Red Deer Rut Photography: A Spectacular Morning on the Moor

I awoke that morning dreary and uninspired, the residue of the previous day’s efforts weighing heavily on me. The forecast on my phone predicted clouds and gloom—a dull, unpromising day. I had resigned myself to a lazy morning, planning to turn over and reclaim a bit more sleep. But then came an unexpected sound from the cul-de-sac, drawing me to the window. I glanced outside and was met with a surprise—the sky was clear, the light promising, a spectacular morning. The weatherman had gotten it wrong. That was all the excuse I needed. Within minutes, I was up, hastily getting dressed and packing my gear, driven by the lure of the Peak District in dawn light.

I arrived at Curbar Gap a little later than ideal, around 7:15 AM. The cold air greeted me as I stepped out of the car, the biting wind serving as a reminder of the layers I’d forgotten in my rush. Gloves, an extra jacket—all left behind, but no matter. I was too excited to let that slow me down. The sound of the rut—the deep, guttural bolving of the stags—echoed across the moor. It was a primeval call, breaking the quiet of the early morning and it quickened my pace. With my heavy camera pack slung across my shoulders, I set off towards White Edge, determined to make up for lost time.

The moor stretched out before me, bathed in the low, red light of sunrise. The landscape looked otherworldly—almost Martian—with the reds and browns of the heather, bracken, and grasses blending together under the dawn sky. My breath mingled with the wind as I climbed, the cold biting but invigorating. I could already hear the stags ahead of me, their calls carrying across the open space. Finally, I spotted one—a mature dominant male, around 6-7 years old surrounded by his harem. This was the moment I’d been waiting for.

I hunkered down behind a large rock, hidden among the heather. From my vantage point, I could not only see the stag but also six other large males scattered across the valley, each one bolving and posturing, asserting their dominance.

The focus of my attention was the big stag closest to me, his breath steaming in the cold air as he showed off his size and strength. Every so often, he would throw his head back and bellow, his breath illuminated by the sun in a show of raw power.

The interactions between the hinds were equally fascinating, though often overlooked in the drama of the rut. They moved together, sometimes huddling close, and other times scattering as the stag asserted control over his domain. One hind caught my attention as she nudged another out of the way—small, quiet gestures that spoke volumes about their social dynamics.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. A staggard, a male deer in its third year, with antlers that are starting to branch, almost hidden among the heather, was wandering toward me, unaware of my presence. I held my breath, unsure whether to move or stay still, as the young stag crept closer, his antlers still small but unmistakable. He was too close—closer than any wild animal should be—and I began to feel the nerves kick in.

But it wasn’t just the staggard that caused my unease. The big stag had noticed too. He raised his head and turned in my direction, his focus no longer on his harem but squarely on the young challenger—and perhaps me. His bellow reverberated across the moor, deep and guttural, sending a shiver down my spine. I was well-hidden, but I hadn’t expected to be this close. For a tense few moments, the big stag began to move toward the staggard, but in doing so, his path took him directly toward me. He was imposing—powerful and menacing, each step purposeful as his massive frame loomed closer.

My heart pounded as I observed the scene playing out in front of me. The wind carried his scent—earthy, wild—and with every bellow, I felt the tension rise. The staggard, oblivious to the danger he’d brought upon both of us, continued to edge closer. I knew I couldn’t afford to be caught between them, so I stood up, hoping to stop him from coming any nearer. As I did, he veered off to my right, drawing the big stag with him, their focus now on each other.

The big stag let out another thunderous bolv, and with a snort, the younger deer scampered off, knowing better than to press its luck. As the big stag followed to see him off, I could finally breathe again. The tension melted away, but the adrenaline stayed with me. I had come within arm's reach of one of nature’s wildest displays of strength, and the experience left me both exhilarated and a little shaken.

As I watched the younger stag slink away to a safe distance, I couldn’t help but smile. Once the danger had passed, he paused, almost posing for me—seemingly comfortable with my presence, as if to say, “Did you see that?” I carefully composed a portrait of him, capturing his calm confidence, while the big stag returned to his harem, reclaiming his place as the king of the moor. His victory, however, was short-lived—there were always more challengers waiting on the horizon.

After a while, the wind began to bite deeper, and the light grew dim. My hands, now numb from the cold, signalled that it was time to move. I packed up my gear and began the short hike across the moor towards Curbar Edge and the shelter of the woods beyond. The wind eased as I descended into the trees, and for a moment, I was alone, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of deer echoing through the canopy. The woods provided the quiet shelter I needed, a stark contrast to the moor’s openness and activity.

I followed the signs—footprints in the mud, flattened bracken, the unmistakable scent of deer—and eventually found myself close to another stag. He was tossing bracken into the air, his antlers catching the sunlight as he moved on a steep bank above me. Slowly, I crept closer, camera ready, but the terrain was thick with trees and mossy rocks, making it difficult to find a clear shot. Eventually, I found a break in the trees and fired off a few frames—not perfect, but a record of the encounter, nonetheless. It was more of an opportunistic capture than a carefully composed shot, but satisfying all the same.

It had been a morning full of surprises. From the Martian red dawn on the moor to the close encounters with stags and the quieter moments of observation in the woods, it was one of those rare, perfect mornings. Hemingway once wrote about the beauty of simple moments, of letting life unfold in its own time and I couldn’t help but feel a connection to that idea as I packed away my camera.

The drive home was a quiet one, the adrenaline of the morning slowly fading. I knew I’d be back soon—there were always more stories to capture, more fleeting moments to preserve. But for now, I was content, the memories of the rut and the wild beauty of the Peak District fresh in my mind.