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Hunting in Spain – Part Two

Tim Herald
|  
  • Tim Herald

THIS TWO PART BLOG SERIES FEATURES THE ADVENTURES OF WTA CONSULTANT TIM HERALD, AS HE TRAVELS TO SPAIN IN SEARCH OF IBEX.

PART 2 – GREDOS IBEX & RHONDA IBEX

In part one of this story, I wrote about my hunts for the Beceite and Sierra Nevada ibex in Spain. On that trip, I decided I had to come back, and hunting the other 2 subspecies, the Gredos and Rhonda ibex, seemed like a good plan to experience different hunts and see different parts of Spain.

 

I flew into Madrid just the Monday after Thanksgiving 2016, and Vicente Gil picked me up and we drove to the village of La Alberca,  where we would be based for the Gredos hunt. It was a beautiful quaint village with friendly people and wonderful food. I had looked forward to eating some of the delicious Spanish jamon (ham) for a year and a half, and it did not disappoint.

 

Once again, before the hunt we met up with some local game scouts and away we went. The ibex were in rut, and it didn’t take long for us to locate a few groups, and every one seemed to have a big billy as the boss. We found one group about 1000 yards away that had a great billy, and they were actually below us. Vicente said he was a good one, but wanted to press on around the mountain to an area where the scouts had been seeing a lot of animals.

 

We got to a good lookout, and there was a big billy and a smaller one peering over a cliff, skylined about 600 yards away. They were on a ridge above us, so we tucked back in for a chat. I told Vicente that both billies in both groups looked good to me, and he said they were similar in size. He suggested we go after the high one first, and if it didn’t work out, we had a plan B on the low one.

 

We backed around a point and began to climb, and sweat. Once on the ridge, we moved from rock to rock glassing and moving slowly. We saw a small male and some females, but it took a while to find the big billy. When we did, he was only 80 yards away, but we could only see his horns.

 

Eventually he and a buddy moved off, and it took another hour maneuvering around to find them again. When we did, there were more than 50 animals in the herd, and of course one spotted us, and they all took off.

 

They dashed down into a drainage, and I figured they were gone for good, but then some emerged on the other side of the draw to go up and over. I got ready to shoot, and luckily the big billy trotted out in the open, and I was able to make a good shot and drop him.

Tim setting up for his shot
Tim setting up for his shot
Gredos Ibex
Tim’s Gredos Ibex

 

He was absolutely magnificent with hug sweeping horns, and we aged him at 12 years-old by his growth rings. I felt very blessed to have taken such a special old animal.

 

We had a great dinner that evening, and the next morning, we drove about 7 hours south to a small village just north of the city Malaga. This was to be our base for hunting the smallest of the four Spanish ibex, the Rhonda.

 

We found many ibex, but the weather was our nemesis. While I was there, they had a 30-year rain event that flooded the lowlands, and there were days that visibility was under 100 yards due to heavy fog.

fullsizerender-3
Heavy fog in the rhonda area

One day we got a break, and drove around to glass. We glassed a high mountain from the bottom, and spotted a small billy on the highest rock. Vicente told me the we would climb up and hunt. I thought we were going after the small billy, but that was lost in interpretation. It was a LONG and very steep climb to get to the top. It was one of those situations where you just keep telling yourself to just put one foot in front of (or in this case, above) the other, and keep going.

 

Once we reached the top, the area was scattered with huge rocks, and there was patchy fog. We saw some nannies, and we began moving and glassing. I then realized we were not going for the small billy as he was still in sight, and I was quite relieved.

 

We went over the ridge and a huge drainage ame up from the bottom and we began glassing the far side. Suddenly Vicente grabbed my shoulder and hurriedly pulled me behind a boulder and said “grande macho ibex.” I could figure that one out, and I too got excited.

 

I peeked across with my Nikon binos, and saw a band if ibex, but I could not see a big male. I knew these were the smallest of all the subspecies, but all the billies I saw looked tiny. Vicente eventually pointed the big male out, and I ranged him at about 450 yards.

 

We decided to crawl as best we could to try to cut some distance, and we ended up at 325 yards. Luckily a bit of fog rolled in, and it helped mask our movements. Lucky that is until I got ready to shoot. I dialed my turret to 325 yards, and as I was knocking my safety off, a heavy fog bank rolled in and completely blocked my view. I was in disbelief. I literally needed two more seconds.

 

I lay there impatiently waiting and after about ten minutes, the fog thinned. I was actually surprised that the billy was still there, so I didn’t waste any time. I hit the safety again, settled the crosshairs on his shoulder and touched the trigger. The billy crumbled on the spot, and I could see one horn above the rocks where he lay.

fullsizerender

We were all elated, and after a few hugs and handshakes, we began the hike over to the ibex. It was quite a chore to traverse all the rocks on this mountain, but we finally made it, and he was just gorgeous. Honestly, he was much larger than I expected for a Rhonda ibex, and he was wider than any I had ever seen in photos.  What a fantastic way to end my second trip to Spain.

 

All of the four ibex lived in different terrain and provided completely different hunts, but all were special for their own reasons. Hunting Spain is a true joy, and I will go back one day, if nothing else to eat good food and see good friends, but I’ll probably find a way to squeeze a hunt in too.

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Gould’s Turkey Hunting in Mexico’s Sierra Madres with Muy Grande Outfitters

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Few places compare to Muy Grande’s ranch in Mexico’s Sierra Madres for chasing Gould’s turkey, the biggest of all wild turkeys, marked by the striking white tips on its tail fan. As a WTA consultant, I’ve seen their guides deliver consistently, making it a top destination for hunters working toward the World Turkey Slam. Add in rugged country and a proven outfitter, and it becomes an experience every turkey hunter should have.

Turkey season runs from early April through early May. You’ll typically fly into Phoenix, then catch a morning hop to Hermosillo, Mexico, arriving around 11:30 a.m. After customs, Sergio or Pedro will greet you with a cold drink and a van stocked with sandwiches for the scenic ride ahead. From Hermosillo’s 700 feet, you’ll climb through 5 hours of winding Sierra Madre roads to the ranch at 3,000 feet. The journey is half the fun—curves, vistas, and glimpses of the country you’ll be hunting. By about 7 p.m., you’ll be unpacking in your room. Open your window to the cool mountain air and let it lull you into one of the best nights of sleep you’ll ever experience.

The food is reason enough to make the trip. Muy Grande’s French chef has 20 years of experience with serving up everything from ribs to authentic Mexican dishes, hearty breakfasts, and appetizers. You’ll need the delicious calories for the long days in the open country chasing Toms. Mornings start early and you may spend up to two hours on ranch roads before reaching your spot. Dry mountains, steep valleys, and big country define the day. Want to call birds from a pop-up blind? They’ve got you covered. Prefer run-and-gun? This is prime terrain for it. With one-on-one guides, the hunt is tailored to your style.

The Gould’s turkey is the largest subspecies in North America, and in the field, they stand out as they strut down dusty trails, flashing their tall frames and bright white fan tips. They’re plentiful here. On my last trip, the group of five tagged six birds by the end of day one—some from blinds, others by stalking ridges. Gobbles echo through the canyons all morning, and the guides know every fold of the landscape and the flocks that roam it. The hunt package includes in-field transport, trophy care, lodging, meals, guide service, and a license waiting for you at camp—everything dialed in so you can focus solely on finding your big ol’ Tom.

Getting your bird back home is simple. The outfitter freezes it—whole or just the fan—and handles the paperwork. Flying back through Phoenix is smooth—customs deals with turkeys regularly. Just bring the address of a USDA-certified taxidermist and a sturdy suitcase big enough for your trophy.

The gear list for this trip is straightforward: good hiking boots, lightweight shirts, face mask, hat, gloves, and a jacket for the cool mornings. Days can hit 90° F in April, but the temp drops quickly at night, so pack for variety. After tagging out, you’ll head back to Hermosillo for a final night at the Fiesta Americana, a top-notch hotel, before flying home—though early successes can open the door to earlier flights.

Muy Grande is a place of raw beauty, from stone-fenced corrals to mountain views stretching for miles. Hermosillo itself might surprise you—not a rough frontier town, but a safe, vibrant city where families are out and about. If you’re looking for an authentic Gould’s turkey adventure in a spectacular setting with unmatched hospitality, this hunt should be on your wish list. Book through WTA and come chase the turkey that towers above the rest.

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Building a Quail Hunter’s Paradise: Habitat Improvements and Day Hunts at Stonewall Plantation Outfitters

Building a Quail Hunter’s Paradise: Habitat Improvements and Day Hunts at Stonewall Plantation Outfitters

Expanding into quail hunting was a natural fit to complement Salt River Outfitters’ already thriving deer hunting operation. With a clear vision and a commitment to quality, we set out to create a quail program that could stand among the best in the region. Drawing on the expertise of skilled dog handlers, seasoned habitat specialists, and our experienced guides and habitat managers, we’ve built something special.

Over the last few years, we’ve been steadily transforming Stonewall Plantation’s land from cattle pasture to high-quality bobwhite quail habitat. We aimed to create hunts that feel as close to wild as possible, and unlike confined shooting preserves, our hunting grounds span diverse terrain including ridges, hollows, and rolling hills. That transformation hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. A huge part of that effort has focused on the removal of invasive fescue which had taken over much of the pasture. Fescue chokes out native grasses and eliminates the natural cover and food sources that the quail depend on. Through persistent spraying and management, we’ve brought back the native species and laid the groundwork for wildlife to thrive.

In addition to native grasses, we’ve planted food plots throughout the property—carefully selected mixes of grain sorghum, millet, sunflowers, corn, and Korean lespedeza. These plots not only support healthy quail populations, but they’ve also created a boom in other wildlife. Watching our dogs lock up on a big covey of birds is a rewarding moment, and those moments are coming more frequently each year.

Our last season proved that the work is paying off. Hunters enjoyed productive days in the field, with strong bird numbers and multiple coveys flushed during most outings. Many visitors left with full game bags, big smiles, and stories they’ll tell for years. Based on the success of a limited trial last year, we’re also excited to expand access with guided day hunts this upcoming season. In October and December, we’ll offer morning and afternoon hunts for up to three hunters at a time. Each hunter will have the opportunity to harvest up to 30 birds, with lunch included in the hunt package. It’s a new way to experience Salt River, whether you’re a first-time guest or a returning visitor.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard: “My dad and I hunted quail when I was younger, but with quail numbers down, we haven’t hunted them in years.” Last season, a gentleman booked a hunt for his father, his son, and himself—three generations in the field. The stories they shared around the dinner table that night were moving and unforgettable. The joy in their eyes and the bond they rekindled through the hunt reminded me why we do this.

Being part of such an experience—where a grandfather and father can introduce a young man to something they’ve cherished for decades—is priceless. Our goal at Stonewall Plantation Outfitters is to continue creating new memories for many seasons to come.

The habitat is stronger. The lodge is more comfortable. The birds are flying better. And our program now has a proven track record of delivering exceptional hunts. Whether you’re coming for a full three-day experience or joining us for a day hunt, we can’t wait to share this quail hunting heaven with you.

Single Day Hunt Muli-Day Hunt with Lodging Watch…
Chasing the Wild Turkey – 35 Years to a World Slam

Chasing the Wild Turkey – 35 Years to a World Slam

The Grand Slam of Wild Turkey is the successful harvest of an Eastern, Rio Grande, Merriam’s, and Osceola. Then there’s the Royal Slam, which is a Grand Slam plus the Gould. Add an Ocellated, and you have the World Slam. After 35 years of chasing turkeys, I completed my World Slam!

Dick Kirby

It started when I was 17 years old. I shot an Eastern with my Remington 870, a birthday present from my dad the year prior. I harvested this beautiful bird in the woods behind my childhood home in Orchard Park, New York, home to Quaker Boy Game Calls and founder/turkey hunting legend, Dick Kirby.

On that same birthday, my high school girlfriend’s mother bought me video on VHS tape from this fantastic homegrown company. One segment included in the video was a how-to about roosting a wild turkey. My birthday falls in October, but the New York spring turkey season wouldn’t open until May. During this agonizing six-month stretch, I watched that video at least a hundred times and practiced my owl hoot thousands of times. I drove my family up the wall, but when May finally arrived, I was ready to roll.   

My mother always did a fantastic job with dinner, and my father made damn sure we were all at the kitchen table for her wonderful creations. I remember wolfing down my supper, absolutely dying to hit the woods behind the house to try roosting an elusive gobbler at sunset. When I say elusive, I mean elusive. Back then, the turkey numbers were nothing like they are today, which is a testament to hunter dollars and the great work of the National Wild Turkey Foundation (NWTF)

My dad could tell that I had something important on my mind. He finally gave in. He looked at me, half annoyed, half proud, and just said, “Go!”

I was excused just in the nick of time. I grabbed my black-plastic, can-style Quaker Boy owl hooter, laced up my K-Mart hunting boots, and hit the ground running. We had an enormous block of beautiful hardwoods behind the house that went on for miles, with railroad tracks bisecting the big tract of forest. The year before, a buddy and I tried to work a bird just off the tracks to no avail. That was the first time I ever heard a turkey gobble. We didn’t end up killing that bird. We bumped him off the limb—just being young and dumb.

Anyway, I finally reached the exact location from the year before and pulled out my owl call. Per Dick Kirby’s instruction, right at sunset, I let out a “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you all!” My hoot rang out across the big hardwood bottom, and I’ll be damned if a bird didn’t immediately answer the call with a deep, hard, Eastern turkey gobble not 100 yards away. I went into a mild state of shock.

I darted home to dial my best friend, Jeff Bevevino (aka Bev), who lived just down the way. Remember when you had everybody’s phone number memorized? This was 1989.  

(Bev’s father, Jim Bevevino, to whom I am forever grateful for introducing me to hunting two years earlier).

Jeff and Jim Bevevino

The phone conversation went something like this:

  • Bev: “Hello?”
  • Me: “Hey, it’s Pawlak. Man, you’re not going to believe this…I just roosted a gobbler behind the house.”
  • Bev: “No way!”
  • Me: “Yep, he’s on the other side of the tracks, off Middlebury Road, by the pond.”
  • Bev: “I guess we’re not going to hit that party tonight. I’ll be at your house at 4:45 a.m. sharp!”

If it was the weekend in Orchard Park, New York back in the late ’80s or early ’90s, there was a high school party going on somewhere, and Bev and I were typically in attendance. Not this time. Bev came rolling up in his cherry red 1970 Ford pick-up at 4:45 a.m. on the dot. I set my shotgun behind the seat and jumped in. We discussed how neither of us had slept a wink and devised a plan of attack.

We decided to drive down Knob Hill Road, hit Middlebury, and park at the dead end. This would save us a long walk through the spooky, pitch black, haunted forest. Instead, we would take the long way and walk the tracks to the dominant tom’s roost.

We finally arrived. It was still pretty dark when I hit the owl call. We were rookie turkey hunters, but again, that ol’ tom let out a thunderous gobble high from his perch. Bev’s eyes opened wide. “Wow, he’s right there!” he whispered.

It was an extremely steep bank off the railroad rock apron leading down into the hardwood bottom where the bird was perched. We were whispering back and forth, trying to figure out how to descend from the tracks to the forest floor without making a racket. Just then, way off in the distance, we heard the whistle of the morning train.

It was decided. We would wait. When the train came rumbling by, we would use the noise as cover and slip into position. The massive smoke-breathing locomotive was finally on us, and we dropped in. We found comfortable ambush sets at the bases of two big silver maples, about 10 yards apart. This way, we figured we could cover a larger area should the gobbler commit.

As the train rolled on, it became quiet again. I don’t remember the Spring woods coming alive as the sun began to rise. There was dead silence. And then, when it was just light enough, I hit the plunger on a Quaker Boy Easy Yelper four times: yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp. Way too loud—I had no idea how effective a light tree call could be back then. But, unbelievably, the bird answered me with another thunderous gobble. He was still on the limb, not 80 yards from our turkey-hunting setup. At least I had the sense not to call again. Two minutes later, we heard him hit the ground. I called again. He hammered back and it shook us to our core. I didn’t dare touch the call again until he gobbled on his own. I then answered back with my way-too-loud series of four yelps.

Unbeknownst to me, Bev was able to watch the entire show, the flydown, the tom in and out of strut, and his methodical approach. Where I was positioned, I could only hear him. I later learned that Bev could have killed him on two different occasions, but the bird was still closing the distance, so he let him come. What an unselfish young hunter! The old tom then swung around to the direction of my call and I smoked him at 10 yards. We ran up to the flopping longbeard. We were in utter disbelief. Speechless and still shaking, we just looked from the dead tom to each other.

That was it. I was hooked. In 35 years, I’ve never missed a Spring turkey season.

My Best Hunt

If you ever get the chance, head to the jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula and hunt for the Ocellated. This place is impossible to describe. The best outdoor writers on the planet cannot adequately put this Indiana Jones-type adventure into perspective. All I can say is, call WTA, ask for Mike Mason, and book with WTA-owned outfitter Balam. This adventure deep in the jungle is something you will never forget.

My Biggest Bird

In 2004, I took a 26-pound Rio in Stafford, Kansas with a 12″ beard and enormous hooks. However, the best part of this hunt wasn’t the size of this bird. It was meeting Dr. Fritz and Judy Farmer and their two pet wolves, Cubby and Bear. Judy has since passed on. She was a wonderful, sweet, generous woman…the very best. Fritz became a friend for life.

My…

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