Post by warsaw on Sept 26, 2016 9:01:51 GMT -9
Romania was and is the land of bears in Europe. August von Spieß hunted in his home country – especially in the dense Carpathian forests – at the end of the 19th and in the first third of the 20th century. His experiences with bears, and the herdsmen and peasants who had a hard time with the big predators, are indescribable. Here are a few tales from the great hunter’s pen
Bear, wolf and wild boar: these are the natural enemies of our mountain inhabitants. They either make themselves unpopular by raiding herds of cattle, goats and sheep or are hated because they destroy fields of corn, grain and potato. It is no wonder that the farmers tried to exterminate this vermin from their property by any means possible, whenever and wherever they could.
That is why gunpowder and lead, iron, snares and traps had to be used to rid the region of this scourge. Even fire and smoke assisted in destroying specific troublemakers. I was told that when hunting was still unrestricted, an undesirable female bear in the Petroșani region, which had raided numerous villages, was beleaguered by hunters in winter after she had retreated into a cave and given birth to cubs. When the bear didn’t want to leave the cave and its cubs behind, despite the hollering and shouting from the village hunters standing at the cave entrance, they were simply burned out with a fire made with spruce branches.
I also heard a similar story from an old farmer-hunter in the northern region of Moldova near Brosteni, who proudly told me that they once smoked five bears out of a rock cave and killed them one by one as they emerged.
Indeed a terribly barbaric but radical method used by the people to rid themselves of this menace. You cannot really blame the people for using all means available, considering that our mountain inhabitants owe their already difficult and arduous existence mainly to cattle and sheep farming, and the break-ins from predators, especially bears and wolves, can rob many families of their entire livelihood in a single night. It is then understandable that these people often lose their patience and deal with the robbers unceremoniously.
I know of countless cases where a single nocturnal break-in destroyed entire flocks of sheep. Due to the panic that ensued, the sheep jumped headfirst off the cliff and were smashed to pieces. Once there were 80 dead sheep lying in the Arpash valley that just jumped into the abyss in the dark where most bear attacks occur. Then you can see hundreds of monk vultures and golden eagles, sometimes even bearded vultures (Gypaetus barbatus) on such fields of death that clean the bones of the cadavers in the shortest time with some help from crows, feral dogs and other predators.
Also among the cattle, especially in July and August when the male bear, having made it through the bear season, cannot find any ripe forest fruits, there is often a terrible carnage in the herds. These are usually solitary old warriors who have become a veritable plague with their uninterrupted raids.
Then in 1897, I shot an old male bear which had killed over 100 sheep, a donkey and three pigs all in one summer, and in 1906 a second one, which had caused so much damage with its forays among the grazing cattle in the mountains around the parish Orlat that the parish office finally turned to me to rid the region of this thief.
I succeeded in doing the same in 1929 with one of these menaces. The assaults usually occur as follows: Attacks mainly occur on dark, wet-cold nights or even by day when thick fog envelops mountain and valley. After the sheep have been milked and settled to ruminate around the fire or the primitive stone hut covered in spruce bark, the herdsmen and boys sit around a blazing fire and prepare the customary cornmeal cakes – here called mamalinga, in Italian polenta.
A short distance away, encircling the shepherds, the large number of dogs is having a siesta.
The shepherd’s flocks of sheep were then and still are subject to constant attacks by the big predators bear and wolf.
The shepherd’s flocks of sheep were then and still are subject to constant attacks by the big predators bear and wolf.
Photo: von Spieß
Then suddenly one of them starts barking. It is barking in the direction of the spruce forest interspersed with mountain pine and green alder. This means something, but it is not enough to ruffle the sons of nature sitting around the steaming pot. The sheepdog also becomes quiet after a short time. The Ciobane (shepherds) calmly eat their polenta with milk or cheese and soon they are lying wrapped in their furs snoring around the dying embers. Midnight has come and a fine drizzle is precipitating from the dense fog patches. The dogs huddle under cliffs while the herders burrow down lower into their furs. Every now and then a coughing sound can be heard coming from the sheep crowding closely together, then a holy silence all around. Only the rushing river audible from a great distance interrupts the nocturnal silence.
Then a rumbling sound. The sheep speed off in all directions like a white cloud, herdsmen and dogs jump up – an incredible spectacle ensues while the bear grabs a victim, unperturbed by the noise and the fire sticks the herdsmen are throwing at it, and quickly disappears back into the night and fog.
Carpathian hunt 1932: von Spieß first shot a bear and shortly afterwards a stag from the same spot.
Carpathian hunt 1932: von Spieß first shot a bear and shortly afterwards a stag from the same spot.
Photo: von Spieß
Back then, hunters spent the nights in these primitive shelters made of spruce branches. The photo shows von Spieß during a wood grouse courtship.
Back then, hunters spent the nights in these primitive shelters made of spruce branches. The photo shows von Spieß during a wood grouse courtship.
Photo: von Spieß
Loud barking in the cliffs and the crunching of bone coming from there reveals the place where the robber is devouring its victim. As yet the people dare to tear the bear’s loot away from it with burning pine chips and loud hollering joined by the angry barking dogs, but the pieces of rock that are flying around their heads and the angry grumbling signal that the bruin has no sense of humor.
One by one the noise from the dogs subsides. The herdsmen wearily wrap themselves in their long furs and soon the holy silence once again envelops the shepherds and flocks.
Monotonously as before, the torrent rushes in the valley and the shadows of the night obscure the short and radical scene of the fight for survival. This is how an attack on a flock of sheep generally proceeds, or in a similar manner.
The cattle are more able to defend themselves. If there is a strike during the day here, the horned animals attack the robber, bellowing and with tails held high. If the bear is still young and inexperienced, such a demonstration may yet instill some respect. An old robber, however, is not impressed by this. His terrible paws dig deep into the body of its victim and as though it were a kitten, it carries the gasping bovine into the thicket into which neither herdsmen nor dogs dare follow.
That the guardians of the herds at times also suffered injuries is a well-known fact here. So many years ago, the shepherd Vasilie Arsenie was walking ahead of his flock on the Calea Lunga in the Strimba mountain region and was just about to crawl under a fallen trunk when he was suddenly and unexpectedly attacked by a bear and thrown sideways with such force that he lost consciousness and flew down the hillside. Fortunately, only his shirtsleeves showed a few tear wounds, otherwise he was fine.
In the summer around noon after the sheep had been milked, the same bear attacked a shepherd named Vasilie lui Iuon Padon at the moment he was standing on a spruce trunk watching his grazing sheep. Of course, the sudden attack caused him to fall backwards and his thighs and lower abdomen were badly mauled. When his helper, noticing his companion’s distress, made noise, he was also attacked. However, he still had enough time to flee up a spruce tree where the bear then left him in peace.
Another incident which occurred years ago on the steep road between the mountain areas Serbanei and Rozdesti may have been funny for those not involved, but was far less amusing for the main actors.
Skull of a bear killed by von Spieß in 1909.
Skull of a bear killed by von Spieß in 1909.
Photo: Dr. Betz
The Cioban Vasilie Iulcus from the mountain village Rau Sadului was lying near his flock in a sheepskin with the fleece on the outside and having a nap in the warm sunshine. Then suddenly he received a mighty blow and two mighty paws encircled the dreamer. Abruptly he woke up and to his great dismay found himself looking into a bear’s toothy maw. A terrible cry of anguish reverberated through the forest. The mighty bruin let go and ambled towards the forest, maybe ashamed of his error. Actually it is a comical story of a bear mistaking a shepherd wrapped in his fleece for a sheep.
That encounters with bears don’t always end so happily is confirmed by many other stories. However, it must be emphasized that Ursus arctos despite all its raids is more of a vegetarian than a carnivore. Cranberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries, as well as forest fruits, corn, oats, acorns, beechnuts, nettles and grass are its main and favorite foods.
Evidence of this is the experience made in years of abundance when horse carcasses are laid out in order to lure the bears for a battue or to a raised hide. The horse carcasses dried out and were taken by all sorts of predators, just not by bears. It’s also fond of reptiles, frogs, fish, and insects, as well as the maggots that inhabit animal cadavers in droves.
Instead, a previously maybe less known fact was determined here and in other places which is that the bruin is a cannibal. Many years ago, a female bear was seriously wounded by a farmer- hunter, but despite a subsequent search was not killed. Shortly afterwards some hunters, among them the merchant Roman Droc from the mountain parish Rasinari, who was hunting in a neighboring mountain region with his hunting companion Bucur Badila, found the said bear mostly devoured by a member of its own species, partially buried and covered with twigs and grass. Not far from it was the lair of the bear that ate its own. A long strip of the scratched-off pelt lay next to the dead bear and was then taken as a souvenir and to confirm this find back home.
A similar case of cannibalism occurred during the deer rut in the hunting grounds in the Carpathian forest mountains of Maramureș owned by Oskar Helbig from Munich, where a bear he had killed was eaten by a second one, which then buried the remains. The same was detected in the royal enclosure S.M. of the King of Romania in Gurghiu and also verified by me.
The incredible power inherent in these black, so comfortable-looking primeval forest warriors has been confirmed by innumerable events. Here are a few examples: In 1903 a bear killed a horse among other things. Shortly afterwards, my gamekeeper Jurcoi wanted to start building a high seat on my instructions not far from the slain animal, and he was quite surprised to no longer find a carcass. It was also impossible for him to determine the direction in which the bear had carried it because there were absolutely no drag marks in the leaves. Thus the bear had grabbed the horse that was in an exposed location, and walking on its hind legs, carried it so high that no part of the loot touched the ground. Indeed a very significant show of strength which even impressed the sons of the mountain region who are quite used to things like this.
An even greater feat of strength was performed in the spring of 1911 by another bear that had unearthed a bait horse I had buried from the semi-frozen ground, then pulled it out of the surrounding earth with unrestrained power and dragged it into the forest. The same happened this year, 1933, in spring, when a bait horse buried for wolves was unearthed and then dragged away by bears in the royal hunting grounds of Prundu Bârgăului.
An equally enormous feat of strength was displayed by a bear during a blackleg plague in the valley of the river Zibins where a big water buffalo died and was then dragged from the valley floor to a hazel hedge by two pairs of harnessed oxen, where it was to be buried. When the people arrived at the place the next day with spades and picks in order to dig a pit for the buffalo they were quite surprised to no longer find it there. The bear had grabbed it and dragged it 300 paces uphill into a densely overgrown forest ditch. Indeed a powerful beast; its equal would certainly be hard to find. I even have photos verifying that a bleeding sick bear bit through the Damascus barrel of a shotgun as if it were butter.
However, no matter how hulking its power and how incredible its aggressiveness is, sometimes these qualities also become its downfall because the brown bear – or Nicolae, as it is called locally has an equal rival who is as keen and defensive as its enemy.
An event which is still generally remembered happened in the bordering Transylvanian forests to the farmer-hunter Bucur Buhui from Rasinari during a stalk in the woods around his village. Buhui was merrily on his way to the so-called Batrana where he wanted to spend some time in the raised hide, when he was suddenly surprised by heavy snorting and crashing rapidly approaching him. He had just enough time to jump behind a spruce when a boar broke out of the thicket with a bear’s paws encircling it. A bitter struggle ensued on the forest path during which the boar hit the bear with such force that the latter abandoned the fight bellowing and disappeared into the thicket, obviously seriously hurt. However, the boar was so badly injured by this attack that it could hardly stand on its legs upon which Buhui fired the killing shot. In addition, his subsequent search had a happy ending because he discovered that the bear had also died about 50 paces from the battle ground.
Another interesting find was made by eleven lumberjacks on the Surdu where they found a medium-sized bear and a boar hanging dead across a fallen spruce. The bear was hanging on one of the boar’s tusks with its throat ripped open, which had got stuck in the boar’s lower jaw. Thus the seriously injured boar was hanging on one side of the trunk, on the other side the bear.
A very original case, which effortlessly led to bagging a bear, occurred in the autumn of 1920. After a hunt in the so-called Boitan hunting ground, a gentleman and a farmer-hunter were chatting during their descent from the mountain while the dogs walked next to them, untethered and tired. Suddenly the dogs started barking not far from the path which made the farmer look for the cause. He only walked a couple of paces into the thicket where he was surprised to see a bear lying stretched out on top of a boar, covering it as though it were trying to protect it from an attack by the dogs. A shot from the farmer’s rifle quickly put a bloody end to the interesting picture.
However, in all events it is the mighty bruin that leads the attack due to lack of food. Many sow or small boar will have left their skin on the battleground under the mighty paw strokes. But because it is driven by blind fury and hunger, it doesn’t know how to differentiate and will occasionally encounter an old ferocious warhorse that defends itself and uses its shiny tusks with incredible force to courageously take on the not hopeless battle with the bear. Even though the terrible paw of our sturdy mountain giants leaves gaping wounds in the boar’s bristle-covered back, the boar’s mighty weapons penetrate deep into the body of the shaggy attacker so that such an angry fight between two such fierce opponents can become fatal for both sides.
Hektor, von Spieß’s dog, found this bear.
Hektor, von Spieß’s dog, found this bear.
Photo: von Spieß
Now and again, however, the bear also finds other enemies to whom it falls prey despite its paw stroke and sharp teeth. This enemy is the wolf, which in packs can be fatal even for bears, primarily only the younger representatives. Here I know of three cases in which young bears became the victims of wolves. Many years ago, an approximately two-year old bear was still rambling around at the foot of the mountains despite the heavy December snow cover. The farmer-hunters of the village Avrig, who confirmed this find again and again, thus decided to immediately put an end to this restless rambler and set off into the nearby forest with their rifles (arquebusses) and other irons. But they had counted their chickens before they hatched. While the entire troop of farmers sat at the crossing, a Romanian followed the bear’s trail with dogs. Soon, however, he came across wolf tracks that also started following the bruin. Eventually he found a spot where a hot battle must have been fought. He didn’t have to go very far because soon bloody scraps and the terribly ragged head of the poor teddy bear proved that many wolves can also be a bear’s death.
The second case occurred in the hunting ground of our hunting association and was recounted to me by the old farmer-hunter and also gamekeeper, A. Pampu. In the hunting ground area of Intre Cibin, he saw four wolves follow the track of a bear that was also about 1 ½ years old. As he was interested in the matter, he followed the trail and finally found on the ice of the Zibin river only shreds of skin and a lot of blood, from which it could be deduced with certainty that after a hard battle, the bear ultimately did become the wolves’ meal.
I experienced the same thing myself in the royal game reserve of Gurghiu, which is under my control, where a family of five wolves had torn up and devoured a young cub that had become separated from its mother and which we had just traced that morning at 6 o’clock. After killing one of the wolves at 9 o’clock, we were able to cut pieces of skin and the stomach contents of the strangled cub out of the full wolf stomach.
On the other hand, however, the fact that a strong pack of wolves will shy away from an old, battle-tested, full-grown bear was demonstrated to me before the war from a lure hut at the so-called Oncesti, where I watched eight wolves simultaneously come to the carcass that had been laid out. As mentioned at the start of the chapter on wolves, I was preparing myself to aim at the one closest to me, when all of them, as if on command, “turned” and disappeared into the dark of the forest once more. Initially I was unpleasantly surprised by this turn of events, but it became clear when immediately afterwards a brown bear came along. After all, the king of the Transylvanian forest does not tolerate any unknown guests at his table.
To finish off, here are a few more tales about two of the 28 bears I shot:
In August 1894, I completely unexpectedly received a letter from a nearby mountain village which in its form and script reminded me of the times of the ancient Egyptians. After deciphering these hieroglyphics it became clear to me that the owner of a flock of sheep in the Great Buruian was asking me to come to his sheep because a female bear was regularly breaking in at night and had already caused significant damage. This news arrived at the right moment because I had to climb up mount Negoi (2556 m) in order to accompany the royal Romanian Minister at the time, Take Ionescu. He and his wife wanted to climb to the summit from the Romanian side and then down to our mountain cabin.
On August 17th, I then bid my farewells to the company gathered at the mountain cabin in order to reach the upper Buruian region from the Sera valley by crossing the ridge.
It was 2:30 in the afternoon when I arrived at the traversable gap on the ridge from where, after a short rest, I started the descent to the sheep encampment. It did not take long to find the flock because a darker area in the rubble showed me already from afar the place I was looking for. After a one hour march, I was at the bordei (cliff hut). The bunda (sheepskin), axe and for a shepherd here the essential polenta pot that I found pushed under a rock confirmed that my assumption was correct. While my assistant unpacked the rucksacks and stoked the fire, I started, after a short meal, to investigate the area I was very familiar with. While doing so, I found the remains of the nocturnal victims as well as bloody flaps of skin and half the head of a recently killed ram. The hut was situated near a steep rock face streaked with strips of grass between rubble and shattered boulders, so that the surrounding bare scree could be easily surveyed from there. Below the place described, about a hundred paces away, krummholz and green alders covered the chaotic rock debris in wild disarray. A foaming torrent from the higher snowfields rushed through the middle of this. The glowing ball of the sun was already reaching the end of its daily course and only the western valley slope and the rock pinnacles opposite were glowing in brighter light. In majestic flight, numerous vultures were heading to their sleeping places. A chamois with her kid stepped from the thick pine forest carefully eyeing the surroundings, then shortly afterward the darker colored ram appeared nibbling on the green alders.
For a long time I watched the spirited frolicking of these delicate Alpine gazelles, the lamb’s boisterous leaps, when suddenly the ewe and ram raised their heads and with a shrill warning whistle, disappeared in the krummholz after a short flight.
Curiously I looked in all directions in order to find the reason for their disappearance, and soon I found it. The flock was coming to the valley with their shepherds. Highly pleased, Maniu, the owner of the flock, shook my hand and with a few choice curses about the nocturnal thief, which had taken his best ram the night before, herded the lambs together. My assistant helped him and it was not long before the entire flock was pressed together against the hut. Slowly and silently the happy song of the thrushes had subsided while we were sitting, squeezed tightly around the bubbling mamaliga pot. “Hell must have frozen over today, Sir, if the brown beast doesn’t come today. As soon as we’ve finished eating, she usually already comes trudging towards us from that rock face.” The steaming polenta was poured from the kettle. We had thoroughly fortified ourselves, but no bear came. The sky was clear and the evening air was pleasantly mild. With the sleeping pelt around me, placed between Manui and my assistant, and my rifle by my side, we lay down on a stone slab right in among the sheep and soon fell asleep. However, we had not rested for a long time. The herd scattering apart suddenly woke us; the bear had broken in. Only twelve paces away she was standing broadside on a raised boulder in the middle of the lambs. Kneeling, I hurriedly cocked my rifle when she noticed me and jumped in one leap behind the boulder. Only now did the sleepy dogs awake and began clamoring and barking wildly because of the spectacle presented by the known thief. The bear had only jumped a few paces to the side and was standing under the nearby rock face surrounded by the dogs, brightly lit by the moon. With my rifle at the ready I clambered over the rubble towards the bear which was being barked at, and despite my approach did not move, but instead just turned towards me. We were standing eye-to-eye at a distance of only ten paces. I lifted my rifle and aimed long at its broad chest facing me. A streak of fire and my shot echoed thunderously in the mountains, answered by the screams of rage from the bear tumbling over the cliff. I had hit her. The dogs followed her, barking uproariously until they returned from the krummholz after a short standing sound.
It was impossible to take an accurate second shot. “You did that very well, she certainly won’t come back,” said Maniu placing his hand on my shoulder. I too was happy to have landed my express bullet at such a short distance. However, until the bear was lying before me, I didn’t rejoice. The night lasted a long time. As soon as the first morning sun shone through the cloudy sky, I was up to look for the prey. Blood, a lot of blood sprayed forward, covered the rubble. “This is where it fell, it must be lying over there,” called my assistant. Correct. There was hair hanging on a sharp rock and a stripe of blood showed where it fell. From there the red trail was only weak and led into the scree covered in thick krummholz and green alders, where it ended completely. In the meantime, however, the rain that began falling wiped away any more traces, so I consoled myself with doing a thorough subsequent search with the dogs of Stana at a later time. And this later led to the goal.
Meanwhile I climbed down into the Leitha valley. As soon as I reached the valley floor a terrible storm broke out which forced me to spend the entire day in the hut.
Heavy, wet-cold fog descended over the ridge of the mountains, and my attendant and I were glad to have finally reached a protective roof and a warming fire. Time passed quite slowly. While we were chatting with the herdsman who couldn’t get enough of talking about bears and their dastardly deeds, the completely wet rifle was being cleaned. “Especially one of the rotters,” said Wasilie raising a threatening fist, “he’s as black as the devil and larger than the female bear you shot today; it often comes to us at night, but the eight dogs don’t allow it to approach; otherwise it would have caused the same damage as the lynx in Laitel, which killed our best dog the day before yesterday.”
V. Spieß shot boar and bear within ten minutes during a battue.
V. Spieß shot boar and bear within ten minutes during a battue.
Photo: von Spieß
The day seemed endless. The dense blanket of fog sank ever lower until the whole mountain range was enveloped in a dense ocean of fog with the exception of the valley floor. Impatiently the ciobans (shepherds) waited for the flocks to return while I was drifting off to nap stretched out on a sleeping pelt. It was about 5 o’clock in the afternoon when one of the shepherds, who had left the Stana in order to see to the horses, suddenly burst through the door shouting: “A bear! A bear is eating our horses!” I jumped up in an instance, ripped the rifle from the beam and with four quickly grabbed cartridges hurried in the direction indicated by the shepherd. The bear had moved into a young spruce forest, which was enclosed on the one side by the rocky bed of the noisy Leitha stream, on the other side by a wide, bare rockslide. The bear had to come over this to get to the horses. This was my first thought and that was also where I ran to. Up to my knees in water, I waded across the foaming mountain stream and crept along the edge of the rubble avalanche, carefully looking around. However, as soon as I had taken a few steps, I saw a dark mass slowly approaching me between the trunks of the spruces.
It was the bear. Soundlessly I went down on one knee and allowed the oblivious, unsuspecting bear to come closer. I lay ready in a shooting position. Turning, it stepped out from behind a spruce. My rifle followed its every calm, measured movement. Then it stopped and looked at the horses grazing on opposite riverbank, sniffing the wind. What a sight! Thousands of hunters would have envied me of this rare good fortune. Relaxed, the massive body stood only six paces away presenting its broadside. Its fur was as black as night. On my knee with rifle at the ready, I was merely a dwarf to this enormous warrior.
That was not the time for admiration, however; the moment was too favorable. I let the bullet fly. My shot rang thunderously through the narrow rock valley, answered by the bear’s wailing. Enveloped in gun smoke, I saw the black mass throw itself backwards and the bear rolled around on its back, its paws helplessly beating the air. Then I took the second shot as well and jumped behind a spruce for cover. The bear had fallen next to a branchless fir that had been hit by lightning. Its sharp claws were beating at the old trunk so that the splinters flew, and with its wide open jaw the beast showed me its terrible teeth.
Then the third bullet penetrated its chest, the fourth and last hit its head behind the ears. Sighing and dying it lay before me, the terror to shepherds and flocks, felled by a small piece of led. However, as soon as the last shot died away in the mountains, all the inhabitants of Stana were next to me and danced jubilantly around the bear. It was an old adult male. Its vicious but justified fate had brought it face to face with the deadly barrel as atonement for the many bloody murders and bold thefts. On my part, however, a rare salvation to bag two bears within 24 hours under such interesting conditions.
Info
August Roland von Spieß
V. Spieß was born on the 6th of August 1864 in Przemyśl (Galicia – then Austria-Hungary, today Poland). His father – of German descent – was an officer in the local garrison. As his father and two brothers before him, von Spieß joined the military and was stationed in Sibiu (today Romania). This town and the region of the southern Carpathians became his home. Aside from his military service, his passions were nature and hunting. In these fields he acquired above-average knowledge. In addition to German, August von Spieß spoke fluent French, Hungarian and the Romanian of the Transylvanian mountain farmers. After 1918, Transylvania became Romanian. On the 1st of July 1921, King Ferdinand appointed him as the Director of the Court Hunt and assigned him with the organization and modernization of the royal hunts. Through his activities, he came to know the entire country on his numerous excursions, including the Danube lowlands. He became a member of the Commission for Nature Conservation and National Parks, as well as an honorary member of a large number of hunting associations.
In 1939 he retired as Royal Hunting Master and bodyguard to the Romanian king. As a farewell, the king financed a journey for him to travel to Tanzania where he hunted on the Momella farm with Margeret Trappe among others.
His hunting life was colorful and extensive. The 28 bears he bagged earned him the nickname “Bären-Spieß” (English: “bear skewer”). His hunting publications are numerous, from articles in hunting magazines to comprehensive books in which he recorded his experiences and observations. August von Spieß died on the 4th of April 1953 in Sibiu.
His former home in Sibiu, with trophies and other interesting bequests from the great hunter, was opened to the public in 1966 as the August von Spieß Hunting Museum (see short film).
More information about hunting in Romania today: egon_merle@hotmail.com, phone: 0049-8453-337760.
hwwmag.com/issue10/bear-stories-a-matter-of-life-and-death/
Bear, wolf and wild boar: these are the natural enemies of our mountain inhabitants. They either make themselves unpopular by raiding herds of cattle, goats and sheep or are hated because they destroy fields of corn, grain and potato. It is no wonder that the farmers tried to exterminate this vermin from their property by any means possible, whenever and wherever they could.
That is why gunpowder and lead, iron, snares and traps had to be used to rid the region of this scourge. Even fire and smoke assisted in destroying specific troublemakers. I was told that when hunting was still unrestricted, an undesirable female bear in the Petroșani region, which had raided numerous villages, was beleaguered by hunters in winter after she had retreated into a cave and given birth to cubs. When the bear didn’t want to leave the cave and its cubs behind, despite the hollering and shouting from the village hunters standing at the cave entrance, they were simply burned out with a fire made with spruce branches.
I also heard a similar story from an old farmer-hunter in the northern region of Moldova near Brosteni, who proudly told me that they once smoked five bears out of a rock cave and killed them one by one as they emerged.
Indeed a terribly barbaric but radical method used by the people to rid themselves of this menace. You cannot really blame the people for using all means available, considering that our mountain inhabitants owe their already difficult and arduous existence mainly to cattle and sheep farming, and the break-ins from predators, especially bears and wolves, can rob many families of their entire livelihood in a single night. It is then understandable that these people often lose their patience and deal with the robbers unceremoniously.
I know of countless cases where a single nocturnal break-in destroyed entire flocks of sheep. Due to the panic that ensued, the sheep jumped headfirst off the cliff and were smashed to pieces. Once there were 80 dead sheep lying in the Arpash valley that just jumped into the abyss in the dark where most bear attacks occur. Then you can see hundreds of monk vultures and golden eagles, sometimes even bearded vultures (Gypaetus barbatus) on such fields of death that clean the bones of the cadavers in the shortest time with some help from crows, feral dogs and other predators.
Also among the cattle, especially in July and August when the male bear, having made it through the bear season, cannot find any ripe forest fruits, there is often a terrible carnage in the herds. These are usually solitary old warriors who have become a veritable plague with their uninterrupted raids.
Then in 1897, I shot an old male bear which had killed over 100 sheep, a donkey and three pigs all in one summer, and in 1906 a second one, which had caused so much damage with its forays among the grazing cattle in the mountains around the parish Orlat that the parish office finally turned to me to rid the region of this thief.
I succeeded in doing the same in 1929 with one of these menaces. The assaults usually occur as follows: Attacks mainly occur on dark, wet-cold nights or even by day when thick fog envelops mountain and valley. After the sheep have been milked and settled to ruminate around the fire or the primitive stone hut covered in spruce bark, the herdsmen and boys sit around a blazing fire and prepare the customary cornmeal cakes – here called mamalinga, in Italian polenta.
A short distance away, encircling the shepherds, the large number of dogs is having a siesta.
The shepherd’s flocks of sheep were then and still are subject to constant attacks by the big predators bear and wolf.
The shepherd’s flocks of sheep were then and still are subject to constant attacks by the big predators bear and wolf.
Photo: von Spieß
Then suddenly one of them starts barking. It is barking in the direction of the spruce forest interspersed with mountain pine and green alder. This means something, but it is not enough to ruffle the sons of nature sitting around the steaming pot. The sheepdog also becomes quiet after a short time. The Ciobane (shepherds) calmly eat their polenta with milk or cheese and soon they are lying wrapped in their furs snoring around the dying embers. Midnight has come and a fine drizzle is precipitating from the dense fog patches. The dogs huddle under cliffs while the herders burrow down lower into their furs. Every now and then a coughing sound can be heard coming from the sheep crowding closely together, then a holy silence all around. Only the rushing river audible from a great distance interrupts the nocturnal silence.
Then a rumbling sound. The sheep speed off in all directions like a white cloud, herdsmen and dogs jump up – an incredible spectacle ensues while the bear grabs a victim, unperturbed by the noise and the fire sticks the herdsmen are throwing at it, and quickly disappears back into the night and fog.
Carpathian hunt 1932: von Spieß first shot a bear and shortly afterwards a stag from the same spot.
Carpathian hunt 1932: von Spieß first shot a bear and shortly afterwards a stag from the same spot.
Photo: von Spieß
Back then, hunters spent the nights in these primitive shelters made of spruce branches. The photo shows von Spieß during a wood grouse courtship.
Back then, hunters spent the nights in these primitive shelters made of spruce branches. The photo shows von Spieß during a wood grouse courtship.
Photo: von Spieß
Loud barking in the cliffs and the crunching of bone coming from there reveals the place where the robber is devouring its victim. As yet the people dare to tear the bear’s loot away from it with burning pine chips and loud hollering joined by the angry barking dogs, but the pieces of rock that are flying around their heads and the angry grumbling signal that the bruin has no sense of humor.
One by one the noise from the dogs subsides. The herdsmen wearily wrap themselves in their long furs and soon the holy silence once again envelops the shepherds and flocks.
Monotonously as before, the torrent rushes in the valley and the shadows of the night obscure the short and radical scene of the fight for survival. This is how an attack on a flock of sheep generally proceeds, or in a similar manner.
The cattle are more able to defend themselves. If there is a strike during the day here, the horned animals attack the robber, bellowing and with tails held high. If the bear is still young and inexperienced, such a demonstration may yet instill some respect. An old robber, however, is not impressed by this. His terrible paws dig deep into the body of its victim and as though it were a kitten, it carries the gasping bovine into the thicket into which neither herdsmen nor dogs dare follow.
That the guardians of the herds at times also suffered injuries is a well-known fact here. So many years ago, the shepherd Vasilie Arsenie was walking ahead of his flock on the Calea Lunga in the Strimba mountain region and was just about to crawl under a fallen trunk when he was suddenly and unexpectedly attacked by a bear and thrown sideways with such force that he lost consciousness and flew down the hillside. Fortunately, only his shirtsleeves showed a few tear wounds, otherwise he was fine.
In the summer around noon after the sheep had been milked, the same bear attacked a shepherd named Vasilie lui Iuon Padon at the moment he was standing on a spruce trunk watching his grazing sheep. Of course, the sudden attack caused him to fall backwards and his thighs and lower abdomen were badly mauled. When his helper, noticing his companion’s distress, made noise, he was also attacked. However, he still had enough time to flee up a spruce tree where the bear then left him in peace.
Another incident which occurred years ago on the steep road between the mountain areas Serbanei and Rozdesti may have been funny for those not involved, but was far less amusing for the main actors.
Skull of a bear killed by von Spieß in 1909.
Skull of a bear killed by von Spieß in 1909.
Photo: Dr. Betz
The Cioban Vasilie Iulcus from the mountain village Rau Sadului was lying near his flock in a sheepskin with the fleece on the outside and having a nap in the warm sunshine. Then suddenly he received a mighty blow and two mighty paws encircled the dreamer. Abruptly he woke up and to his great dismay found himself looking into a bear’s toothy maw. A terrible cry of anguish reverberated through the forest. The mighty bruin let go and ambled towards the forest, maybe ashamed of his error. Actually it is a comical story of a bear mistaking a shepherd wrapped in his fleece for a sheep.
That encounters with bears don’t always end so happily is confirmed by many other stories. However, it must be emphasized that Ursus arctos despite all its raids is more of a vegetarian than a carnivore. Cranberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries, as well as forest fruits, corn, oats, acorns, beechnuts, nettles and grass are its main and favorite foods.
Evidence of this is the experience made in years of abundance when horse carcasses are laid out in order to lure the bears for a battue or to a raised hide. The horse carcasses dried out and were taken by all sorts of predators, just not by bears. It’s also fond of reptiles, frogs, fish, and insects, as well as the maggots that inhabit animal cadavers in droves.
Instead, a previously maybe less known fact was determined here and in other places which is that the bruin is a cannibal. Many years ago, a female bear was seriously wounded by a farmer- hunter, but despite a subsequent search was not killed. Shortly afterwards some hunters, among them the merchant Roman Droc from the mountain parish Rasinari, who was hunting in a neighboring mountain region with his hunting companion Bucur Badila, found the said bear mostly devoured by a member of its own species, partially buried and covered with twigs and grass. Not far from it was the lair of the bear that ate its own. A long strip of the scratched-off pelt lay next to the dead bear and was then taken as a souvenir and to confirm this find back home.
A similar case of cannibalism occurred during the deer rut in the hunting grounds in the Carpathian forest mountains of Maramureș owned by Oskar Helbig from Munich, where a bear he had killed was eaten by a second one, which then buried the remains. The same was detected in the royal enclosure S.M. of the King of Romania in Gurghiu and also verified by me.
The incredible power inherent in these black, so comfortable-looking primeval forest warriors has been confirmed by innumerable events. Here are a few examples: In 1903 a bear killed a horse among other things. Shortly afterwards, my gamekeeper Jurcoi wanted to start building a high seat on my instructions not far from the slain animal, and he was quite surprised to no longer find a carcass. It was also impossible for him to determine the direction in which the bear had carried it because there were absolutely no drag marks in the leaves. Thus the bear had grabbed the horse that was in an exposed location, and walking on its hind legs, carried it so high that no part of the loot touched the ground. Indeed a very significant show of strength which even impressed the sons of the mountain region who are quite used to things like this.
An even greater feat of strength was performed in the spring of 1911 by another bear that had unearthed a bait horse I had buried from the semi-frozen ground, then pulled it out of the surrounding earth with unrestrained power and dragged it into the forest. The same happened this year, 1933, in spring, when a bait horse buried for wolves was unearthed and then dragged away by bears in the royal hunting grounds of Prundu Bârgăului.
An equally enormous feat of strength was displayed by a bear during a blackleg plague in the valley of the river Zibins where a big water buffalo died and was then dragged from the valley floor to a hazel hedge by two pairs of harnessed oxen, where it was to be buried. When the people arrived at the place the next day with spades and picks in order to dig a pit for the buffalo they were quite surprised to no longer find it there. The bear had grabbed it and dragged it 300 paces uphill into a densely overgrown forest ditch. Indeed a powerful beast; its equal would certainly be hard to find. I even have photos verifying that a bleeding sick bear bit through the Damascus barrel of a shotgun as if it were butter.
However, no matter how hulking its power and how incredible its aggressiveness is, sometimes these qualities also become its downfall because the brown bear – or Nicolae, as it is called locally has an equal rival who is as keen and defensive as its enemy.
An event which is still generally remembered happened in the bordering Transylvanian forests to the farmer-hunter Bucur Buhui from Rasinari during a stalk in the woods around his village. Buhui was merrily on his way to the so-called Batrana where he wanted to spend some time in the raised hide, when he was suddenly surprised by heavy snorting and crashing rapidly approaching him. He had just enough time to jump behind a spruce when a boar broke out of the thicket with a bear’s paws encircling it. A bitter struggle ensued on the forest path during which the boar hit the bear with such force that the latter abandoned the fight bellowing and disappeared into the thicket, obviously seriously hurt. However, the boar was so badly injured by this attack that it could hardly stand on its legs upon which Buhui fired the killing shot. In addition, his subsequent search had a happy ending because he discovered that the bear had also died about 50 paces from the battle ground.
Another interesting find was made by eleven lumberjacks on the Surdu where they found a medium-sized bear and a boar hanging dead across a fallen spruce. The bear was hanging on one of the boar’s tusks with its throat ripped open, which had got stuck in the boar’s lower jaw. Thus the seriously injured boar was hanging on one side of the trunk, on the other side the bear.
A very original case, which effortlessly led to bagging a bear, occurred in the autumn of 1920. After a hunt in the so-called Boitan hunting ground, a gentleman and a farmer-hunter were chatting during their descent from the mountain while the dogs walked next to them, untethered and tired. Suddenly the dogs started barking not far from the path which made the farmer look for the cause. He only walked a couple of paces into the thicket where he was surprised to see a bear lying stretched out on top of a boar, covering it as though it were trying to protect it from an attack by the dogs. A shot from the farmer’s rifle quickly put a bloody end to the interesting picture.
However, in all events it is the mighty bruin that leads the attack due to lack of food. Many sow or small boar will have left their skin on the battleground under the mighty paw strokes. But because it is driven by blind fury and hunger, it doesn’t know how to differentiate and will occasionally encounter an old ferocious warhorse that defends itself and uses its shiny tusks with incredible force to courageously take on the not hopeless battle with the bear. Even though the terrible paw of our sturdy mountain giants leaves gaping wounds in the boar’s bristle-covered back, the boar’s mighty weapons penetrate deep into the body of the shaggy attacker so that such an angry fight between two such fierce opponents can become fatal for both sides.
Hektor, von Spieß’s dog, found this bear.
Hektor, von Spieß’s dog, found this bear.
Photo: von Spieß
Now and again, however, the bear also finds other enemies to whom it falls prey despite its paw stroke and sharp teeth. This enemy is the wolf, which in packs can be fatal even for bears, primarily only the younger representatives. Here I know of three cases in which young bears became the victims of wolves. Many years ago, an approximately two-year old bear was still rambling around at the foot of the mountains despite the heavy December snow cover. The farmer-hunters of the village Avrig, who confirmed this find again and again, thus decided to immediately put an end to this restless rambler and set off into the nearby forest with their rifles (arquebusses) and other irons. But they had counted their chickens before they hatched. While the entire troop of farmers sat at the crossing, a Romanian followed the bear’s trail with dogs. Soon, however, he came across wolf tracks that also started following the bruin. Eventually he found a spot where a hot battle must have been fought. He didn’t have to go very far because soon bloody scraps and the terribly ragged head of the poor teddy bear proved that many wolves can also be a bear’s death.
The second case occurred in the hunting ground of our hunting association and was recounted to me by the old farmer-hunter and also gamekeeper, A. Pampu. In the hunting ground area of Intre Cibin, he saw four wolves follow the track of a bear that was also about 1 ½ years old. As he was interested in the matter, he followed the trail and finally found on the ice of the Zibin river only shreds of skin and a lot of blood, from which it could be deduced with certainty that after a hard battle, the bear ultimately did become the wolves’ meal.
I experienced the same thing myself in the royal game reserve of Gurghiu, which is under my control, where a family of five wolves had torn up and devoured a young cub that had become separated from its mother and which we had just traced that morning at 6 o’clock. After killing one of the wolves at 9 o’clock, we were able to cut pieces of skin and the stomach contents of the strangled cub out of the full wolf stomach.
On the other hand, however, the fact that a strong pack of wolves will shy away from an old, battle-tested, full-grown bear was demonstrated to me before the war from a lure hut at the so-called Oncesti, where I watched eight wolves simultaneously come to the carcass that had been laid out. As mentioned at the start of the chapter on wolves, I was preparing myself to aim at the one closest to me, when all of them, as if on command, “turned” and disappeared into the dark of the forest once more. Initially I was unpleasantly surprised by this turn of events, but it became clear when immediately afterwards a brown bear came along. After all, the king of the Transylvanian forest does not tolerate any unknown guests at his table.
To finish off, here are a few more tales about two of the 28 bears I shot:
In August 1894, I completely unexpectedly received a letter from a nearby mountain village which in its form and script reminded me of the times of the ancient Egyptians. After deciphering these hieroglyphics it became clear to me that the owner of a flock of sheep in the Great Buruian was asking me to come to his sheep because a female bear was regularly breaking in at night and had already caused significant damage. This news arrived at the right moment because I had to climb up mount Negoi (2556 m) in order to accompany the royal Romanian Minister at the time, Take Ionescu. He and his wife wanted to climb to the summit from the Romanian side and then down to our mountain cabin.
On August 17th, I then bid my farewells to the company gathered at the mountain cabin in order to reach the upper Buruian region from the Sera valley by crossing the ridge.
It was 2:30 in the afternoon when I arrived at the traversable gap on the ridge from where, after a short rest, I started the descent to the sheep encampment. It did not take long to find the flock because a darker area in the rubble showed me already from afar the place I was looking for. After a one hour march, I was at the bordei (cliff hut). The bunda (sheepskin), axe and for a shepherd here the essential polenta pot that I found pushed under a rock confirmed that my assumption was correct. While my assistant unpacked the rucksacks and stoked the fire, I started, after a short meal, to investigate the area I was very familiar with. While doing so, I found the remains of the nocturnal victims as well as bloody flaps of skin and half the head of a recently killed ram. The hut was situated near a steep rock face streaked with strips of grass between rubble and shattered boulders, so that the surrounding bare scree could be easily surveyed from there. Below the place described, about a hundred paces away, krummholz and green alders covered the chaotic rock debris in wild disarray. A foaming torrent from the higher snowfields rushed through the middle of this. The glowing ball of the sun was already reaching the end of its daily course and only the western valley slope and the rock pinnacles opposite were glowing in brighter light. In majestic flight, numerous vultures were heading to their sleeping places. A chamois with her kid stepped from the thick pine forest carefully eyeing the surroundings, then shortly afterward the darker colored ram appeared nibbling on the green alders.
For a long time I watched the spirited frolicking of these delicate Alpine gazelles, the lamb’s boisterous leaps, when suddenly the ewe and ram raised their heads and with a shrill warning whistle, disappeared in the krummholz after a short flight.
Curiously I looked in all directions in order to find the reason for their disappearance, and soon I found it. The flock was coming to the valley with their shepherds. Highly pleased, Maniu, the owner of the flock, shook my hand and with a few choice curses about the nocturnal thief, which had taken his best ram the night before, herded the lambs together. My assistant helped him and it was not long before the entire flock was pressed together against the hut. Slowly and silently the happy song of the thrushes had subsided while we were sitting, squeezed tightly around the bubbling mamaliga pot. “Hell must have frozen over today, Sir, if the brown beast doesn’t come today. As soon as we’ve finished eating, she usually already comes trudging towards us from that rock face.” The steaming polenta was poured from the kettle. We had thoroughly fortified ourselves, but no bear came. The sky was clear and the evening air was pleasantly mild. With the sleeping pelt around me, placed between Manui and my assistant, and my rifle by my side, we lay down on a stone slab right in among the sheep and soon fell asleep. However, we had not rested for a long time. The herd scattering apart suddenly woke us; the bear had broken in. Only twelve paces away she was standing broadside on a raised boulder in the middle of the lambs. Kneeling, I hurriedly cocked my rifle when she noticed me and jumped in one leap behind the boulder. Only now did the sleepy dogs awake and began clamoring and barking wildly because of the spectacle presented by the known thief. The bear had only jumped a few paces to the side and was standing under the nearby rock face surrounded by the dogs, brightly lit by the moon. With my rifle at the ready I clambered over the rubble towards the bear which was being barked at, and despite my approach did not move, but instead just turned towards me. We were standing eye-to-eye at a distance of only ten paces. I lifted my rifle and aimed long at its broad chest facing me. A streak of fire and my shot echoed thunderously in the mountains, answered by the screams of rage from the bear tumbling over the cliff. I had hit her. The dogs followed her, barking uproariously until they returned from the krummholz after a short standing sound.
It was impossible to take an accurate second shot. “You did that very well, she certainly won’t come back,” said Maniu placing his hand on my shoulder. I too was happy to have landed my express bullet at such a short distance. However, until the bear was lying before me, I didn’t rejoice. The night lasted a long time. As soon as the first morning sun shone through the cloudy sky, I was up to look for the prey. Blood, a lot of blood sprayed forward, covered the rubble. “This is where it fell, it must be lying over there,” called my assistant. Correct. There was hair hanging on a sharp rock and a stripe of blood showed where it fell. From there the red trail was only weak and led into the scree covered in thick krummholz and green alders, where it ended completely. In the meantime, however, the rain that began falling wiped away any more traces, so I consoled myself with doing a thorough subsequent search with the dogs of Stana at a later time. And this later led to the goal.
Meanwhile I climbed down into the Leitha valley. As soon as I reached the valley floor a terrible storm broke out which forced me to spend the entire day in the hut.
Heavy, wet-cold fog descended over the ridge of the mountains, and my attendant and I were glad to have finally reached a protective roof and a warming fire. Time passed quite slowly. While we were chatting with the herdsman who couldn’t get enough of talking about bears and their dastardly deeds, the completely wet rifle was being cleaned. “Especially one of the rotters,” said Wasilie raising a threatening fist, “he’s as black as the devil and larger than the female bear you shot today; it often comes to us at night, but the eight dogs don’t allow it to approach; otherwise it would have caused the same damage as the lynx in Laitel, which killed our best dog the day before yesterday.”
V. Spieß shot boar and bear within ten minutes during a battue.
V. Spieß shot boar and bear within ten minutes during a battue.
Photo: von Spieß
The day seemed endless. The dense blanket of fog sank ever lower until the whole mountain range was enveloped in a dense ocean of fog with the exception of the valley floor. Impatiently the ciobans (shepherds) waited for the flocks to return while I was drifting off to nap stretched out on a sleeping pelt. It was about 5 o’clock in the afternoon when one of the shepherds, who had left the Stana in order to see to the horses, suddenly burst through the door shouting: “A bear! A bear is eating our horses!” I jumped up in an instance, ripped the rifle from the beam and with four quickly grabbed cartridges hurried in the direction indicated by the shepherd. The bear had moved into a young spruce forest, which was enclosed on the one side by the rocky bed of the noisy Leitha stream, on the other side by a wide, bare rockslide. The bear had to come over this to get to the horses. This was my first thought and that was also where I ran to. Up to my knees in water, I waded across the foaming mountain stream and crept along the edge of the rubble avalanche, carefully looking around. However, as soon as I had taken a few steps, I saw a dark mass slowly approaching me between the trunks of the spruces.
It was the bear. Soundlessly I went down on one knee and allowed the oblivious, unsuspecting bear to come closer. I lay ready in a shooting position. Turning, it stepped out from behind a spruce. My rifle followed its every calm, measured movement. Then it stopped and looked at the horses grazing on opposite riverbank, sniffing the wind. What a sight! Thousands of hunters would have envied me of this rare good fortune. Relaxed, the massive body stood only six paces away presenting its broadside. Its fur was as black as night. On my knee with rifle at the ready, I was merely a dwarf to this enormous warrior.
That was not the time for admiration, however; the moment was too favorable. I let the bullet fly. My shot rang thunderously through the narrow rock valley, answered by the bear’s wailing. Enveloped in gun smoke, I saw the black mass throw itself backwards and the bear rolled around on its back, its paws helplessly beating the air. Then I took the second shot as well and jumped behind a spruce for cover. The bear had fallen next to a branchless fir that had been hit by lightning. Its sharp claws were beating at the old trunk so that the splinters flew, and with its wide open jaw the beast showed me its terrible teeth.
Then the third bullet penetrated its chest, the fourth and last hit its head behind the ears. Sighing and dying it lay before me, the terror to shepherds and flocks, felled by a small piece of led. However, as soon as the last shot died away in the mountains, all the inhabitants of Stana were next to me and danced jubilantly around the bear. It was an old adult male. Its vicious but justified fate had brought it face to face with the deadly barrel as atonement for the many bloody murders and bold thefts. On my part, however, a rare salvation to bag two bears within 24 hours under such interesting conditions.
Info
August Roland von Spieß
V. Spieß was born on the 6th of August 1864 in Przemyśl (Galicia – then Austria-Hungary, today Poland). His father – of German descent – was an officer in the local garrison. As his father and two brothers before him, von Spieß joined the military and was stationed in Sibiu (today Romania). This town and the region of the southern Carpathians became his home. Aside from his military service, his passions were nature and hunting. In these fields he acquired above-average knowledge. In addition to German, August von Spieß spoke fluent French, Hungarian and the Romanian of the Transylvanian mountain farmers. After 1918, Transylvania became Romanian. On the 1st of July 1921, King Ferdinand appointed him as the Director of the Court Hunt and assigned him with the organization and modernization of the royal hunts. Through his activities, he came to know the entire country on his numerous excursions, including the Danube lowlands. He became a member of the Commission for Nature Conservation and National Parks, as well as an honorary member of a large number of hunting associations.
In 1939 he retired as Royal Hunting Master and bodyguard to the Romanian king. As a farewell, the king financed a journey for him to travel to Tanzania where he hunted on the Momella farm with Margeret Trappe among others.
His hunting life was colorful and extensive. The 28 bears he bagged earned him the nickname “Bären-Spieß” (English: “bear skewer”). His hunting publications are numerous, from articles in hunting magazines to comprehensive books in which he recorded his experiences and observations. August von Spieß died on the 4th of April 1953 in Sibiu.
His former home in Sibiu, with trophies and other interesting bequests from the great hunter, was opened to the public in 1966 as the August von Spieß Hunting Museum (see short film).
More information about hunting in Romania today: egon_merle@hotmail.com, phone: 0049-8453-337760.
hwwmag.com/issue10/bear-stories-a-matter-of-life-and-death/
