By Theodore M. Siouris.
Published at New York / Tri-State Chapter 1998 Year Book

I first hunted in Spain in the autumn of 1988 with a young outfitter named Francisco Rosich who had recently formed an outfitting company called Hunt Trip Spain. I'd bought the hunt at our own Chapter Fundraiser auction. We hunted in the peaks of the Pyreneas Mountains of northern Spain for the Pyrenean Chamois and I returned with both a record book trophy and a special feeling for a beautiful country. Since then, I've hunted with Francisco six times for most of the Spanish big game and he has become a favorite friend. In fact, he stood up for me as Bestman when Aida and I were married in Spain last October. I'd surprised her with my proposal on the flight from New York and she accepted.

Spain has a treasure of extraordinary game animals including four different types of Spanish ibex, two species of chamois, the spectacular Spanish red deer, fallow deer, roe deer, mouflon, catalina goat, barbary sheep and wild boar, plus a bevy of game birds. Francisco's reputation and business have since flourished and he now also manages a 6,000-acre hunting preserve (finca) in Aragon by the name of El Carrascal de Bastaras. The name means, "the live oak forest of Bastaras". The centerpiece of Bastaras in the remains of the 16th Century village of that name which was gradually abandoned about a century ago as new generations made the all too common exodus towards greater economic opportunity in the cities. The village and the surrounding mountains have been privately owned for years but until recently the property was poorly maintained. The current owner has undertaken an ambitious restoration of the major residence and is dedicated to making Bastaras one of the finest hunting estates in Spain. The quality of the game within the vast and dense perimeters of the finca in exceptional. Last Spring Francisco told me the trophies at Bastaras had reached the maturity and distinction he and the owner have been working several years to achieve. A combination of weather, feed and sound game management has produced the desired result, and Francisco said it was time for me to hunt the Gold Medal Spanish red deer I've always sought and failed to find.

Francisco's younger brother, Bruno, met Aida and me at the airport in Barcelona in early October and expedited the formalities of clearing the rifle and our baggage though customs. We then tossed our gear into the Mercedes 4x4 and drove down the coast to Sitges, an ancient and charming seacoast town, where we had lunch outdoors on the Mediterranean Sea. Then a drive of two hours took us through the countryside, into Aragon and its tapestry of vineyards, almond orchards, olive groves, and Spanish onion fields. The colors of the landscape surrounding Bastaras resemble a Cézanne still life. On our first morning of hunting, Aida and I drove over those familiar trails with Francisco, looking for those huge red deer. Though we saw plenty of mouflon, fallow deer and younger red deer, the large stags were indisposed. So, we decided to take a turn at the Catalina goats that range on the highest part of the finca. Beyond the northern boundary of the property we spotted a band of goats deep in a steep canyon and made a stalk down the treacherous mountain. We finally reached a hillock where we could observe a small cluster of males. Francisco meticulously inspected each animal with his binoculars and finally decided which was the better trophy. While he and Aida exchanged opinions of the various candidates, I ended their discussion by shooting the largest of the group. It rolled down out of view, into a thicket of bushes and his companions broke for cover. Francisco was alarmed that I had shot too quickly. As we descended, he admonished me for not waiting. Perhaps I should have told him I was about to shoot, but I was confident of the sight picture through the riflescope and certain I would deliver a killing shot. Fortunately, the goat was down and dead in the brush when we reached it.

To our delight, the long spiraled horns, couring straight out sideways from the skull with a spread of over 36 inches, place the trophy high up in the SCI Trophy Record Book. Over the next two days we staked and size-up several good Spanish red stags but Francisco was not satisfied with the results of his appraisals, so we continued our search in those beautiful hills and canyons. Neither Aida nor I was anxious to bring the hunt to a close. Early one morning before the sun slipped into the valley, we spotted two good stags ahead, breaking out of a gorge, and Francisco said he was sure of the one on the right. I quickly found support against a tree and again asked if he were sure. He gave a quick description of the antler formations and why he liked this stag: heavy beams, long points, good wide configuration, and good crown on at least one side. I focused on the shot placement and squeezed the trigger. The stag stumbled, ran on, and then dropped before I could place another shot into him. It was over. I had finally taken the regal Spanish red deer I have wanted. On our penultimate day at the finca Aida and I were married, with the Mayor of the tiny village of Santa Cilia officiating. In that wonderful brief ceremony, my epic life as a single man came comfortably to an end.

You can contact Francisco & Bruno Rosich at
contact@hunttripspain.com by email,
or write them at Hunt Trip Spain,
Casanova, 79 3º 1ª - 08011 Barcelona - Spain.