Older is better. Short story of a stalk
How culling can be as rewarding as a trophy hunt
Mountain Range: Pyrenees
Area: Rivas de Freser
Altitude: 1001 - 1500
Organizer: Parques Nacionales
Jose Maria Losa
After spending the night in Riva de Freser at Hotel Els caçadors—a place where not only do you eat very well, but where peace and quiet reign and no one bats an eye whether you’re carrying firearms or not—I met the rangers at 7 in the morning. We headed out for the customary breakfast while the first drops of rain began to fall, promising a day far from ideal for hunting.
Nevertheless, off we went to the upper part of Rivas de Freser and began our stalk. We were restricted to one area, since the other was being hunted by a magíster—I won’t mention his name, as I don’t know whether he’d like to be named or not.
We began the stalk, and after a while we spotted what could have been the first potential target of the day. I considered all the challenges: the steep slope, the rain, the little valley with a stream running through it... I accounted for everything except—classic rookie mistake—the wind. I took the shot. The shot itself was perfect, but it veered to my left, precisely where the wind was gusting. That ruined the hit.
We continued hunting.
I had another chance to see some selective animals. One of them I truly loved—a creature with a single horn—but I didn’t get a chance to shoot. We passed through a kind of clearing between woods where they sprinted across like racehorses, and it was impossible to get into a stable shooting position.
Eventually, we kept stalking until we reached an area where we found a mangy fox. That kept us busy for a while, as we had to request special permission from the reserve’s management to take it down. Imagine that—you’re out with two rangers and still need official clearance to shoot a fox with mange.
I shot the fox, we retrieved it, and it was sent to the University of Barcelona for study.
Just then, we heard a faint sound—I caught a flicker of movement. Without thinking, I dropped flat onto my stomach, set up the Harris bipod, and peered ahead. At that very moment, the ranger, without even pausing, said: “Shoot.” And I did. I brought it down, and just before lunch, our stalk came to a close.
I was genuinely pleased with the animal I had stalked—it was, without a doubt, a true selective. Then we headed off to eat with the rangers, exchanging all those classic lies hunters love to tell. And so it goes, to this day.