Written by Härkila Influencer Stina Didriksen @skadi_outdoors from Norway

Autumn has long since taken the bright purple flowers from the heather, leaving the moors washed in pale shades of beige. Heather, scrub and tall bog grass cover the open ground, broken here and there by stands of evergreen Sitka spruce and larches turning yellow with the season. The spruce forests are tall, dense and dark, yet beneath them the ground and lower trunks remain intensely green beneath an almost luminous carpet of moss. There is something enchanting about this landscape, as though it belongs in an old folktale.

Between these mature forests lie clear-felled areas and open bogs where the grass grows high enough to conceal even a small deer. In other places, newly planted woodland is beginning to take shape. It is a beautiful landscape, maybe one of the most beautiful places I have ever hunted.

Wicklow in Ireland is renowned for its sika deer. They thrive in this landscape, something reflected both in their numbers and in the quality of the animals found here. Some exceptional stags roam these forests. Eight-point antlers are common on a good stag, ten-pointers are seen too, and medal-class animals are by no means unusual.

Sika are relatively small deer, rarely standing much more than a metre at the shoulder. But what they lack in size, they make up for in toughness and intelligence. They are famously alert and present a serious challenge to any hunter attempting to stalk them. With exceptional hearing and an equally impressive sense of smell, getting within range requires a good plan, careful stalking and, inevitably, a little luck. Combine those qualities with the mysterious forests they inhabit, and it is easy to understand why sika have earned the nickname “the black ghost.” For years, I had dreamed of stalking these shadows of the forest.

Into the Sika Forest

The evening is still young when we set out on a short stalk on foot. We follow a track bordered by spruce of varying heights, interrupted occasionally by small openings. Within five minutes, we spot our first deer – a hind. Her season does not begin until the following day, but a young stag is moving alongside her. She has already detected us, and the moment she gives her sharp warning whistle, both animals disappear.

We continue down towards a high seat positioned at the edge of a stand of mature spruce. The forest surrounds the area like a dark wall, concealing anything moving between the trunks. The ground around the seat was clear-felled a few years ago, and young trees are now beginning to reclaim the open space. It is an ideal place for deer to feel secure as they feed and move between areas of cover.

It does not take long before a hind steps into the open and begins feeding directly behind us. But there is something else moving inside the dark shadows of the Sitka spruce. We can hear it – perhaps antlers rubbing against a tree, perhaps something scraping the forest floor – but the dense woodland muffles the sound, making it impossible to tell for certain. It continues for some time, repeatedly breaking the evening silence and keeping us alert as we wait.

Daylight is fading quickly now, and there is little shooting light left when movement at the upper edge of the clear-fell catches my guide’s attention. I am looking in the opposite direction when I suddenly hear him whisper, “Big sika stag.”

He has already lifted the rifle without making a sound. He passes it to me and points towards the place where he saw the animal. There is no doubt about it.

The stag has emerged from the forest and is already halfway towards us. He is coming directly towards the high seat with purpose, cleverly using the scattered young trees to remain concealed as he approaches. But now he is close. At just 35 metres, he stops. Through the branches we can make out a tall, coal-black figure staring directly towards us. His neck is heavy, and the markings on his face give him an almost confrontational expression.

“Can you take the shot?” my guide whispers. It is obvious that we are unlikely to get a better opportunity. It is now or never.The rifle is steady. I settle the crosshairs low on the broad neck and squeeze the trigger. At the shot, we see his antlers drop straight down. Then everything is silent again.

My First Sika Stag

We remain in the high seat, watching through the binoculars for any sign of movement. My guide’s dog waits beneath us, an experienced tracking dog that already seems to understand what has happened. The tension makes the minutes feel far longer than they really are before we finally climb down to investigate.

The dog is eager. She has already picked up the stag’s scent and associates the shot with fallen game. She leads us towards the place where he went down. The vegetation is high, but two pale antler tips protruding above it reveal his position.

There he is. We walk over to the stag lying motionless in the grass, and only then do I finally allow the tension to leave me. In its place comes the excitement of taking my first sika stag. For a moment, time seems to stop as I take in the animal in front of me. Eight points. Scars across his ears. A stag that has clearly fought his share of battles and lived through several seasons.

A magnificent animal. What a way to begin the trip. An eight-pointer on the first day could certainly be called hunting luck, but there is more to it than that. It is also the result of careful deer management. The ground is managed closely, and those responsible for it know the mature stags, where they tend to hold and which parts of the forest they use. My guide tells me this particular stag was old and probably beginning to decline.

Anything that happens during the rest of the trip will almost feel like a bonus. Whatever the coming days bring, the hunt is already a success for me. Even if we do not see so much as another hair of a sika deer, I will be more than satisfied. This is already far more than I had dared to hope for. I feel nothing but gratitude towards the forest and towards my guide for making the experience possible.

A Morning Stalk Through the Sitka Spruce

The following day begins early. The first hint of morning light is only just appearing when we park the vehicle and start up a trail between towering Sitka spruce. Shadows stretch long and dark beneath the trees. Almost as soon as we take our first steps, we hear the warning whistle of a hind that lives somewhere nearby as she moves away through the forest.

The woodland is almost eerily quiet. Deep green shadows and twisted, moss-covered branches give the place an otherworldly quality. The dog follows silently while we move at a slow, steady pace, concentrating on making as little noise as possible. Do not break a twig. Near the end of the trail, my guide suddenly stops. By the time he whispers, “Stag,” the shooting sticks are already out and the rifle is ready. “98 metres.” The stag is standing at the edge of a clearing. He has stopped and is looking in our direction. The wind is in our favour, so we remain completely still. He does not appear alarmed. When he begins walking calmly again, I follow him through the scope. Halfway across the clearing, my guide whistles.

The stag stops mid-step. I squeeze the trigger slowly. We hear the bullet strike, and the stag spins 180 degrees before racing at full speed down the steep hillside and disappearing into the darkness of the forest. “Good shot.” “Lungs,” I reply. “Yes. I saw the exit. He’ll be down.”

Following the Track

We give the stag some time before beginning the follow-up, with the dog ready on the leash. When we reach the place where he was standing, she immediately marks the scent and turns sharply through 90 degrees onto the track. Nose to the ground, she pulls eagerly down the steep forest slope.

We are perhaps 50 metres from where the shot was taken when she suddenly raises her head and her tail begins to move. There, among the shadows beneath the tall spruce, lies the stag – black and motionless against the green moss and muted stillness of the forest.

He is a good six-pointer, younger than the old stag from the previous evening, but an incredibly beautiful animal. Lying there on the moss-covered forest floor with the huge spruce towering above him, almost enclosing him, it is easy to understand how the sika earned its nickname. There is something about these deer that commands respect.

The route out is steep. We cut down through the forest, passing small streams that break the silence as they wind through the peat. Here and there, a yellow larch covers the forest floor in fallen needles, while the remaining leaves glow in shades of gold and orange. It is one of those scenes that fixes itself permanently in the memory. The day is still young when we leave the stag near the collection point. Rain begins to fall as we follow a forest road towards another area.

When the Stalk Matters More Than the Shot

We pass an enormous rutting stand that must have been used for many years. Not far beyond it, we encounter another stag, a young spike. He is close, but well protected by the cover. I am already on the shooting sticks and hoping for an opportunity, but fortune is on his side. Spruce branches conceal him, and he slips away. As he leaves, a hind rises from cover. She too is standing among the branches. I hope she will take one step forward, but instead she settles down again, completely unaware that we are there.

We begin moving as quietly as possible. The wet ground makes every footstep something to consider as we follow the edge of the clearing where we last saw her. Slowly. Silently. I even become conscious of my breathing. The stillness feels almost like a vacuum, until the only sound I can hear is my own heartbeat.

The hind is still there. Between the uneven ground and tall grass, we can barely see her. We are almost at the top when she suddenly stands. We immediately drop down behind tussocks of grass and nearby trees. She is only ten metres away. I lift the rifle as slowly as I can. Just as I find support and prepare myself, our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. Then she is gone.

What an encounter. Getting that close to a wild animal is something I value enormously. There was no shot, but this stalk has already earned its place among my favourite hunting memories. My guide feels the same excitement as we make our way back towards the vehicle. It has already been a memorable day, and there is something particularly rewarding about sharing it with hunters who see things in the same way, people who understand that hunting is not always about pulling the trigger. Sometimes the experience itself is enough.

Another Black Ghost Appears

We continue across another hillside, where clear-felled areas break up younger stands of spruce, perfect sika country. From here, our binoculars allow us to cover large areas, and the landscape is spectacular. We spot several deer in the distance, but none are currently within the ground we are able to hunt.

Eventually, we descend again and drive to our final position for the evening. Here, we will wait until darkness falls. I am looking out across the field when my guide suddenly grabs the rifle. “Stag,” he whispers.

I turn around. At the bottom corner of the field, a black shape has appeared. The stag is moving directly across the open ground towards us. A large oak blocks our view, so we reposition quickly and quietly to find a better angle. He stops just 50 metres away. He has moved quickly and purposefully across the ground, but fortunately the oak has already lost most of its leaves. I find a clear opening between the branches. “If you can take him, take the shot,” my guide whispers. I can. At the shot, the stag leaps high into the air, turns and races across the field. At around 100 metres, he begins to falter. He turns, makes his final few movements and comes to rest at the edge of the field.

He is a small six-pointer. His coal-black coat makes the pale antlers stand out almost like a crown. An exceptionally beautiful animal. With their strength, sharp senses and ability to move almost silently through the terrain they favour, seeing sika like this is something I will never forget. The trip has already exceeded every expectation and we still have one final day.

One Last Evening in Wicklow

On my final evening, we return to a high seat on the edge of the great, dark forests. We follow a small stream down the hillside between tall, dense trees, with the sound of running water providing the only break in the silence. Every so often, we stop and glass the surroundings for deer, but so far there is no movement. The high seat stands at the edge of an enormous clear-fell. Around it rises dense, dark-green spruce forest, broken by areas of open bog that offer excellent opportunities to spot deer coming out to feed. The dog settles quietly beneath the seat, and we have barely taken our places before the first animals appear.

A hind and calf cross the clearing below us before disappearing into the forest on the opposite side. Another hind moves towards them, while a third feeds farther out in the open, almost completely concealed by the tall bog grass. It is a promising start to the evening. Now we simply need to wait for an opportunity. Before long, a young hind runs into the clearing with a young spike stag close behind. She is in season, and he is following her enthusiastically, barely giving her a moment’s peace. They do not remain visible for long before disappearing towards the bottom of the clearing.

We stay ready. A few minutes later, they emerge again along the same route. “They’ll follow the same line back up,” my guide whispers. “When they reach that point, I’ll whistle and stop him. Be ready.” I follow the stag through the scope as he moves quickly after the hind along the edge of the clearing. He's at 140 metres. My guide whistles. The stag stops, raises his head and looks towards us. Tall bog grass conceals part of his body, but I have a clear opportunity. I breathe steadily and feel the light trigger beneath my finger. The bullet strikes. The hind runs into the forest, calling for her companion. But he remains behind.

The Whistle of the Sika Stag

Evening settles over Wicklow, and gradually we begin to hear the calls of several sika stags from the surrounding forests. Their rutting calls are high, almost flute-like whistles, a sound unlike anything else. Simply sitting here at sunset, surrounded by the shadows of the Sitka spruce while those strange calls drift from the forests around us, is an experience in itself.

Just before we decide to call it a day, a large dog fox emerges into the clearing. Getting an opportunity is difficult as he slips through the tall bog grass, but eventually he makes a mistake. Four days of stalking have resulted in four sika deer. We have seen many more and I have watched several through the scope without ever having the opportunity to shoot. To have taken four of these elusive deer – including an old eight-point stag – feels almost unbelievable.

It has taken a combination of luck, careful planning and excellent guiding from someone who understands both the terrain and the deer. Just as importantly, years of thoughtful deer management have made a hunting experience like this possible. Hand on heart, I can say that this has been one of the most remarkable hunting adventures I have ever experienced. The landscape is among the most beautiful I have seen, and stalking through it brings you closer to the wild character of the place in a way few other experiences can. You do not simply hunt Wicklow; for a few days, you become immersed in it. The sika deer – elusive, watchful and moving like shadows between the trees – has earned a legendary place in my memories. I leave Ireland with a deep sense of gratitude for everything I have experienced here. It is a hunting memory I know I will carry with me for the rest of my life and I know that one day, I will return.