Waiting for the Roar: Ireland's Native Red Deer Rut in Killarney

Every October, Killarney National Park becomes the focus for wildlife photographers hoping to capture the Red Deer rut. It’s one of Ireland’s most photographed natural events and one I’ve covered many times over the years. My last visit was in 2022, so while travelling with Diarmuid and Patrick in Dingle this year, I decided it was time to return.

We arrived the evening before and found a nearby hotel to stop in for a drink before settling in for the night. Walking into the bar, we were met with a scene we didn’t expect — a room packed with what looked like over two hundred elderly women. For a split second, we thought we’d walked into some sort of witches’ gathering, but it turned out to be an annual bridge tournament. It made for a funny moment and a few jokes over a pint before heading to bed.

The alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. Sunrise wasn’t until 8 a.m., but experience has shown that getting on location early is essential. In wildlife photography, being in position before the first light is one of the few factors you can control.

As soon as we entered the park, I expected to hear the deep bellows of stags echoing through the valleys. It’s a sound that defines the season — powerful, primal, and unmistakable. But the park was quiet. Only a handful of distant calls broke through the still air. It felt strange to stand in a place that’s normally alive with sound and hear almost nothing.

We made our way to the lakeside vantage point that has often delivered good results in past years. The light was low and flat, and visibility was poor. I waited, scanning the treeline for any movement. Eventually, a single stag appeared far in the distance, too far for any meaningful shot. With low light and distance working against me, I knew it wouldn’t be worth pressing the shutter.

We decided to move further into the park, to an area where the deer density is usually higher. Even there, the bellows were faint and infrequent. Eventually, I spotted one stag with a group of hinds. The scene had potential, but the light was still poor, forcing me to raise the ISO to 6400. It wasn’t ideal, but it allowed me to capture a few frames that at least documented the conditions and behaviour.

I also filmed short video clips, but even the camera struggled to focus. Low light can push autofocus systems to their limits, and that morning was a clear case of that. Wildlife photography often tests patience and technical understanding in equal measure, and this was one of those mornings.

After spending time with the stag, I moved deeper into the park. In previous years, this section would be full of deer — groups of hinds grazing and rival males squaring off. It’s where I’ve photographed antler clashes in the past. This time, it was empty. I crossed several open fields without seeing a single animal.

On my way back, I met a few other photographers. Even though I was wearing full camouflage, a few recognised me and stopped to chat. Everyone shared the same story — very little activity, very few bellows, and minimal movement.

I returned to the lakeside area once more, hoping the deer might have shifted down from the higher ground as the morning progressed. For the next thirty minutes, I neither saw nor heard any movement. The stillness was absolute.

I called Diarmuid to check how he was getting on. He said he had “banger shots,” but as it turned out, his experience was the same — quiet and slow. At that point, I decided to shift focus from wildlife to landscapes.

Autumn in Killarney always provides strong visual opportunities. The colours were at their peak — deep reds, golden yellows, and burnt oranges across the trees. I found two trees that caught my attention. One was a vivid orange, full of life. The other was older, past its best, yet it still stood with shape and texture that made for a strong composition. Both had presence, but in very different ways.

I composed shots of both, working with the available soft light. Further along the path, another tree lined up well with a passing jarvey, and I took a few frames there too. Even though the morning hadn’t delivered the wildlife spectacle I had hoped for, these landscape scenes gave the trip a sense of purpose.

Not long after, I met back up with Diarmuid and Patrick. Their reports were much the same — a lot of walking and very little to show for it. As we talked, we spotted movement in the woods nearby. A few Sika deer were feeding among the trees. They don’t have the same visual impact as the native Red Deer, but they were a welcome sight. We spent a short while photographing them before calling it a day.

The trip didn’t go as planned, but that’s the reality of field photography. Conditions and subjects rarely align perfectly, and some days just unfold that way. You can prepare, scout, and plan, but nature ultimately decides the pace.

When the main subject doesn’t appear, it’s about how you adapt. Using time to focus on composition, light, and secondary subjects can still make the outing worthwhile. Photography in unpredictable environments builds a mindset that values observation over control.

As I packed up, I looked out across the park one last time. The mist was lifting, the colours were rich, and the valley was still quiet. There were no antler clashes or calls echoing through the hills, just calm light over the landscape. Some photographers might see that as a disappointment, but I saw it as another part of the ongoing process — not every trip produces dramatic moments, but each one adds to your understanding of the landscape and the behaviour that shapes it.

Even without the action, Killarney still delivered in its own way. The deer were distant, but the park itself was alive with colour and atmosphere. Wildlife photography often looks like a pursuit of moments, but more often it’s a practice of patience and decision-making — knowing when to wait, when to move, and when to shift your focus entirely.

That morning in Killarney was one of those slower days, but it still had value. The images I came away with might not show fierce rutting or clashing antlers, but they show the quieter side of the season — the calm between the action, and the beauty that’s always there if you stay observant long enough to notice it.