Richmond Park is an eerie place at this time of year. It’s not just that it’s the deer rutting season, when huge stags fight over their harems, charging heavily about the misty grassland and bellowing as they go. It’s also the herds of photographers looming out of that mist, as strange as the prehistoric cries of the deer. Deer rutting is one of the most spectacular sights of autumn, and if you’re an amateur wildlife photographer like me, it’s hard to resist the attraction of rising early to photograph a 200kg monster roaring into the dawn.
I did just that last week, pedalling my way to the park in the morning gloaming, tripod on my back and a bag full of camera batteries. Shortly after I arrived, I heard my first stag. It was still too dark and the mist too thick to make out anything other than a collection of jaggedy shapes in the distance, so I crept closer over the soggy grass, and peered through my long lens. Sure enough, there was a tremendous beast, stalking around a collection of does, his antlers the size of a sapling. But not all the shapes were deer. Surrounding the animals was a second herd of men wearing camouflage and clutching long lenses.
These photographers were creeping closer and closer to the animals. I must have been about 80 metres away from the herd, and that felt close enough. These men — and they were all men — can’t have been more than 20 metres away. Some were even closer. I had come for the stags, but I ended up being fascinated by the way the need for the perfect photo meant these snappers were quite happy to put themselves in harm’s way: not only are stags heavy, they’re also fast and can move at 40 miles an hour.
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