is natural to them - including competing for mates, reproducing, and whatever else that species likes to get up to.

For most animals that get eaten by us in our modern industrialized world, none of those boxes get ticked. And for the remaining few, a couple of those boxes might get a half-tick in some superficial way so as to make consumers feel better.

Like Joe, I wasn't convinced it had to be that way. And also like Joe, I wasn't a fan of the health consequences to us as humans consuming meat that came from such unhappy animals, nor the impact to the natural world in the creation of the factory farms they came through.

Become a vegetarian or vegan? That wasn't going to happen. And not just because I like the taste of meat, but because my body needs meat. I can say that for myself from my own dietary experiments, but also because I apply the same parameters to human happiness as I do for animals. Including eating a species-appropriate diet.

By the time Joe had his first hunting experience with Steven Rinella, which would be the beginning of his new way of life as a hunter and ethical meat eater, I made the decision I one day had to do the same.

It would take over a decade to fully manifest, but throughout that time, I felt the strong pull to take full responsibility of my meat consumption.

Having heard Joe speak about the profound experience of taking a deer's life, the primal feeling of butchering it, and having a giant freezer full of meat that he said felt supremely nourishing to eat and feed his family with, I was hooked.

Was it a caveman instinct to recreate this ancient ritual of my ancestors? Certainly. But what felt like an equally powerful motivation for wanting to do this, was that I also didn't want to do it.

A part of me didn't want to kill a beautiful animal. Or even an ugly one, for that matter. And wanted even less to take part in cutting its furry body into those cuts of meat I'd been picking up in the supermarket, in their cellophane packaging, and putting alongside my coffee, toilet paper, and cheeky bottle of wine without a second thought for the animal it came from.

And that was why I absolutely had to pursue this experience. My disconnection from the uncomfortable reality of meat felt like a kind of hypocrisy that I needed to rectify - by experiencing it in its fullness. Even if it turned me into a vegan.

My first step was to invest in a chest freezer to put in the garage of my new country(ish) house after leaving London to be closer to nature. And in that chest freezer went half a grass-fed cow that I ordered online from an animal-friendly farm not too far away.

When you have a pack of sirloin steaks in one hand, and a brisket in the other, that came out of an order of dozens of other packs of meat sitting on your kitchen table, knowing these are all body parts of one animal, it’s a completely different experience to going to the supermarket. Sobering.

That ticked the boxes for animal happiness. But in order to go full Joe Rogan, I had to find my Steven Rinella.

Fast forward about eleven years, I finally found my Steven. Except his name was Ben.

And here in this drizzly field with Ben, I notice something interesting about this shooting lesson.

In contrast to my brief military training experience, where the disdain for the thing we were shooting at was always lingering in the background, in this session, the waft was one of caring for the target instead. Back then those paper targets had angry faces and rifles. Minimal suffering for the bloke it represented was not a concern. But today, this paper target is a lovely animal, standing side-on, just minding its own business.

Unlike myself who was once a weekend warrior, Ben was a full-time soldier in Her Majesty's Armed Forces before embarking on the path of Deer Management. As well as looking vaguely similar, we also spoke the same language. And not just being fluent in Army lingo but in our feelings about animals and wildlife.

We had options for what neighbouring bit of countryside we stalked on, having proven my competency with the rifle.

Ben is responsible for managing several bits of private land. And 'managing' isn't a euphemism for 'gets to kill stuff'; it's about very carefully monitoring deer populations with respect to the impact they are having on the environment. Which is why today, the only deer we would be allowed to take would have to be a male over a certain age - a stag.

Deer breed like rabbits. And with no natural predators in Britain (no wolves, no bears, no lynxes) the only way to prevent overpopulation is human intervention.

Having lots of beautiful deer running around sounded lovely to me at first. But the harsh truth, I discovered, is that they will quickly become a problem, not only to humans but themselves and other wildlife.

There are 74,000 road traffic accidents a year in which deer get hit by cars and between 10-20 people will be killed, according to the British Deer Society.

Deer numbers have doubled since 1999, with roughly £4.5m damage to woodland and crops, and a 50% decline in woodland birds where deer are present (from having their habitat munched away).

Worth noting, by the way: Britain did have wolves, bears, and lynxes that kept the deer population in check about a thousand years ago. But we killed them all.

Selecting a spot wasn't easy. In true Army fashion, Ben opened a map to explain the situation. Despite a couple of options, the wind direction didn't appear to be on our side for any of them that day. With a sense of smell roughly 1,000 times better than ours, deer will smell you before they see you.

It was a case of selecting the least-worst option. He was kind enough to consult me and ask my preference, but in truth, I was totally out of my depth in creating this plan of approach and was happy to fully trust his decision.

In hindsight, I appreciated that in his position, I would have some anxiety about taking someone out on a guided stalk and them being disappointed. Which was a very real possibility in this game. But of course, that's the nature of nature - unpredictable and sometimes harsh. Which I had to bear in mind as I managed my expectations today.

Our approach would have us park up his truck at the corner of a cornfield, which we would skirt around the edge of, before passing through a barbed wire fence into another field of tall grass, sticking again to the edge, and make our way to a patch of wild scrubby woodland that descended into a small valley.

Ben tells me there's a chance the terrain will be too wild and prickly to pass through down there. But, if we could get through it, we would certainly be getting our feet wet as we passed through the marsh at the bottom of the valley.

My heart sank a little bit - I hate soggy socks and squelchy shoes. And we'd already spent two hours in various degrees of wind and rain during the target practice session.

Putting my self-pity to one side, I listened on as he explained that we could encounter deer in either of the first two fields, but where the deer particularly like to hide is in this scrubby, prickly, marshy, woody, I'm-really-not-looking-forward-to-wading-through-water valley. And where the Sika species of deer in particular like to pop out from about thirty minutes before sunset.

Sika, Ben tells me, are particularly switched on. And the major threat to our stalk would be accidentally bumping into some that might be hiding in the trees and hedges that we would be skirting alongside in our approach to the valley.

Reading up on Sika prior to our stalk today, I had heard some hunters describe them as having x-ray vision, such was their ability to detect humans approaching them.

I was reminded of being taught years ago that the average distance for contact with the enemy in a jungle environment is just five metres. And remembered my own experience of almost literally bumping into a huge deer while hiking with my partner on Dartmoor. Despite its size, we didn't see it in amongst the greenery until we were just feet away before it bolted off and almost startled us to death.

Trees blur the line between whether the hunter or hunted has the advantage.

In this instance, the danger was that if we bumped into Sika, they would let out an extremely loud warning call that would essentially mean game over for our stalk. The Sika warning is so loud that every deer in the neighbourhood gets the memo to vanish like ninjas, at which point you may as well just go home.

While it's not exactly the same as bumping into the Viet Cong at five metres and getting sprayed with bullets, the thought of having this day end in such a failure made me aware that I was quietly terrified of coming home empty-handed.

This whole thing was starting to feel a lot more serious, on several levels. The thought of not getting a deer after so much build-up to this long-awaited day felt heavy. And the thought of what 'getting' a deer actually meant felt heavy too. Either way, it was happening, and I was in it.

Prep For Battle

At our chosen location, with daylight beginning to fade, I make my first rookie mistake as I exit Ben's Toyota Hilux which is full of weird and wonderful bits of kit. And an interesting smell.

He gently lets me know that car doors need to be closed quietly when hunting. Oops.

This has the effect of switching something on in me. In the truck, I was still in the world of paying bills, work, Netflix, and "What are you up to this weekend?". Outside the truck, we were in an entirely different reality.

Here in the corner of the first field, my ears start to tune in to the growing quietness. My eyes become sensitive to movement. And in the descending darkness, something in me was descending too - my breathing, heart rate, and bodily movements all slowing down.

Despite having never hunted before, this feeling is somewhat familiar as we each sort ourselves out in silence save for the gentle patter of rain on the vehicle, both of us in our own little worlds for a few minutes.

Checking pockets, tucking shirts in, tightening laces, a gentle jump up and down to make sure nothing is rattling. I do a few slow squats to make sure a knee or ankle isn't going to make an unwanted popping sound later on. We both take a leak in the bushes now to minimize needing to later when it would be tactically impossible to do so.

This is all 'Prep for Battle', as taught by the British Army. Despite it having been a decade since I played soldier, the familiarity of this procedure is still there. The faint release of adrenaline begins to hit my bloodstream.

And I was loving it.

Ben speaks his first words since our short silent ritual began - "Rifle is loaded, round chambered, safety is on" and quietly reminds me of the plan of action and our direction of travel, pointing out where we are on the ground in relation to the map we were looking over earlier.

"Stay close, stay behind me. If I stop, stop". And with a smile and short flash of glee; "And keep your eyes open for deer!"

With that, we moved off. Instantly, I am enjoying the fact that the only kit I have on me are my binoculars around my neck and a water bottle carry-bag strung obliquely across my body, both tucked under my jacket to minimize noise and the chance of snagging on branches later on. Unlike the weekend warrior sneaking around stuff I once did, I had no heavy gear weighing me down today.

Ben had with him a piece of kit that was an absolute game changer for both soldiers and hunters alike; a hand-held thermal scope. No more than a minute into us skirting the edge of field number one, this magical device revealed something that I could not see with my naked eye, even with binoculars.

Handing it to me slowly, Ben tells me to look through it at a particular part of the field some fifty meters away. I see a bright white blob shaped like a hare, bouncing around a black background. The scope reads heat signatures which means in the growing cold of the evening, any warm-blooded mammal sticks out like bollocks on a bulldog.

Returning to my binoculars, having located this animal that blended in so perfectly with the soil and the remains of harvested corn, I now see what I previously could not. And get to enjoy a brief lesson on hares from Ben as we take a minute to appreciate him.

"Obviously, hares live above ground whereas rabbits live underground", Ben says at one point.

I give a short "Hm", that might imply that I knew that.

I did not.

He takes the opportunity to let me know I should move extremely slowly when bringing the binoculars up to my eyes. The tendency for people is to rush so as not to miss the action, but that creates a fast movement that deer will pick up on. I'm grateful for the tip.

By the time we get to the barbed wire fence that would lead to field number two, I am feeling more tuned in to the environment. My eyes are adapting to the growing darkness. I no longer notice the light rain on my face. And keeping in step with Ben's movements, so we move as one, is taking less conscious effort.

I follow him into the treeline that conceals the barbed wire fence that he steps over with a surprising ease and confidence. At six foot, pushing the top wire down while stepping over is the best move for Ben. For me, that looked like a surefire way to castrate myself, so I opt for doing a duck-and-step-through maneuver between the top and middle wires, with Ben's help.

We emerge into the second field - an open expanse, not entirely flat, and full of thigh-high reedy grassy stuff that probably has a name I don’t know. Whatever it’s called, it’s perfect for smaller deer to disappear into.

This space feels different. There's just a little bit more stuff for animals to hide in. It's now just a little bit darker since we set off from the truck. And we're just a little bit further away from the 'real' world than we were half an hour ago. Despite being a little bit quieter, it feels a lot more alive somehow.

Skirting once again along the treeline, as we make our way to the wild valley, our heads are swiveling, scanning - slowly but constantly. And despite Ben regularly consulting the magical scope, as we crested a rise in the ground that even the scope could not see through, from just two metres away, an explosion of movement and sound stops us in our tracks.

Out of the treeline that Ben warned me could likely be hiding Sika, a large pheasant flies off while shouting obscenities at us. We exchange a cheeky grin and slow nod that somehow communicates both "Bloody hell" and "That was cool" at the same time.

Moving off again, I take a minute to appreciate how much I'm already enjoying this experience; my love for wildlife having already been met by the hare and the pheasant. Two creatures this Londoner has only ever seen once or twice before. I'm reminded that moving to this county is easily one of the best decisions I ever made.

It's not long before Ben comes to a stop and freezes for a second. I do the same.

With one eye on the scope, he calls me to come in even closer with a slow wave of the hand. Whispering, he tells me he thinks he sees the heat signature of a deer. And just as he's about to let me have a look, out of the reedy grassy stuff, two deer - a female and a young one - come bouncing out some thirty meters ahead of us and into the tree line.

Following them, but closer to us, is another small one, except he decides instead to stop, right in the open ground in between the grass and the treeline - just twenty meters in front of us. His little horns mean he's a young male - a buck. Unsure of exactly what the rules of engagement are, my body gives me a little shot of adrenaline. I'm not sure if this is going to be my deer or not.

Ben is still, but extremely relaxed. Sensing that he isn't even thinking of reaching for the rifle, I start to get that this one is off the menu. There is no fear of him 'getting away'. We are simply wanting to enjoy being this close to an animal that we'd have never seen had we not been moving with stealth.

While there are surely hunters out there who just want to take out critters, that isn't what this is. Again, Deer Management really is about carefully maintaining balance in the ecosystem. This animal, while being a buck, is too young to remove, but beautiful enough for us to enjoy standing and staring at. ”Those who manage deer love deer”, says the British Deer Society website.

In whispered tones, Ben educates me further. This light-coloured little deer is a Roe, not Sika. And his eyesight isn't so good, which is why he's staring right at us, and while he's curious about what we are, doesn't have the impulse to run away from these two armed humans.

As he decides to head back into the reedy stuff rather than follow the first two into the trees, Ben suggests that perhaps that wasn't his mum and sibling we saw, as we previously thought, and that his family is probably still in the field.

He points out, too, how when Roe move away from danger, at some point they can't help but look back. And when they do, tend to stand side-on (broadside, as it's known in hunter language) in order to see behind them. Which happens to be the perfect position for hunters to take to take a 'heart and lung' shot.

As if on cue, the little Roe stops and presents himself broadside, just as Ben said he would, and for a second looks temptingly similar to the paper deer I put holes in earlier. I’m fascinated by how I can find him so adorable and also feel an impulse to shoot him.

Ben doesn't say it, but I'm starting to form the idea that Roe deer are a bit dopey. Vulnerable, innocent, and Bambi-ish. Sika, on the other hand, are painted as cunning, alert, and whatever the countryside equivalent of streetwise is. Golden Retrievers and German Shepherds.

In the time it took us to reach the trees that would be our way down into the valley, we saw several other Roe. None of which were viable options for taking, but nice to see nonetheless.

Overcoming a second barbed wire fence, Ben sticking to his 'over' technique while I stayed with 'through', we entered a new world once again. Here, the open field was replaced with dark woodland. The sound of the wind is replaced by the gentle rustling of treetops high above us. And the fresh air we'd been in is now replaced with the smell of wet leaves and rotting wood. There is a stillness here.

The Valley of Sinking Hearts

With the wind out of my ears, my senses opened up once more. Ben's movements got slower as I followed him in a walking-crouch down under branches and climbing slowly over fallen tree trunks.

He stops as the landscape starts to open up, and suddenly I can see down into what looks like an unpassable amount of green stuff that I'm assuming is all nettles and brambles. I realize now what Ben meant when he said "if" we could pass through this area. I can't see any water down there - in fact, I can't see the ground at all - and secretly I’m hoping the marshy bit he mentioned has all dried up.

The opposite slope looked more open than the side we were tucked up in. Ben says that one option is to set up a position right where we are and simply keep our sights on the open ground opposite. From here, if any deer walked through that area, we'd have a clean shot.

I ask if it's not out of range as it looks very far away. "Not at all", he replies. And explains how it's an optical illusion when looking across a space like this - "It always looks further than it is". Using his scope, he's able to tell me the opposite side of this valley is only seventy-three metres away. To my human eye, it looked double that.

Checking his watch, Ben lets me know we have about thirty minutes - forty, tops - of daylight left. My heart sinks a little as it starts to dawn on me that today might be one of the roughly 50% of stalks like this that don't end in success.

He thinks for a few seconds and makes the call that we'll make our way down into the valley. Taking action feels better to me than sitting, waiting, and hoping.

Ben taking the lead again, we pick our way through fallen branches and bushes that get pricklier and increasingly unfriendly the lower down the slope we get. Moving silently in here is much harder. And I can't help but notice that Ben's trousers look way more prickle-proof than these things I'm wearing that keep getting snagged. Another lesson learned.

As we stop, look, and listen every few steps, I become increasingly aware of my fear of failure. There is something familiar about this sinking feeling.

As we get to the bottom, my hopes of the ground being dry are shattered. I manage to be clever with my foot placement at first, finding tufts of grass here and fallen wood there to stand on, and think I just might get away with not having to dunk my foot into the stagnant marshiness.

Eventually, I have no choice. With nothing to stand on, and only a few metres to go until dry land, I was checkmated. It was soggy sock time. The truth is, it's only the initial feeling of cold water seeping into the shoe that feels horrible - once the feet are wet, you stop noticing it almost immediately. Nonetheless, I suddenly missed the waterproof boots the Army issued us with.

And it was while squelching through the mush that Ben froze, with me so close that my chest was almost touching his back. He was looking at the slope opposite, now no further away than the young Roe buck was earlier. After raising his binoculars up to his eyes with painful slowness, I hear an almost inaudible, "Sika! Don't move".

To Be Continued…