THE REINDEER AND ITS PURSUIT 
stopped at the head of the valley and lay down. But when some chance of 
a stalk seemed possible the deer got one of their sudden panics and galloped 
away over the mountains right out of sight. In the night heavy snow fell, 
and all the mountains were wreathed in snow; but September 5 broke 
beautifully fine, and we ascended to the summit of the range at dawn, just 
as the sun rose and bathed all the landscape in lovely pink lights. 
We had hardly reached the top when we encountered the fresh spoor 
of six bucks, and this we followed down the hill and back towards the hut. 
We had not gone far when I saw the last of the herd going slowly round a 
mass of rocks on the steep hillside, so, leaving my good hunter, Anders 
Grothe, I ran parallel along the hill and, descending by a contour, cut them 
off. Perhaps the noise I had made in the snow had alarmed them. At any 
rate, my first view of the herd was trotting slowly across my front at about 
100 yards’ distance. The best buck, a beast of about six years old, was 
in front, and I killed him dead as he ran. The others then doubled, and 
ascending the hill about 200 yards away gave me a second chance. At 
the third shot the leading buck wavered and left the others, and seeing that 
I had hit it I did not fire again. 
Anders now joined me, and we proceeded to track the wounded buck 
for several miles without success, for it eventually settled into a long, 
businesslike trot, which proved that the wound was only a superficial one. 
We then returned to the stag I had killed and, cutting it up, carried the 
various portions to the hut. The head was not a good one, but being the 
first I kept it until I should get something better. 
On September 7 we had another long march up Rankibotn over terribly 
rough ground. Here all the rocks are pointed on their upper surface and 
when covered with snow the leg slips off the point and plunges in hollows 
at every step. This made walking no little toil. Arriving at the end of the 
valley after four hours of hard work we suddenly came on the spoor of 
a large buck. It was quite fresh, so we followed it up Grohinar for more 
than an hour, when we suddenly came face to face with our quarry at about 
150 yards. Fortunately he stood still and did not bolt. My first shot — 
taken in too much of a hurry — was a clean miss, but just as he moved 
to go I got in a second, which, hitting him in the kidneys, killed him dead 
on the spot. Not a good shot, but a very lucky one. 
This was the first adult stag I had seen or shot, but his head, thin and 
disappointing, was evidently that of an old animal on the decline. We buried 
the carcass under heavy rocks to preserve it from wolverines, which were 
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