Hunt Across the Pond

We Certainly Weren’t in Kansas Anymore …
64
; .

I consider myself fairly worldly. My passport is well-thumbed, I’ve drunk a sweating Red Stripe beer in a seedy tropical port and I knew not to argue with the overbearing supervisor at French Customs who reminded me of a real-life Pepé Le Pew.

However, I wasn’t really prepared for hunting in the Czech Republic.

Surprises

Like most interesting things, this adventure started with an unexpected message. The fine folks at Sellier and Bellot (S&B) ammo had invited me to a tour of their factory, some sightseeing and a taste of European hunting. Frankly, it was this last activity which really perked up my ears. Unlike gun writing royalty, I’ve not spent any time on The Continent hobnobbing with wealthy barons and Dukes over estate wine while waiting for the peasants to gather up your game.

My tastes run more toward straight whiskey and a well-used briar on the porch of a ramshackle deer camp, but I figured I could endure this genteel way of hunting once “just to say I did.”

After verifying the S&B email wasn’t a sick joke by Tom McHale, I started my preparations beginning with research. My knowledge of the Czechs consisted solely of knowing many professional hockey players in the U.S. come from the country. Honestly, I’ll admit I wasn’t 100% sure they weren’t still going by the name “Czechoslovakia.” On this last point, Wikipedia schooled me on the fact there was a “Velvet Revolution” in 1992 when the good citizens kicked both the commies and the country of Slovakia to the curb. Thus, the modern Czech Republic was born.

I kinda remembered seeing something in the news — who says Americans are clueless about world events?

;
.

Night with an Oligarch

Our hunt began the night before at the estate of a wealthy bathrobe-wearing man whose made lots of money when the capitalism sudden began legal. I don’t think he was officially ranked as a Top-Ten Oligarch but I did see a photo of him and Vladimir Putin hanging out, so there is that. His modest home included a smallish casino, bowling alley, underground spa, golf and racing simulators, and a trophy room with everything from full mounts of crocodiles to an aardvark. Why you would want to shoot an aardvark is beyond me, but to each his own.

The delicious welcome dinner was a test of wills — and we lost. The menu was literally 19 courses, and I think we only made it halfway through before collectively throwing in the napkin. We discovered, too late, the Czech culture is fanatically devoted to becoming a world superpower in party-hosting. For the first time ever, I saw a group of gun writers saying “No more!! This is too much food!” You have no idea how rare and noteworthy this is.

We were there for what might be called a “management hunt” in the U.S. Game animals are mostly privately owned in the Czech Republic so the estate manager was responsible for thinning the deer herd when it got too numerous. The charge to our group of 10 people was to kill up to 50 does, yearlings and spike-bucks. Wild boars of any denomination were a designated “shoot on sight” target.

This would be a driven hunt, meaning hunters would be positioned on one end of a chosen forest block while a large group of beaters would start at the other end. The beaters would drive the animals past the shooters.

But, before the hunt started, we gathered for a ceremony. The Czechs are allegedly one of the least-religious countries in Europe but they do wholly embrace its hunting rituals.

First, a large rectangle of spruce boughs is laid on the ground with fire logs placed at each corner. There are two one-meter openings in the boughs as a sort of theoretical doorway.

The hunters gather on one side, with the beaters on the opposite. Hats were removed and held over your heart. On our left were the hunt officials and on the right was a distinguished-looking older guy toting something resembling a French horn.

On an unseen signal, the gent played a slow, haunting melody on the horn, interspersed with excellent singing in Czech. After the music, the hunt master said a few words and offered instructions, then more horn-blowing and singing before things drew to a close. The musician was good, and the whole effect in the gray morning dawn was quite stirring, even for Americans who didn’t understand a bit of it.

;
.

On Stand

We then adjourned to our designated stands with our assigned guns. Mine was a CZ bolt-action rifle in .308 bearing a Vortex scope. We wouldn’t get any familiarization time but since most shots would be at across-the-street distance, it didn’t really matter.

The weather was ugly, a heavy freezing fog with about 40 yards of visibility. At my stand — actually a spray-painted number on a large tree — it was as quiet as a midnight graveyard. I had a Czech minder with me but the first thing he did was show me his phone pulled up to Google Translate displaying “I don’t speak English.” I responded likewise with, “I don’t speak Czech,” so we both shrugged and waited in silence for something to happen.

Suddenly, a clear horn note sounded in the distance. In the fog, it was eerie and sent another chill up my spine not entirely attributed to the cold. Then came pandemonium.

On the signal, the beaters and their dogs began shouting, hollering, singing, smacking sticks together and making all manner of un-hunt-like hullabaloo. The sound echoed among the rolling hills as sporadic rifle fire began to punctuate the gray. I stood ready.

The shooters are supposed to face outward to avoid danger to the beaters. In actuality everybody looked inward toward the drive at the amazing sight. Fallow deer and huge red stag ran willy-nilly through the misty forest, just like mice when you open the door to an old grain bin. The numbers were amazing, even when you consider the supplemental feeding and other herd enhancement techniques in use. With the stags off limits and firing in the direction of beaters not allowed, frustration hung thicker than the fog.

In the end, after four such hunts in one day, I fired exactly one shot and tagged the single largest trophy of the hunt — a pedunculated oak, Quercus robur. A running fallow doe I was tracking for a fast 30-yard chip shot ran behind the tree just as I pulled the trigger. With the bad weather, shooting restrictions and overall unfamiliarity with the program, it proved to be the only deer I had my sights on.

Thus, I set a new personal hunting record I’ll probably never surpass — I traveled over 9,000 miles roundtrip to assassinate a future packing crate.

;
.

End Game

As the sun went down, the group reassembled around the spruce boughs where the dressed deer and pigs were now carefully arranged inside. In the growing blue-black twilight, punctuated by four dancing corner fires, we held another ceremony which was even more reverent. The successful hunters were presented with a sprig of greenery to signify the last meal of their quarry, then after a benediction of sorts, the group dissolved quietly into the night.

It was later explained the ceremony was meant to thank the animals for giving up their lives, offer credit to the red gods of the hunt and generally show recognition to nature for providing this bounty. That the whole thing was done in earnest and without a trace of awkwardness was remarkable to an American. I could only imagine how the orange-clad deer hunters at the local greasy spoon would react to such things.

Ultimately, the entire day had been refined but still wild, thoughtful without being stuffy, introspective yet not self-absorbed. The ceremony was like the First United Methodist Church meets American Sportsman. The whole thing was totally foreign yet strangely familiar — and I liked it, a lot.

Now I’m just wondering how the boys down at Henriettas Hash House are going to react when I show up wearing a tie on opening day.

Subscribe To GUNS Magazine

Purchase A PDF Download Of The GUNS Magazine February 2025 Issue Now!

;
.