The Bare Facts:

Agent: Arjun Reedy, he was great to work with. I tried not to aggravate him. I am sure I did. The communication was night and day different from the Booking Agent I used on my first trip. I swore then to never use a booking agent again. I had not until this trip. Arjun got me a reduced observer's fee for my wife. He had the rifle permit sorted out. He never gave me the impression he was too business for me even though I know he is. He arranged for me to book this hunt two years in advance.

Outfitter: Konstantin, Great guy. If I were him, I would have been glad to see us go. If he was, he never acted like it. He came in and out during the story. He told me he was the largest outfitter in Bulgaria. I believe him.

Interceptor: Svetla, she said her name means star. She was the star and a life savoir. She is 35 years of age. She speaks sufficient English and better German by her assessment.

Air Planes: Delta out of N.KY/Cincinnati to Charles De Gaulle for Bulgaria Air to Sophia. The return saw us fly Bulgaria Air to Charles De Gaulle where we caught an AirFrance ride to Atlanta. We flew Delta from Atlanta back to N.KY/Cincinnati. More on this in the narrative.

Rifle: My cobbled together 7mm STW. Cobbled is the best word for it. The action is a Model 70 Classic stainless steel. The trigger is stock. The barrel is unmarked and 26 inches long. The action and barrel are cerakoted black. The rifle holds three down and one in the chamber.
Scope: Leupold VX-5HD 3X15 with firedot. I love the fire dot. The hiking hunts were in thick stuff so shadow was always present. When it was not thick the fire dot could be turned up in the setting evening sun that always was straight in my face. The firedot made seeing the aiming point through that light doable. Is a firedot or any illuminated reticle mandatory? Obviously, no. I have no other illuminated reticle. After using this one I am a believer. One can use whichever model of illuminated reticle they like. I have named her Kayleigh.

Load: 160 Grain Accubond over 83 grains of Retumbo. The brass was new Nosler/Norma brass, and the primer was Federal 215M. The average velocity was 3,227 feet per second. I zeroed for 250 yards which is 2 inches high at 100 yards. Between practice and this hunt, I have to figure out how to neck size, because I have a lot of once fired brass now. Anybody who has followed my loading threads knows I am not good at reloading. Thank you, Mike Dettore, for your help getting ready for this hunt.

Backpack: I used the larger pack from JagHund. It is light. I also was able to use it as carry on. It held water, all thermals for two people, two pairs of boots, and when it got warm my wife's large/warm hunting coat, plus ammo and small items. Good pack. It may be a little small to haul a butchered elk out with, but perfect for me. Loaded my wife wore it on our hiking hunts with no issues.

Boots: My wife's boots were Northface, and mine were my trusted, long-loved and used Wolverines. I will provide more on my boots in
the Narrative.

Individual guides, host, lodges provided in narrative.

Narrative:

Chapter I Getting There

We started out on Thursday, October 10, 2019. we drove up to Cincinnati after I got home from work. Did one last pre-trip inventory and let out. The Delta Flight to Paris left early on Friday morning. There are no events to tell.
We have discussed the issues with international travel with firearms breeding down in Dallas. I had my Form 4457 filled out months in advance. Customs gave me no concern, but a wave and wished me good luck on hunting. I have never had a problem with these folks. On the contrary, the have often interceded on my behalf with mouthy flight staff. Now, if some edict comes down that X must be done, whatever X is, I expect them to enforce X.

We had an uneventful flight which is always preferred, and I got to catch up on my across the Atlantic Tradition of watching the newest John Wick movie. This third installment has come off the rails. I do not look forward to the fourth.

We made it through Charles De Gaulle with no issues. This has never happened. Every time we are running and being hung up by French security only to just make or miss boarding. We are setting in the lounge with hours to spare waiting on our Bulgaria Air flight.

"Something is going to go wrong." I spoke pessimistically to my wife in a full voice.
"Why would you say that!" She does not like travel, business drama.

"We have never been through this place this easy. Something will go wrong. I bet the rifle won't make the plane." I delivered dead tone.
"Why would it not. You have the import licenses. The rifle is declared on all inventories like it is supposed to be. For once nothing is going wrong. We have never had a problem with a rifle not making it." She was begging me with her tone to stop.

"I can't help it. Everyone has a plan until they are hit. We have not been hit yet. That is the last thing that can be hit." I retorted.
I looked over at her. I had worried her which was not my intention. My intention was to say the things in my mind.

"Do not worry about it. We are on our way. If it happens, we will deal with it. As long as the plane stays in the sky, we will be fine." I wrapped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her head against mine."
"That was not very remeasuring about the plane coming down." A brief pause brought us both to a semi-forced laugh.

"You have time. You really should go up to the counter and make sure the rifle is in transit." I thought to myself.
I did not. I decided to enjoy the apparent easy this trip was going.

The flight on Bulgaria Air delivered a most beautiful red sunrise. Behind the wings was darkness. In front of the wings was a glorious red streaking rays of dawn coming. I do not know the reason, but in twenty something individual flights, we had never seen a sunrise like that. My wife took the best pictures of it she could.

"Red sky at morning sailor's warning. I whispered to her." She elbowed me in the ribs. This prediction of doom did not come true at least not in the meteorological sense.
We flew over the Swiss Alps. This was a view we had not seen before. Those mountains looked awfully close.

We started our decent at Sophia. We had not seen a city from the sky. Simply a lot of large fields. I honestly thought we had to be landing in a cut corn field. The decent in the small plane was fast and bumpy. That in-itself was not the problem. The problem was the decent was so fast, I suffered a biometric injury. The pressure build up in my head was so fast that I could not equalize fast enough. The result was at my sinus plate, above my brow, ruptured. The pain at my brow line felt like a wasp had stung me. I honestly thought I was having a seizure. The only aspect that kept me from panicking was my eyesight was not affected. Why that was so reassuring to me I cannot say. My right eight started pouring and my right nostril started to pour. What is one to do, I could not just sit there on the plane.

I informed my wife, "Something is wrong. It feels like I was just stung by a hornet." I was holding my brow. There is nothing there."
She sat quiet not knowing what to do. I did not know what to do. So, we got up and disembarked. Bulgaria is seven hours ahead of the Eastern United States. There is no one to call at that hour. We made our way through the checks. I holding my brow with fluid pouring from the right side of my face. It slowly started to ease. The drainage stopped. I was left with a feeling of being punched on the right side of my forehead. Because I could see and feel I did not think it was serious. One might say I was too stupid to be worried. Or too ignorant, lucky to be in harm.

We waited on our bags. It was about 1:00 p.m. local time when we touched down. The wife's bag with the locked ammo case came through. However, my rifle was nowhere to be seen. No big deal. Oversized bags are often last, and rifles are often collected by customs. We waited and nothing. Konstantin was supposed to be waiting for us on the other side, and he was. We tried to call him, but our American cell phone would not dial out. I decided to send the wife on through. I had no reason to doubt Konstantin was on the other side wondering what happened to us. The area had long ago cleared.

I tried to find an information desk. I was directed to Swissport which is a useless third- party vendor staffed by 18 to 20-year old girls. I noticed a customs officer walking around looking as lost as I was across the room. So, I went up to him. He saw me and started heading my way.

We got into speaking distance he said, "Mr. Joshua." My first reaction was it was nice to hear my full first name.
"Yes, sir." I noticed he had a forum in his hand that looked like my permit. I pointed at it. "I have one of those."

"I do not have a lot of English, but I do not know what they did with your rifle."
I pointed at the Form again. "Do you want to see my copy." I had already started to get it out as habit.

"No, No, you keep, no need. I just do not know what they did with it." His voice was friendly to me. However, his face was as aggravated as I felt as he went from belt, to person, to room looking.

He came back to me. "I am sorry about this." He got out his phone, dialed someone, he spoke Bulgarian, but his voice was international I have authority and you are pissing me off to the other side.

"I am sorry for causing you this grief."

"No, no you do not sorry. Which flight you."
"Paris."

He made more calls. Finally, he came back to me. "Rifle in Paris."

"My wife and host are on the other side. Can we talk to them?" I used a suggesting tone and pointed. "Interpreter." He liked the word interpreter. We headed to the other side.
I first saw the wife she was setting with her back to the entrance way. I then saw a younger woman in a red dress standing at the rail looking very nervous. That had to be the interpreter.

I went straight to her with the Customs Officer in tow. "Are you with Konstantin?"

"Yes, you Joshua?" I nodded as she started my name. Her voice gained relief as a gestured.

I saw a man in jeans, button down, and vest coming from the right. "That is Konstantin?"

"Yes, I am Svetla."

I tried, but could not repeat her name. I told Konstantin and Svetla of the issue. They spoke to the what I thought was now long-suffering Customs officer. Konstantin told me, "Your rifle is in Paris. I cannot clear it. You have to be here."

"Will it get here?" I asked, making sure there was no bass in my voice. The customs officer was back on the phone. There were some sentences exchanged between the local speakers.
Svetla answered me, "It will be here tomorrow at two p.m."

Konstantin continued, "The lodge is four hours away. We get you a hotel and Svetla show you Sophia. You cannot go, comeback, and hunt tomorrow if we go. Get a shower, good sleep, be ready to go."

In my mind I did not have a problem with that. However, I also thought the wife is not going to like the idea of paying for a hotel room when we have already paid to be here. It is just one night. I can't be expensive.

"I will let her decide." I pointed to my wife. Who was now looking over at us. I motioned for her and stepped on the other side. She came to us. I introduced everyone. "So, the rifle did not make it on the plane. They tell me it will be here tomorrow at two."

"What does that mean for us?" I was a little slow on the trigger, so Svetla beat me to the explanation.

The wife looked at me. I said, "We only have two options. Drive four hours and come back here tomorrow at two in the afternoon, and drive back." I could tell Konstantin did not like that option. He did not say anything. He did not make any faces. You can just tell. "Or we can let them take us to the hotel."

I gave Konstantin the “help a brother out here” look.

"Yes, good shower, breakfast, Svetla can show you Sophia, have a good meal and sleep."
"You were worried about not getting to see Sophia. You can see Sophia, and I will only lose one day of hunting instead of two." I added as organically, just thought of sounding as I could. I had thought to use the see Sophia card three paragraphs ago.

I told Svelta to thank the customs officer with me standing there. I also told her I apologize to him for making his day difficult.
She told me it "was not necessary." I asked her to please do so anyway. She did. He laughed and shook my hand. Svelta translated, "He says no problem, he apologizes, and to have a good hunt."

We drove to a Best Western Premier not 10 minutes from the airport. It was nice. Konstantin did all the talking. I pulled him aside after he indicated we were checked in.

"What do I owe you for the room."

"Nothing. I get a good rate here. You paid for six days. I will take care of it."

Svelta picked us up at four in the afternoon. We spent two hours seeing the Eastern Orthodox Churches. Many had weddings and infant baptisms going on. None were as big or visually overwhelming as Norte Dame. One church had a tradition of writing prayers and placing them in a confessional. We were invited to engage. I did not see the harm to my Baptist faith, so we did so.

My eye is uneducated in Bulgaria culture. I know the basics. Sophia's population is cited at two million. There are more than two million in the city. Bulgaria shares a boarder with Romania, Turkey, and touches the black sea. Bulgaria expelled the Ottoman Empire. The language is Slavic. The country left communism officially in 1989. Membership in the European Union was very recent. The country does not use Euros. This little fact was very annoying. Someone here has money because the large by U.S. standards agriculture and heavy equipment is not cheap. The local currency is not Zimbabwe dollars, but it is cheap. Again, my eye is uneducated, but to me the country is a meld of Russian and Turkey with just the frosting of Europe on top. The city Squares are nice. However, turn down any street and trash and graffiti are a serious problem. Think New York City before Giuliani was mayor, but not as bad as New York City.

Svetla, "Are you ready to eat now?"
We asked her to take us to a clean and well-lit place where we could try Bulgarian cuisine. My wife, expressed, "We do not want to get too crazy."

Svelta delivered. She took us to Shatastliveca. That is spelled right. The place deserves it. The waiter's name was Mario. He spoke English a little. If you go to Sophia, then you must eat at least once at this place. It has two-level seating. The room is white, plaster. The place is lit with yellow light. In the center from the ceiling is a fixture like a conifer tree that catches and sends out this light very softly.

I have a rule no drinking one month prior to hunting until the hunting is done. My brow is still hurting. My rifle should be here tomorrow, but it should have been here today. Total flight time was fourteen hours. My wife is setting next to me on the right. Svetla is setting in front of me.

"I am going to have a drink. What do you think?"

“Yeah, I am too it has been a long day.”

"Mario, do you have any Bourbon." He looks a Svetla.

Svetla, looking at me, "What is Bourbon?"
"Do you have any whiskey."

"Ah, Whiskey!" Mario comes back. He started naming off Scotch regions and Japanese labels.

"Ask him if he has any American Whiskey."

"American." Mario is hunting now. "Jack Daniels. Jim Beam." Now, I have picked up the drink list and started looking at the wines.

"Maker's Mark."

“Maker's Mark." I repeat. "Bring me a pour of Maker's Mark neat."

"How big? Want big or small?" Mario innocently inquires.

Remember when I said this culture felt Russian to me, now my guard is up. "How big is big?" was my timid response.

"I bring glass." Mario replied. He brought back a tall, double highball glass.

"How full is this big?" I said picking up the glass.

"50 milliliters."

"Two ounces."

"50 milliliters."

"Two ounces."

"50 milliliters."

I look to my wife who use to teach conversions. She is laughing and shakes her head, "I do not know."

I look at Svelta, "I have no idea what 50 milliliters looks like. I want a drink, but I do not want to drink this whole glass. At least not with hunting to be done. Ask him how much that is in ounces. I would like a two-ounce pour."

Svelta, "I am sorry, we do not know what ounces look like."

My wife, the smarter of the two of us, sees the solution. "Have him show you on the glass were the pour comes up to."

"That will work! Svelta, could you ask him to show me where on the glass the big pour is?"

Mario puts his finger to about two ounces full as I hold the glass up to him.

"That is what I want. Thank you."

Mario comes back with a glencaven glass poured to just over two ounces. A man after my own heart.

I had not had Maker's Mark in a long time. I left it behind for Weller years ago. The day, the first contact communication, my brow, but this pour was exceptional. Mario asked if we were ready for orders. We were.

"What do you recommend?"

"Beef cheeks with golden potato, and a cream-based gravy. Very good, Bulgarian." His words were a mix of his own English and English provided by Svetla.

"I have eaten a lot of beef, but never cheeks." Svetla performed the translation. Mario became very animated. "Very good. You love. My favorite."

"Bring it." This pleased Mario. My wife ordered a wonderful butterflied pork tenderloin that was paper thin. It was seared and served with pan gravy and mushrooms. Folks it was excellent.

Mario's beef cheeks pleased me as well. Think of a great beef roast with mushrooms, carrots, and a sliced thin whole golden Yukon potato cooked perfect. The meat was so tender. I could not pick it up with a fork. I had to ask for a spoon. The girls wanted Gelato. so, after diner we shook Mario's hand and introduced ourselves formally with hardy thank yous.

Svetla is 35 years old. She is four-year university educated. She has lived and worked in Portugal, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland. She speaks some Portuguese, but does not consider herself lingual. German very well, English a little not so well according to her, and would like to return to Italy to learn the language. She says it takes her about four months to become conversant in a language. I believe her. I told her I can barely converse in English. She works for a hunting company, but does not eat meat or fish. This would be to my benefit in the days to come.

Chapter II Red Stag

The next day, we all gather at the hotel. We drive to the airport. The rifle is in hand. Off we go to the northern end of the country. The region is Balkans. As we get into the region. It becomes higher. There are what appear to be abandoned villages, but there are people in them. They are dirty. There are always agriculture fields. Large compared to Kentucky, but nothing like back toward Sophia.

If you want to fly fourteen hours and drive four hours to shoot pheasant, and quail, or a driven shoot, then this is the place to be. Right beside a village with all these people, cats, and dogs these "little" fields were covered in pheasant, quail, and dove. I do not know how there is any game here so close to humans, but it is here.

Konstantin on the ride asked if I still wanted to go to the higher country and walk. He cautioned the roar up there was "finished."
"I would. I like to walk. Listen, I told Arjun this, I told my guide in Austria this, I do not care if we shoot. I just want to be here with a rifle in my and be able to be in your country. If we kill something that is great. But I am not upset if we do not. I would like to go up high after them, but if you want to go somewhere else, it is your show. I am just happy to be here."

"We will start high it is about four thousand feet above sea level. If after a few days we may move."

"That is fine with me. I am fine to stay. I honestly do not mind getting beat."

I was a little worried, but I did not say anything coming into the lodge which was a guest house in Lovets Sianie. We never drove out of people in these little villages. The villages were, no way to say it, but to call them rough. My main worry was my wife was a trooper, but I did not see anything I would allow her to stay in as we motored through. We turned into one of these villages. We drove through a plaster wall around a house that would not keep a cat out. However, when we entered the yard it was a whole different world.

The house was two stories. It was log construction like you would see in Austria. The yard was well kept with a small pool. There was a stone grill and outdoor entertaining space on the right. A balcony was on the second floor. Pots of flowers my wife could tell you what they were hung everywhere. My wife was happy.

Our host's name was Georgi, and his wife's name was Angelina. The cook was a pleasant woman who must have wanted to cook me for Christmas dinner because she did her best to lay the food in me. The guide's name was Ilko. He and Georgi were employed by Konstantin as foresters. The hunting secondary to timber. We threw on our gear and headed to a easy to get to high seat to hunt the last three hours of the day.
Now is as good a place as any to relate my other equipment fiasco. One of the airports decided my boots did not need soles. The soles of my boots were completely ripped off. All that was left on the bottom of my boots was the bottom part of the insole. What are you going to do? You play the cards that are dealt.

We drove to above a stand of timber. I could tell there was a clear cut on the other side from the top. We dropped down working our way down the side. At the bottom we had to cross a large creek that had running water. The bridge was made from long small round trees cut and bucked with small limbs cut for steps. In the middle one step was missing. The ends were laid across a small stump and were not fastened. When you stepped the entire bridge jumped, but never came over it anchor points. The bride over that creek looked like something from Indian Jones. We were not able to get a picture of it. Crossing on it was awesome and thankfully not too high off the ground or I could not have done it.

When we came into the other side and against the bank, Ilko was in the lead, my Wife was behind me. Standing on the flat of the bank, the bank was over our heads. We peered over. There was a hind with two calves across the clear cut just against the next stand of trees. They worked out, and we came up the bank. We got up in a high sea,t every bit of twenty five feet off the ground. I hate heights. I will not hunt out of a tree stand. The ladder up this seat was inclined well, like stairs. So, I said a soft prayer, and made it up.

We were not going to use torches on this hunt. Konstantin and I had talked about it. I told him it was not my tradition. We tried to will a stag into that cut for three hours. Finally, the light was gone. Ilko said, "Joshua. House."

We were up the next morning at four. We left before five. We drove out of the town and climbed. On the top what was below us looked like a valley, but it was not. I was a large hollow or hand fingers of timber stretching down. The fog was thick. The fog looked like a giant lake underneath us. We saw five hinds on the way up. There were no stags behind.

The sun would burn off the fog by seven in the morning at least up high. The country was dry and thick. Midday temperatures would reach eighty degrees Fahrenheit. It had not rained. The weather, like back in Kentucky, was drought and hot.

The ground had large to foot sized limestone builders growing out of the ground like grass. Footing was difficult without soles. We made a three-hour stalk back down ending this day in a small clear cut. We saw nothing beside those three hinds in the first part of the morning.

We came back and reported the day. We were asked about lunch. I did not really want anything, but relented to a chicken soup in broth. The wife and I went upstairs. We were to leave again at four in the afternoon. I asked for lunch to be severed at one. The wife and I enjoyed a too deep sleep waking on my own at three. We went down stairs. Svetla reported she had tried to wake us. I told her she was free to come in the room to get us up. We ate and were gone.

We climbed a most beautiful ridge. It was a sharp ridge with two deep drops on both sides. The top was not so thick, but just off either side was thick new growth. When we reached the apex of the ridge there was a small high seat. We were motioned to it. We climbed in. It was a close set up. One side faced the ridge about 50 yards of visibility. The front of the stand faced looking down the bluff. I could just see a nice stag climbing out of that timber underneath.

About six in the evening, to the left. I caught movement going to a small stand of oak trees off to themselves between the rise up out of the bottom to the top of the ridge. He was the dream. The problem he was a huge boar. I do not know how big he was. However, he stood snot to tail with the large one I shot in Austria. We enjoyed watching him. He stepped from the stand of oak. He was set up perfect at no more than fifty yards. He was broadside with his head up, tail up, and foreleg forward. I could have killed him with a slingshot. We watched him go. I looked at my wife. "Five years ago when we were hunting boar he would have been deader than Jimmy Dean Sausage."

She hunched to choke a laugh. When the night took the last of light we climbed down. I looked at Ilko, "Big Pig." I used my eyes as an explanation point. Before dark became too dark, we heard one stag roar from the other side down low. We tried to converse about what a great climb and sight the boar was.

When we got back, the house was up. Georgi met us first. Svetla was right behind him. "We saw a big boar. He was huge. If we were hunting boar we would be celebrating right now."

Svetla relayed this to the house. Georgi responded. Svetla told me, "He says he go shoot the boar, and you can celebrate." We all laughed. Dinner was excellent and we watched Wild Europe on NatGeo.

Our hosts had me through Svetla tell them how my wife and I had met. How we got engaged, and how long we have been married. We have been married nine years for this recorded. Everyone seemed very interested and pleased with the story. Then Ilko, Georgi, and I through Svetla told of past hunts. Dinner I know was good. Today, I cannot recall what it was. I know desert was a strawberry crape like thing. I remember eating some amazing bread and small sliced sausages that were mighty fine. Thin-sliced sausages got us talking about Austria, and how we loved the sausage there. Svetla proclaimed that dinner tomorrow would be sausage grilled on the stone grill outside. Sleep would come at ten at night.

We were gone by five in the morning. Before we left, I told Svetla bread, butter, and sliced sausages was just fine for lunch.

We made the same climb we had the prior evening. We stopped at and took the high seat for about two hours. Nothing was sounding, nothing was moving. Ilko motioned us down. We took the ridge in earnest. We would drop off the side and start marching a dry holler. It was very thick in places. The limestone rock was hiding so treacherously under leaves. We came to a dry creek bed. It was thirty feet wide when it was wide. The bed was limestone and loose stone was the standard footing. My wife had fallen behind. She made a little extra noise, but she walked every step without complaint or bucking. Her added noise did not matter. We were not scaring anything up. Ilko remind me of a beagle casting for a rabbit as we dived in ever thick, terrain. I remember thinking, "I am glad they do not have saw barriers here."

We would spend two hours fighting, that creek bed. We found a shed from a medium sized stag. At one point we found the half-decayed body of a large wolf in the middle of the creek bed. II said to myself, "Great another hunter has died in this forsaken creek bed." Two hours later we had made it out of the drainage. We were now on an old logging road. Ahead of us I saw a clear cut that had just started to green over with new growth. "It is not likely, but something could cross right above that." I stopped as I looked at it. Sure enough I heard the feet of multiple animals above. Had we got them. I looked ahead at Ilko. He was on the other side of this gap. He had his glasses up. I put my finger to my ear and pointed up for my wife. Whatever, was up there was coming in. My eyes danced looking for an antler, an ear, or the long neck of a hind. Ilko had motioned me to him. I got next to him. Finally, we saw them, "Swine." He whispered. I could not see them. I looked back at my wife she could see them. I shook my head. She was behind the screen of trees and motioned down with her hand. I brought my gaze down and saw two small boar coming down and to the right of us. One was very light and one was dark.

"Shoot blonde one." Ilko kindly requested.

"Shoot?" I asked and looked at him so there was no misunderstanding. He smiled and pointed at the rifle in my hands and made a trigger finger. He then put his glasses back to his eyes and back to the pigs. I brought the scope up. That new, green growth was tall board leaf grass and saplings and would completely cover the young pigs. The pigs while rooting changed positions in the line. I noticed they were feeding to one large oak that had been left standing. The right side of the oak had a window rooted up just the size of our pigs. I brought the rifle to this tree. "Black." I whispered to Ilko as he feed into the gap.

"Blonde." Ilko reminded me. The black one passed. The Blonde was right behind him. He was broadside and a little ahead of me. I held for the shoulder blade. I do not know how, but at the shot he got vertical to us. He came down the slope doing high off the ground back flips snot, over hams all the way down. Sadly, my wife did not get this on camera. We shook hands. The last Bite was observed, and to the grill this little bugger went. Obviously, a thirty-ish pound pig at maybe forty yards was not a test for the 7mm STW and 160 grain Accubond.

I looked at the wife, "I thought we had them, but I was thinking a man climb that with no soles ought to shoot something."

We had some wonderful grilled sausages. We met Georgi and Angelina's son. Georgi is very proud of his son. He introduced him by slapping him on the back, "My Son, Big Man." I did not get his name in Slavic. However, after some work with the translation we figured out Big Man's name in English was Russell.

I asked if Russell hunted. Through Svetla we were told he did not. That he may next year. I told Svetla and the table that I started at age four hunting squirrels and groundhogs. Svetla relayed as I spoke. Svetla was very surprised by this.

She asked, "How so young?"

I told her my father had bought me a shotgun and there was no mandatory age in Kentucky.

Georgi through Svetla told me, "First, Russell hunt, then he can marry."

Everyone had told me from Arjun to Konstantin that the stags up here were smaller than in the agriculture areas. That made since better feed, better antlers. I am here to tell you, the stags are not smaller. At least, not in the antler. Two weeks prior a group of three German hunters had based here. Each took great stags. I saw the heads at the lodge. One was nine kilos, one was eleven kilos, and one was seven kilos. I asked Georgi and Ilko through Svetla what was the size they would shoot. Both said nine kilos.

I asked again, "What they thought was a good minimum size they would be happy?”

Georgi though Svetla confirmed, "He would shoot a heavy seven kilo, but thinks for you this is too small. That I should shoot a nine."

"Tell him I would gladly shoot a heavy seven." Svetla did and Georgi smiled.

"Will you tell Ilko we may not be very good hunters, but we are pretty good at shooting pigs." Svetla did not comprehend the tongue and cheek or at least self-defecating nature of this.

Before translating, she tried to console me in English that such was "not necessary. The stags were not roaring.

"Thank you, but tell him just the same." She did. Ilko laughed.

We would climb that ridge and out that drainage one more time the next day. The climb is never uneventful. I was happy. Yet, there is nothing new to report. When we pulled in Svetla was waiting on the porch. We relayed the facts of the day. She went inside. She had called Konstantin. "Konstantin would like us to change areas. Move where stags are still roaring."

I was concerned by this. I had not spoken to Konstantin since we arrived. I appreciated the idea. However, I did not want him to think these people were not working hard with us. They were. I did not our guide and hosts to think I was disappointed. I was far from it. In my mind, we had three good days under our belt, and was one more day closer to finding our stag. I told Svetla this, and asked to speak to Konstantin so I could tell him this myself.

"It is no problem. Konstantin knows this."

“Please tell Ilko and our host that.” She did. We went upstairs to pack. I tipped Ilko and the house as if we had killed the stag we hoped for. Their effort was full faith. I was pleased with their effort. Nothing was their fault. I hope they know I was glad to be in there home and on their mountain.

I was surprised that we did not drop back down. I guess to do so would have required too long of a drive. Instead, it looked like we got higher. We drove through a large city which I used to know the name of. It was used as a Prisoner of War camp by the Nazis for captured U.S. Airmen during World War II.

It felt to me we were on a Plateau. The lodge was large. Sadly, we had an infestation of swarming ladybugs. This happens from time to time in Kentucky, but never this bad. We kept them out of the room more than sufficiently. This area as known as Palamaras. We met our guide who was a Turk named Redjep. They called him Rambo. I do not know why they call him Rambo, but he sure drove like Rambo. Some folks like to drive fast even going in. He drove faster going out. However, we are no worse for wear. This is not a criticism, just a report.

We were heading to the field by four thirty in the afternoon. We saw a lot of hinds on the way in, and caught just a glimpse of a good stag sneaking away as we made for the stand. Rambo decided to stop, watch, and see where he would cross. We never saw him. We came into an opening to a meadow. We stopped and got out. There was a better stag than I had seen working across a stagnant creek bed in the middle of the meadow. I pointed him out to Rambo as he came into the cut field. Rambo barley gave him a look as he trotted out of our lives. Rambo was in the lead. We hugged the tall grass which was over my head of the creek that ran through the middle of the meadow. There was a shorter high seat set up just inside the tall grass in the middle of the field. The end of the field was three hundred yards. There was a strange small dog leg beyond that. It was open, but narrow from this position. It was four hundred ninety-five yards on my range finder. My pessimism told me that if we saw one it would be right there at four hundred ninety-five yards. The sun got overhead. It was brutal and warm. We could hear three different stags roaring. One was dead ahead somewhere. One was to our right. The last was to our left somewhere.

"Keep an eye on the dogleg." I told my wife who was above me. At different times the stags sounded like they were roaring and coming to us. Then they would sound weak and far away. I was looking left, hoping the closest sounding stag to the left would step out at two yards where the shadow had just started to be cast.

Eventually, I heard the soft voice of my wife in my right ear, "Stag."

"What", my brain said inside my skull. "Where?" I hissed to her.

"The dogleg, female."

I looked. "Where did she go?"

"Across to the left." Just then another walked through the window and through my scope. It was another hind. The stag to the left roared. I thought a stag might follow.

"Deer." I said it just loud enough to get Rambo's attention. He turned to my side. I looked at him. I mouthed and used my hands. "Two." I showed him two fingers. "left to right." I made an arrow with my hand moving left to right. "Going to that stag." I pointed in the direction of the left stag that had roared. I put up two fingers again and made with my hand flat to signify female. My scope had more magnification than Rambo's binos. He pointed at my scope. I gave him the rifle. He studied the dogleg. "Move around the bend." I gave a head shake to the bend.

Rambo must have agreed because he gave the rifle back and started to climb down. We hugged the tall grass of the creek bed for three hundred yards. We then slipped into the tree line, and went over a very small rise. We came in behind a high seat that overlooked a small field. It was one hundred five yards on the rangefinder. Now the stag to the left, sounded like he was in front of us and really close, but he obviously was not there. "This is like turkey hunting." I whispered to my wife. I kept a look to my right looking down into the creek bed. I was hoping to see one quietly sneaking up in the shadow of the creek bed. The stag in front of us roared. We could hear something walking behind us. One answered the roar of the one to the front to our right. Rambo must have thought they were close, because he moved his hand in a fanning, come in motion. Time passed. The sun was right in front of us. It was killing me.

"Stag. Right" Again, my wife's soft voice was the first alarm. I moved the rifle to the right as I shifted to see. A small gray, stag just forking at the crowns emerged.

"Stag." I spoke in conformation. Rambo having to make sure I was too trigger happy, put up a hand.
"Too small." He would feed out to the middle of the field.

Some time passed. "Deer. It's a female." The wife saw her again first. This time we all shifted to see the hind. And we all saw him.

"Stag." I could not tell you how big he was, but he was plenty big for me. I remember looking at his crowns and thinking they were perfect on side and sort on the other. Rambo nodded his head. The hind was hugging the tall grass just our side of the timber. The Stag was stepping like a quarter horse. When he was not in line with the sun, I could see snot from his noise. He was urinating down his back legs. He was now more or less broadside. He stopped looked back. I was ready. I waited. The Stag had his head turned looking back. Now, when he came to a complete stop, I had to turn up the firedot because the sun was washing out the reticle. "Shoot."

"No." Rambo answered with his steady hand. The pour guy had to give a heavy, deep chest cough following the word no. If the Stag heard him, the Stag’s response was to roar. This brought his head straight. I think he was sizing up the small stag as he stood directly across from him mere feet. The small stag was trying to appear very meek. My reticle was right over the on-foreleg. I thought for a second about moving the reticle to the spine of the neck. I choose against it. "Shoot." Rambo provided. I had been dying internally to fire. My brain felt like a coachman holding back a team of wild horses. When the "t" of "Shoot" was heard I broke the shot. I saw the stag buckle at the back legs. Then nothing. My scope was completely washed out by the sun. I saw him trying to run and both forelegs dangling. I worked the bolt as I followed him with my naked eye.

"You got him." My wife was whispering in my right ear.

Rambo not so quiet. "Shoot, Shoot."

I had got back on the scope as I sent the bolt to the breach. "I can't see. Sun.”

I came off the scope to find the stag. My wife whispered, "I think he is going down." I had found him. He was just outside of the tree line. His head was facing in and his hindquarters were to the stand. He was not perfectly square. I shifted and found him the scope. He was now straight away from me, and I could see. He was standing, and wavering back and forth. I could see he had his weight on his back legs. He was taking a standing eight count. I thought if we leave him alone, he will collapse right there.

“Shoot?” I asked in a normal voice.

There was a slight pause. Rambo returned, “Shoot.” So, I did. I hit him on the left hip joint. I saw the mud jump off at the shot. The stag fell out of the scope to the right. This shot was right at one hundred five yards.

“He’s down.” My wife was still whispering. We waited for a ten count. Rambo motioned for us to go, and so we did. As we cut across the small field. I did not see blood on the ground. I always think the worse, and Rambo following up so quick had me thinking.

I looked back at my wife, “Did I hit him well?”

“Yeah, when you shot, he came up on his back legs like he was doing a pull up with has front.”

We had not stopped walking. We were not actually on his path, just walking to where we had seen him crash. Before we got to the tree line, Rambo was in the front. I was second and to the left heading to where he was standing when I last hit him. Rambo stopped and looked back at me, “Down!”
The Stag was right where we saw him crash. He was down on all fours with his head resting on top of his forelegs tucked under his body. We moved up, and I came to Rambo’s right. “Shoot again.” Rambo directed. I found the base of the neck and broke him. The Stag at the sound of the gunshot went over to his left side. You can see this finishing shot in the pictures taken by my wife.

I would not have followed up so quick had I been left to my own thoughts. I would have given him ten minutes after we saw him faltering. I know my wife preferred that idea. That reads like a critique of Rambo. Critique is too harsh a word. Such is his style. These animals are big. Night was maybe one hour away.

The Stag is indescribable for me. He is big, and narrow in the hindquarters. Looking at his body I could not help but remember being small, and my father showing be a bull walking away, “See that, how he is narrow in the back. That is where he has been breeding.” The left side crown was picture prefect. I honestly did not count the points. After I got home, I realized he was a broken fourteen pointer. The tips are beautiful, and ivory polished. I noticed how red he was where the young stag had been gray. I removed my hat and touched him. Rambo prepared the Last Bite.

Rambo got on a CB handheld, and we waited for the cavalry. The shadows were getting long. We heard one coming straight down the trail we were on. We looked up and a hind was heading our way. She stopped on the path. We heard a roar right behind her. We saw the head raising as he roared. We all froze. The hind, must have saw us see her. She was frozen. Finally, she jumped cut to the right un-guarding the stag behind her. He did not understand why his lady just took a sharp right. He walked on up roaring. The hind then cut across us and was heading to the left and up the knoll. The stag looked at her. I swear I saw on his face, “Woman! I am right here. Stop running around.” He came broadside roaring as he walked after the hind going up the hill. I leaned over to my wife, “That hind is thinking, I am trying to save your life dumbass. That stag is thinking, Why is this woman running from me now.” We watched them go over the other side. He was taller, but thinner than mine.

My Stag was thick at the bases and carried his mass well. He is not tall, but I had noticed most in Bulgarian stags are not tall. The weight coming first from mass. Rambo picked his head up and ran his finger across his teeth. “Old.”

“I am sorry. I would have shot him to the ground. He would have not made it out of the field, but I could not see to shoot. Sun.” I was translating with hand singles. It was like charades with words.

We tried to turn him over to check the off side. However, Rambo and I together could not do it. I back tracked him. He had started bleeding from his mouth and nose where he stopped, and I hit him again. From that point to the ground was good heart blood coming from his mouth. There was no blood until the point where he stopped and started to waiver. I knew from the blood there was no exit.

I came back to the stag and knelt beside him. His skull was longer than my boot. I noticed the crowns on the right side were not short. He had broken off the two front tines of the crown. I looked up smiling at my wife, “I have never shot a deer back home that did not have broken tines.” I loved the symmetry of this.

The cavalry arrived at dark. Konstantin’s folks are not jerks about it, but they want to do all the lifting, skinning, and gutting. You are there guest. Such work is their job. Well, I know I am no hand with a knife, but I want to be in on the grunt work. Like my father always said, “You can hold a leg.” Doing the “not fun part” is part of my personal ethic. If I am going to shoot him, I had better be willing to do the after work. I like the full connection such work brings. So, whenever I saw an opening like the runt pig trying to suckle, I would jump into a gap to grab a leg. Someone, too quickly, would politely take my spot. When we got the stag back to the lodge. He was weighed on the scale at two hundred kilos. My calculator says that is 440 pounds. More pictures were taken with camp staff that were not there when game was not in.

I would tell Konstantin that my only complaint was that I wanted to go and be in on the skinning, and lifting. That his guys kept me out of the hard work. He laughed. “We try to be full service here.”

My wife, Svelta, and I had a wonderful dinner of thin grilled pork chops. Svelta does not eat meat. The cook had forgot this, so I got seconds. My wife had a glass of Rosé that was the lodge’s own grape and bottle. She liked it. I tried it. I thought it had a lavender, almost soap taste and dismissed it. Svelta and I had a glass of Chardonnay that was light on the oak.

Chapter IV Mouflon

The head organizer of the guides Seven, came in and set down by Svetla. He was Turkish and looked my age. He may have been a touch younger than me, but I doubt it. I do not know his actual title. I jotted in my notes that he was “organizer.” They conversated.

Svetla turned to me, “He says the hunting in the morning for mouflon has not been good. No one has killed in the mornings.”

“Well, do we need to take the morning off?”

Svetla and Seven conversated some more. While they spoke. I spoke to my wife, “Sounds like we will take the morning and sleep in.”

“That is okay with me, but if you want to go, I can sleep in."

"I might go. You can’t kill them at the lodge, but we have had a good day. I do not mind to give the morning a break.”

Svetla came back to us, “He says if you want to go, you can. It just that no one has killed one in the morning. If you go and do not see anything, he wants you to know the area is good, just not been good in the mornings.”

I replied, “It is alright. If he wants us to stay in the morning we can stay.”

I think Svetla felt she had to reassure me, “If you want to go it is fine.”

“Will we hunt mouflon around here?”

She spoke to Seven. “He say we hunt mouflon away from here. He will go with you and another guide, about an hour away. I tell him you want to go.”

“We will do that. My wife will sleep in, and we will go hunting. I do not care if we do not see one. We can’t kill one at the lodge.”

Svetla and Seven finalized.

We were in the field by seven in the morning. The fog was starting to burn off with gaps on the side of the mountains. I have no idea where we were. The hunting was like most of the Spanish ibex hunts you see on television. The two track round all the way around this large, high rock formation. On the side there were drops, some drops went straight to the mantel of the earth. Others rebounded into little opens. A few at the lower levels had trees. Our main guide was Ishmal. He was an old man. He was obviously Turkish. He walked with a permanent bind at the waist. His face was leather by cigarette smoke and age. That man could walk. The top soil was basically fine gravel. Seven and Ishmal spoke. Seven stayed with the jeep, and Ishmal and I took off up a finger.

We took a trail up a lone rock formation. It rose about one hundred feet from the ground it came out of. In a little stand of trees we bumped some ewes. There were no rams in this group. We made it to the top of the rock formation. At the base was an open flat with good trails coming down from the main peak rising to our right, and the small stand of timber that was broken into four small patches to the right. There was what I will call a low seat stand on the top. Here we would wait.

A group of ewes were pushed down from our right by a ram. He looked good to me, but Ishmal with his hand low drew a 6 and 0. I asked with my eyes and a slight head nod. “No, young.”

I felt sorry for the ewes. The 60-centimeter ram was chasing them all over that flat. One would break, and he would go around her back up. He would try to get on top of one, and she would cry and try to get out from underneath him.

I watched to show. Ishmal watched the scene. I felt his hand on my left leg. I looked left with my eyes doing the moving. There coming up from the left was a noticeably bigger ram. He stopped visually insulted by the scene before him. I, being human, projected upon his posture that of a man who came home too early. We could just see his head and half the side of one horn. I had the scope on him, Ishmal his glass. With the scope I could see the tips of both horns being well broomed. Again, I knew I did not know what he was, just that he was noticeably bigger. I loved the broomed tips. He licked his nose and came on a rope at a trot. He went right up to the 60 ram. The 60 ram took off for a finger of trees. The big ram turned and pushed the ewe back to the face of our rock formation. He then went to herd a small ewe that tried to get away from the right. This brought the big ram back across us. Ishmal, brought the glass down. He made a point with his finger then chopped it with his off hand to signify the broomed tips.

“Shoot. He is okay.” Ishmal confirmed.

The 60 ram thinking the big ram was preoccupied snuck back in and started aggravating another ewe to our right. The big ram saw this spinning around. He came up behind the 60 ram and kicked him in an unprotected area. The 60 ram took off for the safety of the trees. The big ram went back to harassing in very unwoke fashion the ewes. Back came the 60 ram. He thought he had a girl only to get the big ram to knock him upside the head. Then the big ram pushed another right up against the wall of our rock formation. They were now out of sight. We heard her bleat, and run out to our left. The big ram trotted after her. He stopped on a mound. He was quartering hard away. I put the firedot between the front legs dividing the light. He died falling to the mound. His head hit first, with a bounce.

“Bravo. Bravo.” Ishamal spoke softly, but happily. He shook my hand and started to bow. I removed my hat and bowed to him. Ishmal is a strange guide. Strange in the sense that we hunted the least in time together, but he was so calming and unassuming that I enjoyed him. After he told me I could shoot, he never spoke again until the shooting was done. Some people can disappear while standing beside you. Ishmal is one of those guys. We climbed down to the ram. Ishmal pronounced him, “Old!” Like his presence, Ishamal voice goes from barley over a whisper to quiet. His smile provided the explanation point. Ishamal administered the Last Bite. I picked up his head. The exit wound was violent, large, and as I lifted his head his ruptured chest cavity sounded like a clogged sink finally draining. Blood was everywhere. The off foreleg had a whole I could place my index and middle fingers through right in the middle between the two bones. The actual exit in the chest cavity would have allowed me to put my feet in. You could not touch him without being covered in blood.

“Shooting, Bravo.” Ishmal, knelt beside me and hugged my right shoulder.

Ishmal measured the right horn. I did not think to look. Then he measured the left. I did look at the left. The tape read 70 centimeters. I could not believe how small his body was. I had read how small mouflon were. I had seen them running for their lives in Austria. I had seen pictures of them, but never up close. I could pick him up dead from the ground with my left arm and toss him. Ishmal let me carrying down to the two track.

This was the final, best gulp of the drink of luck.

Chapter V Do You want to hunt a Fallow?

Svetla and the lodge took great amazement that we brought such a good ram in. We were not supposed to have killed one this soon. After pictures and stories, Svetla was back on the phone. “Konstantin wants to know if you would like to hunt a Fallow Deer? He will give you a good price. Or do you want to spend two days in the hotel in Sophia?”

“I have killed a good fallow before. Would roe deer be possible?” I had never hunted one before."

Svetla called Konstantin. I went to talk to my wife. I told her the conversation. “I would rather you hunt roe deer because we have never hunted them.”

“I agree.” We went outside to the outdoor eating area.

Svetla was waiting on us. “So, the roe deer season is done. Konstantin wants to show you a property about an hour outside of Sophia for fallow. They are rutting now.”

“Is Konstantin coming here?” I inquired. I was hoping he was because I wanted to go over the mounts. I also wanted to make sure I was okay on my trophy fees before committing to another animal. Svetla said he was.

I said we would think about it and decide when Konstantin arrived.

Konstantin arrived. He looked at me and said, no one has killed a mouflon this quick yet. It is very thick forest this year. I smiled and told him how much I enjoyed Ishmal. That brought me to Rambo. We set at the dining room table and told the stag hunt sharing pictures and the video of the shot. I asked him if he was over the nine kilos I had booked. Rambo had put him at eight to nine.

“He looks fine on the size. He may make 9 kilos. Now, I have to think of something to do for the next two days. I have a property about one hour south of Sophia. Good fallow. They are roaring. The only issue is it is an estate. The property is 40,000 acres.”

We talked about it for a while. I had never hunted behind a fence before. Konstantin described the property. It had one internal fence that we would not be hunting behind. He offered me a fallow well below market value. I agreed. If nothing else, the food would be good.

The drive was five hours to reach Iskar. The property takes its name from the lake and river that are across from it. The property is rolling hill with oak and confer trees. More oak that confers. Inside the forest are open meadows. The lodge is nice, but older. A new lodge is being built to the right side of it. It is going to be large and nice. We arrived about five in the afternoon. Our guide was Emie. He was my height and a solid, lean two hundred pounds. He was very reserved. He wore a N frame Smith on his left side in a crossdraw holster, a Glock in his strong side holster, and a traditional knife that you see in the hunting motifs. I could not help but smile when I saw him. He looked like he just stepped on the set of a Jurassic Park movie. Konstantin and Emie spoke. At Konstantin’s gesture we approached. We all shook hands. I decided to not hunt that evening. It was agreed Emie would be back for a five in the morning departure.

There were two beautiful blue tick like hounds on the property, and one milk fat puppy. I named him Buster. We spent the evening playing with Buster, and watching fallow females come in down from a hill that rose above the lodge. One group was being chased by a buck. We could hear bucks roaring, and three would come down with females. I thought we would climb that hill into the trees and ambush a buck. “I think this is going to be easy.” I told my wife leaning into her ear. I was wrong.

We had a wonderful meal that evening of sausages links. Svetla was made two links by mistake, so I got hers. We watched a BBC/History production on Sigmund Freud. Nine at night came. My insomnia always is cured by hunting. I do not sleep until after two in the morning when I am not hunting. I am always in bed and asleep soundly by ten when hunting, and up without an alarm by four in the morning.

We were up and gone before five. We drove past a few big and one small buck as we left the area around the lodge. When cut off onto a timber cutting road, and got out. We could hear roaring all around us. We started stalking into the wind to the sound of the most roars. We penetrated the wood, and would come to an open meadow. At the far end was a large fallow pushing a few females. I do not know how big he was, but he must have been too big for us on this day. We kept the stalk on heading for a multiple roars in the distant. We dropped down off the meadow. We kept up the march. I could see wooded hill rising across dip making a saddle. We dropped down the other side. The roars were very intense. I could hear clanging. I thought that one or two were up there raking trees. The hill was still a long way off. We dropped down. My wife fell behind. However, she took every step without complaint. I knew we were going for the top of that hill.

Three females dropped off the hill across from us when we reached. We froze as they moved on. One hung back against a few small confers looking back. We moved passed at Emie’s pace. We started up. The ground had a layer of loose soil, some rock. It was pretty straight up, but not very high. My boots tried to slip, but by walking sideways I kept up. We were near the top. My wife was almost pat the quarter mark. After falling behind, she started going very slow. We held over the rise. There was not just two bucks up there roaring. There were too many to count. We could see bucks of all sizes pouring into the top of this hill and females. They were coming from all sides. The wind stayed coming into our face. One would have to drop down and come in underneath us to sent us. The females worried me. They were scattering in all direction coming on and off the hill. The bucks to me seemed to concerned with demonstrating. The raking we thought we heard was various bucks clashing antlers. The site was amazing. Emie snuck a little further up. Staying just behind the rise. He was trying to size, and cut out one to shoot. My wife made it up to my point. I was standing on a rock that kept trying to roll out from underneath me. Emie noticed my attempt to re-position and with his hand below his knees asked me to freeze. So, I did.

I whispered to my wife, “The problem here is cutting one out of this tangle and safe from hitting one on a pass through.” She tried to film and did get the roaring a clashing on record. However, the distance was too far for her iPhone to distinguish deer through the screen of trees. Eventually, I noticed a smaller buck crossing from our right in front of us. He was not in the mix. I thought that would work. Emie must have saw him about the same time. He put glass upon him. When the passed he give two fingers below his knees. He would look back at me, just enough to hear, “Two and half kilos.” He did not hold Emie’s interest. We waited and watched. The roaring was actually giving me a headache. Finally, Emie motioned that I come low and around to him. I did so. He brought me up to a twelve-inch oak in front of me. He motioned me to brace the gun against the tree on the right side. I did, but I did not like this position. My support arm had to wrap around the tree. I was still on the back side of the rise which brought me weight going downhill. The bolt was against the tree making it rock. Bucks were moving in and out of what was the setup. Emie was behind me, but more to the right. He had a better view. Every so often he would confirm, “Shoot.” I was locked to that tree. There was a gap, but everything was walking through it. I could not move with the buck as he moved into the gap. Then he was gone to the other side and another one was in the front. Bucks mixing. I was not steady, let alone comfortable.

“Not front back.” I followed the back buck. He quartered away. He finally stopped with nothing behind him. I tried to hold, but as the trigger was crushed, I felt the rifle rising, rocking on the bolt knob. I knew when the shot left the bullet went high.

Fallow went everywhere, two held dumb founded. The one I shot at disappeared over the opposite side. One of the bucks that held was large. He had a white body and cape, but his head was red which ran as strap running down to his back to the end of his tail.

I looked at Emie. “I could not see.”

“I missed.”

He asked, “You shoot at one in back.”

“Yes, over.”

We pushed forward. I think this is called a mitten. The entire top of this hill looked like a giant scrape. The ground was down to dust. There was no blood, hair, or deer to be found on the ground. I was not surprised. I apologized to Emie.

“No problem.”

We started the retreat back the way we came. On the way out we would look at one fallow. A nice, tall, but not overlay heavy passed in front of us in the first meadow. I was mad. I was not mad at the Emie. He put in front of an uncountable number of fallow. I was not mad that I missed. I was mad that I was not comfortable and tried anyway. Emie as reserved and limited in English as he was must have sensed this. He started to talk. “What you hunt at home?” What kind of truck you have?” He told me he was about to have his first son. He told me that his religion would not let him hunt until the child was born. He had spent twenty years in Germany learning and working as a forester.

I responded, “My religion is similar. I won’t have a drink until the hunting is done.”

He told me that he hunted fallow with a “thirty” and made a levering action with his hand.

“A Winchester!”

“Yes! Winchester.” Emie spoke looking at me.

“We cannot keep wolves off this property. Hard on fallow.”

I appreciated Emie desire to put the miss behind us. I looked at my wife, “He probably wants to shoot me with that revolver.”

Back at the lodge we got the facts of the morning out of the way. Through Svetla, I thanked Emie, and apologized for the miss. We shook hands. He would be back at four thirty for the afternoon patrol. I asked Svetla, “Will we go back to the same place?” She relayed to Emie.

“Yes.”

“Chew on it, shallow it, and get over it here.” I ordered myself.

The weather was very hot into the low eighties by midday. My wife volunteered to stay behind instead of making the march again. Svetla suggested that she and her would go down to the lake. I did not insist on her coming. We were comfortable to set outside. However, the dining room of the lodge is surrounded by walls that are windows and doors. The sun makes it very hot in there. If the weather had been normal, then it would have been very nice. As it was, we rested on the porch. I went down and pet Buster. I kept my mood in check, but I was not talking.

“Joshua, it is okay. It is hunting.” Svetla tried to break my wall. I smiled, but said nothing.

“I am not mad that I missed. I would rather miss than wound. I am mad I was not comfortable, and tried anyway. It is no one’s fault but myself.”

I would pass into sleep in that sun. We would take lunch of sliced sausage, bread, homemade raspberry jam, and honey.

I was ready to leave at four. Emie was there at four twenty. We left. We stopped at a station and picked up a set of shooting sticks.

We made the same march. There was no game between us and hill we were heading for. A long way away we heard a red stag roar once. Emie, “It hot. Not good.” As we closed to the bottom of the hill, we started to hear roaring again. There were obviously fewer than this morning up there. I thought to myself, “That is a blessing.” We got to the same point. Emie placed the stick in front of that same tree.

I went up on the sticks, but I still had the trunk against the rifle. At least this time the bolt was not against the three. A buck walked into the gap. “Shoot.” He passed without stopping. One came back from the left. “No shoot. He come back.” The one that walked. Another buck came roaring in from the right. The buck in the gap went left. The buck from the right stopped more or less in the gap. “That one. Shoot.”

“I can’t. All I can see is his ass.” The buck from my vantage point front half was covered by two oak trees.

I do not know if Emie understood me. The buck somehow was not walking. I leaned to the right as much as that tree would let me. My view was clear of the trees. I had his front foreleg. I broke the shot. I saw him haunch in my scope. He hunched and trotted more to the center of the top. I followed him with my head. He was frozen up and hunched. “Back.” Erie confirmed what we knew. I could not get the rifle on him for the screen of trees on the far side of our side of the hill.

I pressed the rifle with my support hand down into the sticks so when I let it go with my support hand the sticks would not fall out from under the rifle. I brought my support hand around to myside of the tree. I grabbed the rifle and sticks. I picked them up and stepped to the right. I did not wait. I did not ask. I just did. The scope cleared. I held for the shoulder blade. The sear slid from the trigger. The fallow hit the ground with a bounce. He was dead before the sounding of the shot reached its apex. I looked back at Emie.

We walked up to him. The shoulder blade had been centered. The blade was crushed. There was no bone on either side of the buck where there should be bone. He simply felt like mush that had been wrapped in plastic wrap. The spine would be gone. The lungs gone. The bullet exited. The first shot was dead center in the upper intestines. This shot had also exited. The vertical line was perfect for the heart. The horizontal line was three feet back. I was relieved to end it. I was relieved that I cleaned the miss up fast. I do not know why it took me three shots to do it right. The only emotion I had was relief. Relief that he was down and dead in a matter of seconds.

I looked up at Emie, “I do not know why I could not do that with the first two shots. All I can say is I am sorry.”

“Maybe, move.” Emie responded.

Emie knelt down and checked the fallow’s teeth. I imagined they looked like the boy’s teeth from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory that liked candy. They were black and going. Emie, rubbed them, “Old. Nine maybe ten.”

I looked at his palms they had divots where he had been fighting. “I am sorry old man.” I whispered. Emie had moved off to prepare for the last bite. We shot him as three and two hundredths kilos.

Emie did allow me to help drag him out. I have no idea how much he weighed. I would put him somewhere just south of two hundred pounds.
When we arrived back at the lodge the girls were still gone. We decided to walk down to the lake and get them. We just rounded the lodge when we saw them coming.

“Tell them we missed.”

Emie walked on down, so they would not see the palm sticking out of the back of the Toyota.

“I missed.”

“No! you didn’t!” Svetla said smiling and looked to Emie.

Emie was a pro at this. He just shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head while looking down.

My wife looked at me. I could feel a twitch of a smile. “He is lying.”

“No, we’re not. I missed again.”

The girls both looked to Emie. He spoke a few syllables not in English.

My wife looked back at me. I felt the twitch of a smile. She saw it. “He is lying.” She pointed at my face. “He lies better.” Her finger moved back to Emie. Svetla translated.

The smiles became laughs. We walked to the truck. I told what had happened. My wife insisted we have him European mounted. I pointed at Emie’s revolver and thought Svetla, “Revolver for pigs, Glock for people, knife for reload.” Emie head went to the right with a smile. Before, Emie took the buck off to be skinned and processed, I shook his hand. I would have loved to have gone with him. I asked, but I was instructed such was not necessary. I could not get across that I just wanted too.

The next day would be Friday. We fly out at five in the morning on Saturday. Konstantin would be there tomorrow at noon. We had a wonderful final meal of seared trout and fallow buck tenderloin medallions roasted with potatoes. Svetla’s got to be mine. We also had the best baklava.

Svetla turned on the television to an English-speaking channel. It was an episode of that “Finding Big Foot” nonsense. Svetla had no reference point for Big Foot. She certainly did not have any reference point for a guy who thought Big Foot spoke Apache, tried to challenge Big Foot for territory by urinating all over the place, and set the woods on fire trying to heard a Big Foot with fireworks. Watching her reactions added to the great comedy that was before us. Somewhere in a lull I looked over at my wife, “My troubles with fallow deer continue.” I spoke flatly.

“That is right. You just cut the throat of the one with Klemens with the first shot.”

Chapter VI Now We Have to Get Home

We came down for breakfast the morning we were to depart Sophia. We slept in until eight in the morning. Emie was waiting to meet us and send us off in full gear. I had not expected to see him. We shook hands and exchanged goodbyes. He sure earned his money putting up with me. Konstantin would be there by noon to pick us up. I over indulged on that homemade raspberry jam and bread knowing it was my last time to taste it.

I went to find Buster after breakfast. Sadly, he was not to be found. Two employees were sighting their rifle behind the lodge for a day of stalking.

Konstantin and the “Director” of this property arrived. I was given his name. Sadly, my notes did not record it. The first thing Konstantin said when he saw me was, “Good Shot.” I felt very small. I thought it was a rib. The Director nodded in agreement. We set down at the table. Konstantin and the director across from the wife and I, Svetla took her place at the head and in between as note taker and administrator. I sailed right into the wind.

“The last shot was very good. The first and second shots were insulting.” I looked at the interpreter. “I am sorry I shot up your place.”
I had Svetla interpret. Konstantin shook his head, looked down and to his right as he spoke,
“No. No. It is good. Nothing wounded. Emie said he collapsed.”

The Director shook his head up and down with a smile, “Down! and he slapped the table.”

I graciously did not say anymore.

Konstantin inquired, “How did you like it here?”

I looked at the Director, “Beautiful property. The food wonderful.” I described what we had seen on our stalks.

We got everything loaded. I asked Konstantin if there was a gun room in Sophia. There is a gun room in Sophia. This one purveyor of goods exceeded anything I had seen in Paris. The size overwhelmed the gun room I love so much in Vienna. The gun room is two stories. The lower level with gear and good knives gives way to a marble staircase. The second level is the firearms. The inventory is full with Mauser of all types, Blazer, Benelli, and CZ. Ivory tusk guard the doorway to this haven. I could have stayed twelve hours in this place and not seen all I wanted and desired to.

Svetla and Konstantin helped check us in at the Intercontinental Hotel. It is immaculate, if not a little commercial. One less adventurous could fly in to Sophia, check in the Intercontinental, and within two squares enjoy four course dinning, a Casino better than most in Vegas, and other upscale adult entertainment. Neither Casinos or other adult options are my style. However, food and drink are my third and fourth passions, following my wife and hunting.

First, Svetla took us on another small tour as my wife wanted to see some clothes shopping. This was a little lacking. We took lunch at a restaurant recommend by Svetla. We had a brick fire pizza. I had Bolognese lasagna. Desert found my fake coffee addict wife enjoying a vanilla coffee with ice cream. I had a wonderful tiramisu. The mascarpone was the best of any tiramisu I have had anywhere. We stopped at a Lindt chocolate store on the way back the Intercontinental. I cannot say how much I envy a place that serves good chocolate and wine in the same place. Kentucky does not allow such things. We made sure to pick out the made in Swiss chocolate. There is a tremendous difference in the same brand we are making here. I wish I would have bought more.

We strong armed Svetla into joining us for a drink at the hotel bar. I ordered for everyone. Svetla insisted she did not drink, but would to our time. I ordered her a Royal. My wife got a Gin based drink. I ordered a Manhattan with Maker’s Mark. I had the bartender pour me whatever he thought was special. I presented me with a Japanese Whiskey that was very Islay Scotch. I liked it. However, not as much as he.

I made us dinner reservations at “Captain Cook” next to the hotel.

We invited Svetla to dinner. She begged off. We offered to get her a cab. She insisted upon the bus. We had her share her pictures and stories of Portugal. Of going to Madeira and Oporto. When she insisted upon leaving, we walked her to her bus.

Dinner was upon us when we returned. The meal was very special. We ordered a bottle of German Chardonnay. My wife for an appetizer got a seared zucchini we had had during our hunt for fallow. I had bluefin tuna sushi and shumai. I love sushi the best we can get anywhere is yellowfin. Bluefin was the treat I wanted it to be. The flesh had a citrus note. My wife does not like tuna raw. She liked bluefin. I had texted a friend who does some traveling if he would order bluefin sushi in a good restaurant in Bulgaria. He did not respond. I took the gamble. There was no gamble.

My dish was a pasta tossed with mushrooms and white truffles in parmesan. That is the what, but not the how. The how was the waiter brought a wheel of Parmigiano-Reggiano. He glazed the wheel with brandy, and blazed the wheel. He worked the brandy into the wheel until the flame subsided. Then he massaged a crater out of the wheel with melted mounds of Parmigiano-Reggiano around the crater. The pasta, truffles, and mushrooms were added to the crater. The mixture was worked and plated. I want to go back just for this dish. My wife had a wonderful sea bass. She finished with a desert. The price was eighty dollars United States. The Bulgarian consideration was very high. We were able to pay in Euros for a small charge. I would have paid double, asked for more, and smiled.

The taxi was early which was good. Svetla met us at the Airport. Now, the bad luck returned. Bulgaria Air is not part of Delta/AirFrance. Bulgaria Air cannot see what reservations are made through Delta/AirFrance. The little, twenty-year old refused to check our bags to our last destination, which was N.KY/Cincinnati.

The first time I was nice, “We have a reservation through Delta to Cincinnati. Please call, Delta. They will tell you.”

“I do not see where you are flying to Cincinnati. I am not calling anyone.”

“Are you kidding me. You are an airport. They are an airliner. Just call them.”

“I am not calling. You can.”

Now, I am not being nice, “I cannot call. My cellphone will not make calls out of this country. I can give you a number, but I do not see why an airport cannot call an airline!”

“I am not calling anyone. I see you have two bags declared with us to Paris. I will check the bags to Paris.”

I was very frustrated. “Fine. Check them to Paris. I will check them again when we arrive.” My reason was blinded by anger.

Svetla very quietly and softly asked my wife, “What is your layover in Paris?”

My wife responded, “One and half hours.”

I saw Svetla out of the corner of my eye. Her faced grimaced. She spoke again very quietly and diplomatically to my wife, “Not enough time. Fix it here.”

My wife told me this. What the fiery, sinful, domicile of Satan. We had two hours to kill.

I went back to trying to get the airport attendant to call Delta. She refused, and directed us to the even more useless SwissPort. The even younger looking lady informed me that she would not make the call.

“Fine! if you will not make a call, will you give me the number you would use to call Delta?” I was talking with my eyes closed to hide what my wife calls “murder eyes.”

The reasonableness of this requests could not be challenged. She provided the number. Svetla used her phone without asking to dial it. We got Delta on the phone who set the airport attendant right. The observer could tell she did not like being triumphed.

She sent us through to baggage check where no one was attending. We held our peace for a moment. Svetla on her own volition went and brought an attendant. We were on our way. We hugged her, and thanked her for all she had done for us. We would have been hurting without her. She asked us to let her know when we arrived in the United States. We did so.

The flight to Atlanta was uneventful.

There has been a lot of conversation about what or how hunters traveling with guns are to satisfy requirements of the Federal Government. The EEI and EIN that appear to have been put in place in Dallas/Fort Worth before an actual registration program was in place. I had no issues with Customs at either Atlanta or N.KY/Cincinnati. I did not have to put my passport in any boxes. No one called me out to a secret room. However, my bags were re-rotted off our jet in Paris. The Customs Officer in Atlanta and Delta staff were very apologetic and worked hard to figure out what the deal was. Apparently, the flight was overweight. The first bag off when the flight is overweight are any firearms. This includes military. The rifle case was set to be in Cincinnati the next day. We flew back into Atlanta because it gave us a much needed one and half hour layover in Paris instead of the much too soon of a departure of thirty minutes to fly to N.KY/Cincinnati directly. However, due to rain finally falling in the Southeast after three months of no rain, our four-hour layover turned into a seven-hour layover due to three-hour delay.

We arrived in Northern Kentucky with a three-hour drive ahead of us. I was back at the airport at one thirty in the afternoon to pick up my rifle. The rifle arrived. However, my rifle was the last bag brought out. I understand this. The folks on the plane have places they have to be. Northern Kentucky police officer normally escorts you out with a firearm. The Officer and I spoke of the Kurds and Kosovo. He had been in Kosovo and Desert Storm I. However, he went off the clock before the rifle was brought up. Someone put the case on the wrong belt. I found it. I had the baggage claims folk call customs. Customs came compared the Form 4457 against the Serial Number. I was on my way home by three thirty in the afternoon.

I would do this hunt again in a heartbeat. I owe Georgi and Ilko a few more climbs when the stags there are roaring. I would like to see the other side of the country. Svetla is from there. She said the villages there are not like the northern, gypsy villages we were next to. The main animal in the southern mountains is Chamois and free range. It is a hunt that is in my mind.

Miscellaneous Observations:

My wife is the cultural shopper. It is her assessment that Sophia is not the shopping for the spouse that likes such things that a Paris, London, or even Vienna is. The food will rival those locations.

Konstantin and his people will bend over backwards and walk on their hands for you.
I wish that I could have been present for the skinning and got to do more of the “work.” Like I said, they do not need me telling them what to do. I just want to be there in the party.

Someone needs to straighten Bulgaria Air out. I do not see this happening unless Delta or AirFrance start running flights on their own jets into Sophia. Arjun recommends Turkish Air. If I go back, I will look into this. The old rules hold best. We had our paperwork right, and give yourself at least two hours at the airport.

When you get your pocket currency in order, have your bank provide you Bulgarian currency. Euros and American Dollars are not used.
If you can make it fit, pack a soft sided gun case.

I have written on here prior how our first trip we used a Booking Agent. We were very dissatisfied with that service. The next time we did it ourselves. The experience was much better. Arjun was a pleasure to work with. He answered all my questions. He had folks where and when he said they would be there. My rifle had the necessary import paperwork.

I do not care what the sales reports say, the world belongs to either the .308 Win, 30/06, and 7mm Remington Magnum. These were the only three cartridges I saw in guides trucks or on target ranges.

If anyone want picks of animals, food, or lodges, please P.M. me a email or IPhone number.

Joshua, very informative write up and felt like I was there with you almost. The pics you sent were great to.
Glad you had a good hunt and see you in England

Thanks for the great write-up! Very interesting. Congratulations! I'll PM you about photos.

quote:

Arjun was a pleasure to work with. He answered all my questions. He had folks where and when he said they would be there. My rifle had the necessary import paperwork.

if the rest of the world could just do these few simple things..
just number-2 would be awesome.

First off I was concerned about the drama with the airplanes, but now that I have read the report all I can think is "hell of a good adventure", and you got to share it with Mrs. Heym, so that is great.

I was thinking about this on my walk home from work today. You know if you can have a guy that squared away on a hunt why would you book with someone else?

Waidmannsheil or Dach Bror or whatever they say to celebrate the trophy in Bulgaria. I am glad you had a good hunt, and enjoyed some travel.

Sounds like good hunt
Bureaucracy has no boundaries and that’s where good agent comes in
Eastern Europe is at times like a nightmare when it comes to bureaucracy
In the end, end good all good

I'm posting the photos that Joshua sent me. If he said anything, I'll add that to the post. Otherwise, they follow the hunt in chronological order.

"First Set"

"Meet pig"

"Stag"

"2nd Lodge"

"Mouflon"

"Buster and on March for fallow. Note the damn tree"

"Fallow Lodge"

"Fallow and last night in Sophia"

Thanks for sending the photos! What a great experience.

Hannay:

Thank you kindly for playing IT.

Damn Joshua
Nice trophies, my recommendation is “ Don’t measure them” as it takes away from overall experience
Books, inches, centimeters...seems silly to me anymore
Anyway, it will be nice addition to your living room and some great conversation pieces with friends and family

I do not care about score. I do like heavy animals. Mass and age. Or character.

My only care about score is with Euro pricing structure, I do not want to shoot over budget.

Thank you all .

Great report Joshua, very well written. It was a pleasure setting up your hunt. Bulgaria is indeed a very nice hunting destination with nice lodges, good densities of game and good organisation its a hard to beat european hunting destination. I think its also one of the best places for big red stag.

Thanks!

Arjun Reddy
Hunters Networks LLC
30 Ivy Hill Road
Brewster, NY 10509
Tel: +1 845 259 3628
2020, DSC booth # 2350
2020, SCI booth # 3167

Thank you all. I am slowly going back and trying to edit the report. I am sorry for first draft typos. Trying to get it up, in between work.

I think about 10 years from now you will remember the vegan translator and the food, the wonderful animals you took, and the people.

Time has a good way of helping our brains wax over the problems of a trip.

Great report, thanks for the time and effort you put in to that. My wife and I hunted Bulgaria in 2017 and earlier this year. Your conversations were exactly the same as we had, so it brought back a lot of memories.

We hunted in the southern part of the country both times, the Rodope mountains. They have Chamois, Roe Deer, Red Deer, Boar, and Capercallie. We did the Capercallie hunt this year and it was a magical hunting experience.

We flew Lufthansa through Frankfurt both times...no issues at all either time.

The travel issues thanks to the good people in the report were advanced past.

Just make sure you do have the paperwork, and enough time to work through it.

Sometimes the cards just break against you. The only set of facts that got me fired up was when leaving with Bulgaria Air. We had it lined out. Sevtla was there with the tag. All well that ends well.

The Rodope Mountains is the region I have not seen. Going to the Rodope for chamois is on my mind. The only thing stopping me is time and money.

Enjoyed your report very much and congrats on what sounds like grand adventure. Thanks for sharing!

Just took the time to read your report. Great adventure with great amenities and company. Well done sir.

Wow! Great report. Congratulations on a spectacular adventure! Thanks for sharing.

Ski+3
Whitefish, MT

Guys: Thank you for the kind words. I have reread the report. I am averaging a typo every 3 paragraphs.

Indeed a Great Report. Thanks for sharing !

Wow! Did I miss this!? Outstanding!

Great trip! Thanks for sharing.

Fantastic report Joshua! Thanks for posting it.