gcbailey
AH veteran
I debated about posting this here, but since there are several pages about Romania and Europe hunting, I thought I would contribute. I have been living in Romania this year at the behest of the U.S. Army. As such, this has provided ample opportunity to hunt some of Europe's finest game. In February, I went pheasant hunting. In May and June, I hunted roebuck. This past weekend, I hunted red stag and chamois.
Before I get into the hunt, I feel it necessary to talk briefly about the people of Romania. Romanians are very warm, friendly, and welcoming. Though many do not speak English, Google translate helps when getting around. Trying to learn at least a few simple phrases goes a long way, however, and they are usually thrilled to see an American attempt their language, even if the pronunciation of words is all wonky. Romanian food is good- in the larger cities you can get pretty much any cuisine. The smaller towns have more traditional food consisting of some type of chicken or pork. Meech is a common dish that is a type of pork sausage, and is delicious. Pizza can be found almost anywhere, and it is usually brick oven style and delicious. They seem to not like spicy foods, and often times spicy ketchup is about all that is offered to give your food a "kick". Palinka is the national drink, made from various fermented fruits, including pear, apricot, grape, and plum. It's the Romanian version of moonshine, and the quality of the drink directly corresponds with the recipe of the person who made it. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's gasoline.
Bucharest has some great monuments, but it is a madhouse to drive through. In fact, driving almost anywhere in Romania is a daunting task. Flying in and out of the Henri Coanda International Airport is surprisingly easy, but luggage does get lost frequently, usually for day. Since I live here, and am working for the U.S. government, I was unable to bring my personal firearms, so I cannot say how easy it is to transport your own firearms through customs.
It is always awkward when you enter a room of other hunters you don't know, who will be your hunting partners. I always kinda feel like a duck out of water. To make things even more interesting, the other hunters now were Romanian. Some spoke English and some didn't, but as the wine and whiskey began to flow, we all began to intermingle and soon were speaking the same language- the language of firearms and hunting. They began to talk of their favorite hunts. Although I didn't understand every word they said, words like "Beretta" "Blaser" "Big" "Boom!" and others, and seeing the excitement in their eyes, reading their motions as they pointed an imaginary gun- and I could relive the experience with them. Two had been to Africa and we shared photos of our favorite animals. By the next morning, we felt like we were old friends. There was just one more hurdle. I knew that many Europeans dress up for their hunting excursions. I had asked Catalin if there was a dress code, but he told me to "just wear something comfortable." Since I had limited clothing, I pieced a set together. Kevin was in the same boat. When we came downstairs for breakfast, we felt supremely under dressed. There were men wearing hunting breeks, shooting socks, vests, and silk neckties. In my tan shirt, tan pants, and work boots, I looked homeless by comparison. What we lacked in fashion, we made up for in performance. I grew up bird hunting and am more comfortable behind a shotgun than any other firearm. Fortunately, the boys from Texas and Georgia didn't let their people down and we held our own on the field. In the course of two days, a combined 10 hunters had claimed over 210 birds! It was a great way to get integrated into Romanian hunting.
Catalin took the roebuck for processing. I have heard conflicting accounts, but apparently, when you hunt an animal in Romania, you must submit a sample of the meat to a veterinary clinic to test for diseases. Romania recently had a terrible case of swine fever that decimated both its wild boar and domestic pig population. The government also requires that they measure the horns of animals taken from the field. I am not sure what the purpose of this is, but with these two requirements, Catalin suggested it made more sense for him to do it, since he knew the process. Once the horns had been measured and the meat declared fit for consumption, Catalin brought me the entire carcass of the roebuck, minus hair and entrails. I had befriended my neighbor, and offered them the roebuck, as I did not have a freezer and I was not going to be able to eat an entire deer by myself without one. I took the roebuck to their home and my neighbors wife wasted no time in wielding a hatchet to quarter it out. It was a great time and I enjoyed seeing how Romanians prep their food.
We had been sitting for about an hour, when Catalin heard a stag bugle to our right. Not knowing what a stag bugle sounded like, I took the sound for a cow and hadn't paid it any attention. Catalin nudged my shoulder and motioned for me to follow him. We walked for roughly 300 yards when the stag bugled again and this time, I knew it was no cow. We edged around some trees to see the bull looking right us just a little over 100 yards away. Catalin set up the shooting sticks and I lined up the crosshairs with the center of the stag's chest. I touched the trigger, and the rifle roared to life. The 300 Win Mag recoil is manageable, but I jumped more than my usual .308 or .243. As I steadied the rifle back on the sticks, I couldn't see the stag. I turned to Catalin and asked which way it was running. He smiled and said, "It is finished." I wasn't sure what he meant. I asked him, "it is not running?" He shook his head. He started to walk towards where the stag had been and I followed. At 110 yards, he stopped and looked down. There was the stag, lying where he had been standing. The bullet had entered his chest and pierced right through the heart- a perfect shot. We left to enlist some help and get a trailer. It was dark when we returned. We loaded the stag up and took it to Catalin's parents' home to clean it.
My parents and grandparents are from the Appalachian mountains in Tennessee. I've climbed those, but the Appalachian mountains aren't MOUNTAINS. They are more like large sloped hills. Those of you from Colorado or Montana, or other mountainous areas, won't think much of climbing 8,366 feet. I was dead within the first half mile. I died again at 3/4 of a mile. Again at 1 mile. And again and again. I died the whole way up the mountain. I was involved in a serious car accident in 2004 that has left my hip, well, unreliable. From time to time, it decides it is tired of carrying me and seizes up. My knees aren't what they used to be either. 20 years in the Army will do that to you. Anyway, I say all that because my legs STILL hurt. I haven't felt like such a little bitch in quite some time. The hiking sticks were a godsend. My knees were on fire. My hip felt like the only thing keeping it attached to me was the fact that it was encased in my skin. I trembled with each step. The walking sticks helped me balance and use my upper body strength to lift my legs up to the next rock to climb. Within the first half mile, I was drenched in sweat. I was having a hard time breathing and took a short break to catch my breath and drink water. There were fresh water springs coming out and down the mountain. It was Ice cold and delicious, and I think that is the only thing that kept me going. In our trip, I consumed over 9 liters of water. Catalin drank his half liter bottle and filled it up only once! There are vipers in Romania, but I as told it is very rare to see one. As I struggled up the mountain, right in our path was a snake I had never seen before. I pulled out my phone and was taking photos, when Catalin's son grabbed my shoulder. I looked back at him and asked : "Is it venomous?" "Yes, if you are bitten, there is nothing to be done for you." I knew I was out of striking distance, but couldn't help but think what might happen if the snake had been behind a rock as we climbed. Catalin dispatched the snake with a few brisk and well aimed blows to the head, then took his hiking stick and threw it off the side of the mountain.
After about 3 hours, we reached base camp, which was a little shack built by hunters for hunters. I dropped my pack and sat on the ground and rubbed my knees. Catalin put his pack in the shack, then looked at me and said "Ready?" Bracing the sticks, I pulled myself up and we started out for chamois. When the ground was flat, I was able to easily keep a good pace, but as soon as the ground went up, even one degree, my stride dwindled to baby steps.
We would stop periodically to glass for chamois and those brief respites felt AMAZING. I would stretch my legs out and sit and just watch for movement through my binoculars. At our second stop, Catalin found a chamois about 580 yards across a great ravine. It was much farther than I felt comfortable shooting, especially with a rifle I was unfamiliar with. Catalin shrugged and said that even if I shot him, the way he was perched on the side of the mountain, he would fall down the ravine and might not even be recoverable. We moved on. Several times we stopped, and several times we saw chamois. They were incredibly difficult for me to spot and Catalin's son would usually have to talk me on to their location so I could see them through binoculars. At this point, it was getting late in the day. The sun had already gone behind the mountain peak which loomed a hundred feet above us. There were 7 or 8 chamois on two sides of us. We crouched behind a large group of boulders and glassed. They were in the open and too far for us to be able to stalk to without being seen. There was one that Catalin noticed was grazing its way down towards us. We watched and waited. It continued downwards towards us and Catalin told me to get into position. I leaned against the lower part of a boulder and opened the bipod legs attached to the rifle. I was shooting upwards at around 40 degrees, as best as I can guess. It was pretty steep. The chamois stopped behind a rock to graze. It was 295 yards away. As soon as it raised its head, I asked Catalin "Good to shoot?" He gave me the go ahead and I aimed for the shoulder. The report echoed down the mountain. The chamois bucked, then fell down from the rock. I watched through the scope where the chamois had fallen. There was no movement. It took me over 30 minutes to make the climb to it. Pain shot through my knees and left hip with every step. My left leg was becoming nearly useless. Maybe I am being melodramatic. I have been in far worse pain in my life, but not voluntarily. I had actually asked for this! We quartered it out quickly then split the load between the three of us. It was nearly dark by the time we got back to base camp. We had a meal of tuna salad, bread, and salami. We ate in total silence.
Catalin asked me, "Do you want to stay here for the night and go down tomorrow, or do you want to go down tonight?" I have always been someone who is willing to suffer upfront for repose later. The sooner you get the job over with, the sooner you can rest or focus on something else. That mindset has served me well in the Army. I wasn't sure how my knees and hip would be in the morning. They weren't much good now, but I knew they were still working for the time being. I opted to go ahead and make the trek down. We set out in the pitch black night for the 2.5 hour hike back down the mountain. Travelling downhill has its own perils, but for me it was much easier to at least work a fresh muscle group. Catalin's son led the way, with me behind, and Catalin in the rear. We had been going for about an hour when Catalin's son suddenly threw his head to the right, shining his flashlight and told me to shine mine. I turned my head, and my headlamp illuminated a brown bear, only 50 yards away, sitting and watching us. Catalin's son began to yell and clap. The bear ran off just as Catalin came up with the rifle. I don't know much of anything about bears and have no idea if this one was posing a threat or was just curious. I have no idea how Catalin's son even knew it was there. It was so dark, I couldn't see three feet in front of me without a flashlight. I know that if the bear had attacked, I didn't have it in me to run. I'd have been the easiest snack the bear had ever had. The rest of the trip was uneventful. When we got to the truck, I pulled myself in to the passenger seat. I was covered from head to toe in sweat. Two shots resulted in two fantastic European trophies in two days. It was a hunt I will never forget- and one I'm not likely to repeat.
Romania doesn't have a gun culture like we do in the U.S., but there are hunters and they are proud to be that. Of course, they have their anti-hunters too, but my experience with them has been surprisingly pleasant. I was having breakfast with a man I have come to know here, and we were both in hunting clothes. A man approached who heard me talking about hunting and asked "Why do you shoot animals?" His demeanor was not threatening and the way he asked seemed like genuine curiosity. I explained my reasons, which he didn't agree with, but rather than get angry or threaten me, he merely shrugged and said "I do not agree that this is right." He went and sat back down with his wife. No matter where we go, we are being watched and noticed. I think it is important that we show respect to the animals that we hunt and the people that we encounter, no matter where in the world we find ourselves.
Before I get into the hunt, I feel it necessary to talk briefly about the people of Romania. Romanians are very warm, friendly, and welcoming. Though many do not speak English, Google translate helps when getting around. Trying to learn at least a few simple phrases goes a long way, however, and they are usually thrilled to see an American attempt their language, even if the pronunciation of words is all wonky. Romanian food is good- in the larger cities you can get pretty much any cuisine. The smaller towns have more traditional food consisting of some type of chicken or pork. Meech is a common dish that is a type of pork sausage, and is delicious. Pizza can be found almost anywhere, and it is usually brick oven style and delicious. They seem to not like spicy foods, and often times spicy ketchup is about all that is offered to give your food a "kick". Palinka is the national drink, made from various fermented fruits, including pear, apricot, grape, and plum. It's the Romanian version of moonshine, and the quality of the drink directly corresponds with the recipe of the person who made it. Sometimes it's great, sometimes it's gasoline.
Bucharest has some great monuments, but it is a madhouse to drive through. In fact, driving almost anywhere in Romania is a daunting task. Flying in and out of the Henri Coanda International Airport is surprisingly easy, but luggage does get lost frequently, usually for day. Since I live here, and am working for the U.S. government, I was unable to bring my personal firearms, so I cannot say how easy it is to transport your own firearms through customs.
PHEASANT
Those of you who read my hunt report on my African safari know that I like to plan my hunts out. All the years of planning and preparation I spent in anticipation of Africa went out the window. If Africa was an exercise in planning and preparation, Romania was an exercise in haphazard preparation and throwing caution to the wind. I arrived in Romania with what I could carry- 2 duffel bags of Army gear, and a backpack with my civilian clothes. I didn't have my hunting pack. I had one pair of hunting clothes (suitable for Southeast Georgia), my favorite hunting hat, and binoculars. That's as far as my hunting equipment went. Meager to say the least. There was another American contractor, Kevin, in the town I was living. Being one of only two Americans, I reached out to him to meet up. We had lunch and he offered to show me around and fill me in on the local customs, etc. As we were walking around town, I learned that he rented an apartment above a business. The owner provided pheasant, roebuck, and boar hunts. I immediately told him I wanted to meet his landlord. He took me to his place and introduced me to Catalin. I wasted no time in talking about hunting to Catalin and if he had any available spots for pheasant hunting, which was still in season. We both got invited to the final hunt of the season in February. Catalin's lodge is not far from where I was living, so on Friday evening 22 February, Kevin and I drove over the lodge to meet the other hunters, have dinner, and get ready to hunt the following morning.It is always awkward when you enter a room of other hunters you don't know, who will be your hunting partners. I always kinda feel like a duck out of water. To make things even more interesting, the other hunters now were Romanian. Some spoke English and some didn't, but as the wine and whiskey began to flow, we all began to intermingle and soon were speaking the same language- the language of firearms and hunting. They began to talk of their favorite hunts. Although I didn't understand every word they said, words like "Beretta" "Blaser" "Big" "Boom!" and others, and seeing the excitement in their eyes, reading their motions as they pointed an imaginary gun- and I could relive the experience with them. Two had been to Africa and we shared photos of our favorite animals. By the next morning, we felt like we were old friends. There was just one more hurdle. I knew that many Europeans dress up for their hunting excursions. I had asked Catalin if there was a dress code, but he told me to "just wear something comfortable." Since I had limited clothing, I pieced a set together. Kevin was in the same boat. When we came downstairs for breakfast, we felt supremely under dressed. There were men wearing hunting breeks, shooting socks, vests, and silk neckties. In my tan shirt, tan pants, and work boots, I looked homeless by comparison. What we lacked in fashion, we made up for in performance. I grew up bird hunting and am more comfortable behind a shotgun than any other firearm. Fortunately, the boys from Texas and Georgia didn't let their people down and we held our own on the field. In the course of two days, a combined 10 hunters had claimed over 210 birds! It was a great way to get integrated into Romanian hunting.
ROEBUCK
Catalin was kind enough to allow me to borrow his personal rifle, a Krieghoff Hubertus single shot stalking rifle in .243. The hunting is pretty simple- walk around until you find the game you are looking for. The difficult part lies in the terrain. Being from Southeast Georgia, I can walk straight for days on end. Going uphill or sideways on a hill is my Achilles heel, and I got winded embarrassingly quickly. Romania gets light very early in the summer and the sun sets very late. We met at 4:30 a.m., on 11 May, to get out to the field before daybreak, which was around 5:15. Like in the U.S., you can spot and stalk or sit in a stand. I prefer the stalking method, so that's what we did. Roebuck like fairly tall grass, where they feel protected, so it is best to hunt before the fields are cut. There certainly was no shortage of roebuck. They are little and pretty deer. We found an old buck, stalked up to him within about 110 yards, and I made the shot. I was a little further back than I should have been, as I gut shot it, but he died where he stood.Catalin took the roebuck for processing. I have heard conflicting accounts, but apparently, when you hunt an animal in Romania, you must submit a sample of the meat to a veterinary clinic to test for diseases. Romania recently had a terrible case of swine fever that decimated both its wild boar and domestic pig population. The government also requires that they measure the horns of animals taken from the field. I am not sure what the purpose of this is, but with these two requirements, Catalin suggested it made more sense for him to do it, since he knew the process. Once the horns had been measured and the meat declared fit for consumption, Catalin brought me the entire carcass of the roebuck, minus hair and entrails. I had befriended my neighbor, and offered them the roebuck, as I did not have a freezer and I was not going to be able to eat an entire deer by myself without one. I took the roebuck to their home and my neighbors wife wasted no time in wielding a hatchet to quarter it out. It was a great time and I enjoyed seeing how Romanians prep their food.
RED STAG
Through Gunter Bierbaumer, my African PH, I linked up with Jorge Pinero on Facebook. Though we have never met in person, we have both hunted with Gunter at separate times in Africa and share a love for vintage double guns. Jorge is hunting in Africa with Gunter right now in fact. Jorge and I message frequently on Facebook. Jorge helps people connect with guides all around the world and advertises hunts with people he has personally hunted with in the past. When I got to Romania, I messaged Jorge and asked if he had any contacts for a hunt in Romania. He put me in touch with a Spaniard named Aitor. Aitor doesn't speak English, so with Jorge acting as translator via messages and email, I booked a combo hunt for Red Stag and Chamois. I left about midday on 26 September and made the 4.5 hour drive to a little village called Arpasu De Jos. It was just after 4:30 p.m. when I arrived. I met Aitor, his wife Cris, and Catalin, a Romanian guide from Sibiu. Catalin would take me on the hunt, as he was local. Catalin asked if I wanted to hunt that day and of course I answered "yes!" Catalin showed me to my room at the Pensiunea (basically an Air BnB), and I changed into my hunting clothes. I asked Catalin if I could verify the sights on his rifle. He told me that he thought that was a good idea and we wet out to verify the rifle. Catalin handed me a Blaser R8 in 300 Win Mag. I had never used a Blaser or a 300 Win Mag. Catalin showed me how to set the safety and disengage it, and after a couple of dry fire practices, I understood how to use it. I fired 3 shots lying on the ground, and another 3 from shooting sticks. The rifle was accurate, so we left the scope as it was, and went out to hunt. We were in the field just before 6 p.m. In the valley, the Carpathian Mountains stretched before us. It was stunnignly beautiful and serene.We had been sitting for about an hour, when Catalin heard a stag bugle to our right. Not knowing what a stag bugle sounded like, I took the sound for a cow and hadn't paid it any attention. Catalin nudged my shoulder and motioned for me to follow him. We walked for roughly 300 yards when the stag bugled again and this time, I knew it was no cow. We edged around some trees to see the bull looking right us just a little over 100 yards away. Catalin set up the shooting sticks and I lined up the crosshairs with the center of the stag's chest. I touched the trigger, and the rifle roared to life. The 300 Win Mag recoil is manageable, but I jumped more than my usual .308 or .243. As I steadied the rifle back on the sticks, I couldn't see the stag. I turned to Catalin and asked which way it was running. He smiled and said, "It is finished." I wasn't sure what he meant. I asked him, "it is not running?" He shook his head. He started to walk towards where the stag had been and I followed. At 110 yards, he stopped and looked down. There was the stag, lying where he had been standing. The bullet had entered his chest and pierced right through the heart- a perfect shot. We left to enlist some help and get a trailer. It was dark when we returned. We loaded the stag up and took it to Catalin's parents' home to clean it.
CHAMOIS
The next morning, Catalin told me he wanted to see my gear to make sure I hadn't overpacked. I had borrowed an Army rucksack and sleeping bag, and had packed a jacket, gloves, beanie, spare socks, and a CamelBak. Catalin had me empty all my gear then picked up the empty rucksack. He lifted it and let out a breath of air "Oh! It is too heavy!" I shrugged. "Yeah, Army gear sucks, but that's all I have." "I'll give you a bag." Thank goodness! He looked at my CamelBak and asked what it was. I told him it carried water. He looked doubtful. "Too heavy." I drink a LOT of water. Every day. If I am exerting myself, my water consumption triples. I told him it was habit to have water. He assured me there was water on the mountain, but I was determined to carry my CamelBak. He shrugged and said ok and then packed a half liter water bottle in his pocket. Catalin's 19 year old son came along, as he enjoyed hiking the mountains. Catalin handed me a pair of hiking sticks, each had sharp points on the ends. "I've never used hiking sticks," I told Catalin. My comment wasn't in protest, but more of a self realization that I've never climbed a mountain. Catalin said "I would recommend them" flatly. I took the poles and we began our ascent.My parents and grandparents are from the Appalachian mountains in Tennessee. I've climbed those, but the Appalachian mountains aren't MOUNTAINS. They are more like large sloped hills. Those of you from Colorado or Montana, or other mountainous areas, won't think much of climbing 8,366 feet. I was dead within the first half mile. I died again at 3/4 of a mile. Again at 1 mile. And again and again. I died the whole way up the mountain. I was involved in a serious car accident in 2004 that has left my hip, well, unreliable. From time to time, it decides it is tired of carrying me and seizes up. My knees aren't what they used to be either. 20 years in the Army will do that to you. Anyway, I say all that because my legs STILL hurt. I haven't felt like such a little bitch in quite some time. The hiking sticks were a godsend. My knees were on fire. My hip felt like the only thing keeping it attached to me was the fact that it was encased in my skin. I trembled with each step. The walking sticks helped me balance and use my upper body strength to lift my legs up to the next rock to climb. Within the first half mile, I was drenched in sweat. I was having a hard time breathing and took a short break to catch my breath and drink water. There were fresh water springs coming out and down the mountain. It was Ice cold and delicious, and I think that is the only thing that kept me going. In our trip, I consumed over 9 liters of water. Catalin drank his half liter bottle and filled it up only once! There are vipers in Romania, but I as told it is very rare to see one. As I struggled up the mountain, right in our path was a snake I had never seen before. I pulled out my phone and was taking photos, when Catalin's son grabbed my shoulder. I looked back at him and asked : "Is it venomous?" "Yes, if you are bitten, there is nothing to be done for you." I knew I was out of striking distance, but couldn't help but think what might happen if the snake had been behind a rock as we climbed. Catalin dispatched the snake with a few brisk and well aimed blows to the head, then took his hiking stick and threw it off the side of the mountain.
After about 3 hours, we reached base camp, which was a little shack built by hunters for hunters. I dropped my pack and sat on the ground and rubbed my knees. Catalin put his pack in the shack, then looked at me and said "Ready?" Bracing the sticks, I pulled myself up and we started out for chamois. When the ground was flat, I was able to easily keep a good pace, but as soon as the ground went up, even one degree, my stride dwindled to baby steps.
We would stop periodically to glass for chamois and those brief respites felt AMAZING. I would stretch my legs out and sit and just watch for movement through my binoculars. At our second stop, Catalin found a chamois about 580 yards across a great ravine. It was much farther than I felt comfortable shooting, especially with a rifle I was unfamiliar with. Catalin shrugged and said that even if I shot him, the way he was perched on the side of the mountain, he would fall down the ravine and might not even be recoverable. We moved on. Several times we stopped, and several times we saw chamois. They were incredibly difficult for me to spot and Catalin's son would usually have to talk me on to their location so I could see them through binoculars. At this point, it was getting late in the day. The sun had already gone behind the mountain peak which loomed a hundred feet above us. There were 7 or 8 chamois on two sides of us. We crouched behind a large group of boulders and glassed. They were in the open and too far for us to be able to stalk to without being seen. There was one that Catalin noticed was grazing its way down towards us. We watched and waited. It continued downwards towards us and Catalin told me to get into position. I leaned against the lower part of a boulder and opened the bipod legs attached to the rifle. I was shooting upwards at around 40 degrees, as best as I can guess. It was pretty steep. The chamois stopped behind a rock to graze. It was 295 yards away. As soon as it raised its head, I asked Catalin "Good to shoot?" He gave me the go ahead and I aimed for the shoulder. The report echoed down the mountain. The chamois bucked, then fell down from the rock. I watched through the scope where the chamois had fallen. There was no movement. It took me over 30 minutes to make the climb to it. Pain shot through my knees and left hip with every step. My left leg was becoming nearly useless. Maybe I am being melodramatic. I have been in far worse pain in my life, but not voluntarily. I had actually asked for this! We quartered it out quickly then split the load between the three of us. It was nearly dark by the time we got back to base camp. We had a meal of tuna salad, bread, and salami. We ate in total silence.
Catalin asked me, "Do you want to stay here for the night and go down tomorrow, or do you want to go down tonight?" I have always been someone who is willing to suffer upfront for repose later. The sooner you get the job over with, the sooner you can rest or focus on something else. That mindset has served me well in the Army. I wasn't sure how my knees and hip would be in the morning. They weren't much good now, but I knew they were still working for the time being. I opted to go ahead and make the trek down. We set out in the pitch black night for the 2.5 hour hike back down the mountain. Travelling downhill has its own perils, but for me it was much easier to at least work a fresh muscle group. Catalin's son led the way, with me behind, and Catalin in the rear. We had been going for about an hour when Catalin's son suddenly threw his head to the right, shining his flashlight and told me to shine mine. I turned my head, and my headlamp illuminated a brown bear, only 50 yards away, sitting and watching us. Catalin's son began to yell and clap. The bear ran off just as Catalin came up with the rifle. I don't know much of anything about bears and have no idea if this one was posing a threat or was just curious. I have no idea how Catalin's son even knew it was there. It was so dark, I couldn't see three feet in front of me without a flashlight. I know that if the bear had attacked, I didn't have it in me to run. I'd have been the easiest snack the bear had ever had. The rest of the trip was uneventful. When we got to the truck, I pulled myself in to the passenger seat. I was covered from head to toe in sweat. Two shots resulted in two fantastic European trophies in two days. It was a hunt I will never forget- and one I'm not likely to repeat.
FINAL THOUGHTS
I look back and can't help but think I have been very blessed. Hunting has connected me to people and taken me places I never imagined. My meetings are often chance encounters, but hunters generally share the same love of the outdoors, animals, and hunting that surpass time, culture, and language. It breaks down barriers when like minded people share a common interest. I first met Gunter when he responded to a Facebook post I made inquiring about hunting in Africa. I never would have imagined that 7 years later, I would be hunting with him. Never did I imagine I would count him among my friends. Catalin and I first met because of hunting. Over the past year, he too has become a friend. We get breakfast together and talk and just enjoy each other's company. We talk about raising children, hunting, politics, and whatever else the conversation leads us to. I will be pheasant hunting with him again next month. Our mutual respect for one another that has developed through hunting, gives me incredible joy. I am still a client and he is still the guide, but it becomes more than simply a business transaction.Romania doesn't have a gun culture like we do in the U.S., but there are hunters and they are proud to be that. Of course, they have their anti-hunters too, but my experience with them has been surprisingly pleasant. I was having breakfast with a man I have come to know here, and we were both in hunting clothes. A man approached who heard me talking about hunting and asked "Why do you shoot animals?" His demeanor was not threatening and the way he asked seemed like genuine curiosity. I explained my reasons, which he didn't agree with, but rather than get angry or threaten me, he merely shrugged and said "I do not agree that this is right." He went and sat back down with his wife. No matter where we go, we are being watched and noticed. I think it is important that we show respect to the animals that we hunt and the people that we encounter, no matter where in the world we find ourselves.
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