Unexplored Spain

One other quality in the natural economy of wild-geese requires mention—that is, their sense of scent. This defence wild-geese possess in equal degree with wild-ducks and most other wild creatures; but each class differ in their modes of utilising it.

For whereas ducks on detecting human scent will take instant alarm and depart afar on that indication alone; yet geese, on the other hand, though their nostrils have fully advised them of the presence of danger, will not at once take wing, but remain—with necks erect and all eyes concentrated towards the suspect point—awaiting confirmation by sight what they already know by scent.

That such is the case we ascertained in the days (now long past) when we ventured to stalk geese with no more covert than the low fringe of rush that borders the marisma. “Gatiando” = cat-crouching, our keepers term the method—laborious work, creeping flat for, it may be, 200 yards, through sloppy mud with less than two-foot of cover. Should it become necessary during the stalk to go directly to windward of the fowl, one’s presence (though quite unseen) would be instantly detected. The geese, ceasing to feed or rest, all stood to attention, while low, rumbling alarm-signals resounded along their lines. But they did not take wing. Presently, however, one reached a gap in the thickly growing rushes—it might not extend to a yard in width, yet no sooner was but a glimpse available to the keen eyes beyond, than the whole pack rose in simultaneous clatter of throats and wings. They had merely waited that scintilla of ocular confirmation of a known danger.

“Driving” (in a Dry Season)

From the turrets of our shooting-lodge one’s eye surveyed—no longer an inland sea, but a monotone of sun-baked mud; inspection through binoculars revealed the fact that this whole space was dotted with troops of ... well, a friend who was with us thought they were sheep; but which, in fact, were bands of greylag geese.

The fluctuations of Spanish seasons—varying from Noachian deluge to Saharan drought—necessarily react upon the habits of wildfowl. These changes are one of the charms of the country; at any rate, they “stretch out” the fowler to devise some new thing.

Those battalions of greylags posted out there on a vantage-ground where a mouse might be a prominent object at 100 yards, how can they be reduced to possession? Our friend aforesaid replies that the undertaking appears humanly impossible. We have, nevertheless, elaborated a system of driving, by which in dry years the greylag geese may be obtained with some degree of certainty.

This morning (the last of January) we rode forth, four guns and four keepers, across that plain. Upon approaching the pack of geese selected, one keeper rides to a position rather above the “half-wind” line, and there halts as a “stop.” The remaining seven ride on till, at a silent signal, No. 1 gun, without checking his horse, passes the bridle forward and rolls out of the saddle with gun and gear, lying at once flat as a flounder on the bare dry mud. At intervals of eighty yards each successive gun does the same, the four being now extended in a half-moon that commands nearly a quarter-mile of space. The three keepers (leading the other horses) continue riding forward in circular course till a second “stop” is placed in the right flank corresponding with the one already posted on the left. The last pair now complete the circuit by riding round to windward of the game, separating by 200 yards as that position is attained. (See diagram.)

Presently the whole band head away for what appears the only available outlet, and should they then pass directly over one or other of the guns, are seldom so high but that a pair should be secured right-and-left.

In strong gales of wind the geese, on being driven, are apt, instead of taking a direct course, to circle around in revolving flight, gaining altitude at each revolution; and in such case not only come in very high but at incredible speed—mas lejeros que zarcetas—swifter than teal, as Vasquez puts it.

The first essential of success in driving wild-geese (and the same applies to great bustard and all large winged game) is to instal the firing-line as near as may be without disturbing the fowl. The more remote the guns the greater the difficulty in forcing the game through the crucial pass.

Each gun should hold his fire till the main bodies of geese are well on wing and seen to be heading in towards the shooting-line. The “best possible” chances are thus secured, and not for one gun only, but quite possibly for all, as several hundred geese pass down the line. A premature shot, on the contrary, will ruin the best-planned drive, and bring down merited abuse from the rest of the party with scathing contempt from the drivers.

Taking single troops at a time, as many as six or eight separate drives may be worked into a long day. Our first drive to-day produced three geese, the second was blank, while five greylags rewarded the third attempt. In the last instance three of the guns received welcome aid from a string of ojos, or land-springs, around which grew a fringe of green rushes, affording excellent cover.

By four o’clock we had secured, in five drives, eleven geese and a wigeon. We then, on information received, changing our plan, rode off to a point which the keeper of that district had noted was being used by the geese as a dormidero, or sleeping-place; and here, as dusk fell, an hour’s “flighting” added six more greylags to that day’s total.

The above may be put down as a fair average day’s results in a dry season. From a dozen to a score of driven geese (and occasionally many more) represent, with such game as greylags, a degree and a quality of sport that is ill-represented by cold numerals.

Two guns can then be effectively brought into action. Needless to add, the second must be handled with the utmost rapidity.

In wet winters, when the marisma is submerged, “driving” is not available. Obviously you cannot place a line of guns, however keen, in six inches of water, much less in half-a-yard.

The following instructions may be worth the attention of new beginners:—

(1) Never fire till you are fairly certain to kill at least one.

(2) Never rise or even move in your “hide” till the beat is entirely finished.

(3) Reload at once; when big lots are being moved, two, three, or more chances may offer quite unexpectedly.

(4) Wear suitably coloured clothes and head-gear, and never let the sun glint on the gun-barrels.

“Flighting”—an Incident of a Dry Season

The day above described was selected, not only because it affords a typical illustration of our theme, but also because there had occurred during its course an extraneous incident which serves to amplify this exposition of the pursuit of the greylag goose.

Riding across the marisma, certain signs at once filled both our minds with fresh ideas. All around the ground was littered with cast feathers and other evidence proclaiming that this special spot was a regular resort of geese. We were crossing one of those slightly raised ridges of sand and grit which here and there intersect the otherwise universal dead-level of alluvial mud, and which ridges are known locally as vetas—tongues.

Now the nutritive economy of wild-geese, as already explained, requires a frequently replenished store of sand or grit. In wet seasons (the marisma being then submerged) the geese resort to the adjoining sand-dunes of Doñana to secure these supplies. But in dry winters they are enabled to obtain the necessary sand from these vetas; and it was to this particular spot that, to the number of many hundreds, the geese were evidently resorting at this period.

At once the measure of opportunity was gauged, and the arrangements necessary for its exploitation were made. Within three minutes a messenger was galloping homewards to summon a couple of men with spades and buckets to prepare a hole wherein one of us might lie concealed at daybreak. A pannier-mule to carry away the excavated material was also requisitioned, since the least visible change in the earth’s surface would instantly be recognised by the geese as a danger-signal. Within a few minutes we had resumed our course, to continue the day’s sport.

Hardly had a tardy light begun to strengthen to the dawn than the soft, soliloquising “Gagga, gagga, gagga,” with alternatively the raucous “Honk-honk,” resounded afar through the gloom. From seven o’clock onwards geese were flying close around—so near that the rustling of strong wings sounded almost within arm’s-length; but that opaque fog held unbroken and nothing could be seen. Long before eight I resolved to quit and leave the fowl undisturbed for another morning rather than open fire at so late an hour. Having a compass, I steered a good line to the point where the horses awaited me, a mile away.

The following morning again broke foggy, though not quite so thick; still I had only five geese at eight o’clock, when three packs coming well in, in rapid succession, afforded three gratifying doubles. Total, eleven geese.

After each shot, one of us jumped out and propped up the fallen geese as decoys. To leave them lying about all-ends-up has a disastrous effect.

Ere the “flight” ceased we had five-and-twenty greylags down around our hide, besides several others that had fallen at some distance, duly marked by the keepers who now galloped off to gather these—say two mule-loads of geese. The discovery of that lonely “sanding-place” had had a concrete reward.

FLANKING the marisma and separating it from the dry lands of Doñana, there rises rampart-like a swelling range of dunes—the biggest thing in the sand line we have seen on earth. For miles extend these mountains of sand, unbroken by vestige of vegetation or any object to relieve one’s eyesight, dazzled—aye, blinded—by that brilliantly scintillating surface, set off in vivid contrast by the azure vault above.

Should a stranger, on first seeing those buttressed dunes, be seriously informed that their naked summits constitute a favourite resort of wild-geese, he might reasonably suspect his informant’s sanity, or at least wonder whether his own credulity were not being tested. Yet such is the fact—one of the surprises that befall in Spain, the pays de l’imprévu.

The paradox is explained by the stated necessity in wild-geese to furnish their gizzards with store of grit or sand for digestive purposes.

This supply, so long as the marisma is dry, they are able to obtain from those raised ridges of calcareous debris (already described, and known locally as vetas) which here and there outcrop from the alluvial wastes. But when winter rains and floods have submerged the whole region and thus deprived the fowl of that local resource, they are forced to rely upon the sand-dunes aforesaid and to substitute pure sea-sand for their former specific of calcareous grit or disintegrated shells. To the sand-dunes, therefore, in the cold bright mornings between October and February, the skeins of greylag geese may be seen directing their course in successive files, in order, as the Spanish put it, “to sand themselves” (arenárse).

With the first sign of dawn the earlier arrivals will be heard approaching; but the bulk of the geese come in about sun-up and onwards till 9 A.M. Geese arriving high (having come presumably from a distance) will sometimes, after a preliminary wheel, suddenly collapse in mid-air, diving and shooting earthwards in a score of curving lines—as teal do, or tumbler-pigeons; but with these heavy fowl the manœuvre is executed with surprising grace and command of wing. Their numbers vary on different mornings without any apparent cause; but it may be laid down as a general rule that more will come on clear bright mornings than when the dawn is overcast, while rain proves (as in all wildfowling) an upsetting factor. Sometimes, even on favourable mornings, no geese appear. Occasionally, in small numbers, they may visit the sand in afternoon.

To exploit the advantage afforded by this habit of the geese, it is necessary that the fowler be concealed before dawn in a hole dug for the purpose in the sand—care being taken to utilise any natural concealment, such as a depression flanked by a steep sand-revetment; so that, at least from one quarter, the geese may perceive no danger till right over the gun. The hole (or holes, but one is best) must be dug at least twelve hours before, or the newly turned sand will show up dark. Were it not for the risk of wind filling them up with driving sand (a matter of an hour or two), the holes might well be prepared two or even three days beforehand. The excavated material is piled up around the periphery and flattened down smooth, thus forming a raised rampart which screens the suspicious darkness of the interior. Needless to say, the fewer human footprints around the spot, the better.

Such is the inability exhibited by many sportsmen (not being wildfowlers) to conceal their persons—or even to recognise the virtue of concealment—that, for such, the holes are apt to be made too big, and the geese swerve off at sight of those gaping pits. This indeed is a form of sport that none save wildfowlers need essay—others merely succeed in thwarting the whole enterprise.

It is essential to bear in mind the fact that the geese have come with the intention (unless prematurely alarmed) of alighting. Hence, as they often circle two or three times around before finally deciding, a judicious refusal of all uncertain chances has a concrete reward when, a few seconds later, the pack sweep overhead at half gunshot. The first element of success lies in concealment; the second in ever allowing the geese to come in to such close quarters as renders the shot a certainty.

Greylag geese are, of course, huge birds, very strong, and impenetrable as ironclads. But to tyros (and many others) in the early light they are apt to appear much larger, and consequently much nearer, than is actually the case. All this has, the night before, been impressed upon our friend, the tyro, in solemn, even tragic tones. The urgency of the thing seems to have been graven deep on the very tissues of his brain, and he promises with earnest humility to bear the lesson in mind when the vital moment shall arrive; to deny himself all but point-blank shots well within thirty yards, whereby he will not only himself assist to swell the score, but enable his companion to do likewise.

Words fail to describe that companion’s frame of mind at the dawn, when, despite over-night exhortations and assurances, he sees to his horror pack after pack of incoming geese (some of which he has himself let pass within forty yards) “blazed at” at mad and reckless ranges by that wretched scarecrow who never ruffles a feather and afterwards tries to excuse his failure by enlarging on “the extreme height the geese came in at!”

A word now as to the “decoys.” These, in design, are American—first observed and brought across from Chicago—cut out of block-tin, formed and painted to resemble a grey-goose. Geese being gregarious by nature are peculiarly susceptible to the attractions of decoys. Hence these tin geese have a marvellous effect when silhouetted on the skyline of a sand-ridge, being conspicuous for enormous distances and the only “living” objects on miles of desert. They are most deadly before sunrise, after which they are apt to glint too much despite a coating of dried mud. As daylight broadens, incoming geese are apt to be disconcerted at losing sight of their supposed friends, which event must occur as each decoy falls end-on—one can interpret the hurried queries and expletives of the puzzled phalanx at that mysterious disappearance! For these reasons it is desirable as soon as possible to supplement the decoys with, and finally to substitute for them, the real article, that is, the newly shot geese, set up in life-like attitudes by aid of twigs brought for the purpose. Fallen birds must, in any case, be set up as fast as gathered; if left spread-eagled as they fell, inevitably the next comers are scared. The more numerous and life-like the decoys, the more certain are the geese to come in with confidence and security.

Naturally great care must be used in getting into and out of one’s hide to avoid breaking down its loose and crumbling substance. But it is of first importance quickly to gather and prop up the dead. A winged goose walking away should be stopped with a charge of No. 6 in the head.

Strange indeed are the sensations evoked by that silent watch before day-dawn, in expectation of what truly appears incredible! Buried virtually in a desert of sand the fowler has nothing in sight beyond the dark dunes and a star-spangled sky overhead. For his hide is cunningly hidden in a slight depression with a hanging buttress on two sides.

It is 8 A.M., and the tin decoys are now entirely replaced by geese of flesh and feather, with the fatal result that each successive pack now enters with fullest confidence, so that by doubles and trebles the score mounts fast during the fleeting minutes that yet remain.

Before nine o’clock the flight has ceased. It only remains to gather those birds which have fallen afar—and which have been marked by the keepers from their points of vantage—and to follow by their spoor on the sand such winged geese as may have departed on foot. Some of these will be overtaken, those that have concealed themselves in the nearest rush-beds; but should any have passed on and gained the stronghold of the marisma, they are lost.

Roughly speaking, from a dozen to a score of geese may be reckoned as a fair average morning’s work for one gun. The following figures, selected from our game-books, indicate the degree of success that rewards exceptional skill. In each instance they apply to but one fowler, though two guns (12-bores) may have been employed.

Possibly the larger totals are unsurpassed in the world’s records. By way of contrast we append what may perchance be discovered in the note-book of the veracious tyro:—

Went out three mornings at three, emptied three cartridge-bags at ridiculous ranges, fluked three geese, and scared three thousand.

Instructions in shooting Wild-Geese

Where the main object is close quarters, ordinary 12-bore guns suffice. But since geese are very strong and heavily clad, large shot is a necessity, say No. 1.

Should two guns be employed, the case of the second is, of course, different. It may be loaded with larger shot—say AAA—which is effective up to fifty yards.

The speed of geese (like that of bustards) is extremely deceptive—as much so as their apparent nearness when really far out of shot. When in full flight geese travel as fast as ducks or as driven grouse, though their relatively slow wing-beats give a totally false impression thereof. It is a safe rule for beginners to allow double that forward swing of the gun that may appear needful to inexpert eyes.

Even when geese are slowing down to alight, the impetus of their flight is still far greater than it appears.

It is a mistake to suppose (as many urge) that geese cannot be killed coming in, that the shot then “glances off their steely plumage,” or that you “must let them pass over and shoot from behind,” etc., etc. The cause of all these frequent misapprehensions is—the old, old story—too far back! Hold another foot ahead—or a yard, according to circumstance—and this dictum will be handsomely proved.

Another incident with peregrine:—I had just taken post for night-flighting at the Albacias, when, as dusk fell, a big bird appeared in the gloom making, with laboured flight, directly towards me. Thinking (though doubtfully) that it was a goose, I fired. The stranger proved to be a beautiful adult peregrine, carrying in its claws a marbled duck, and the pair are now set up in my collection.

Figures such as the following are apt to provoke two sentiments: (1) that they are not true, or that (2), being true, such results must be easy of attainment. The first we pass over. As regards the second, the assumption ignores the nature and essential character of wildfowl.

These, being cosmopolitans, remain precisely the same wherever on the earth’s surface they happen to be found. It is their sky they change, not their natural disposition or their fixed habits, when wildfowl shift their homes. The difficulty is that not half-a-dozen men in a thousand understand wildfowl or the supreme difficulty which their pursuit entails, whether in Spain, England, or elsewhere.

In England, it is true, such results are out of the question, simply because the country is highly drained, cultivated, and populous. Were it desired to recover for England those immigrant hosts—the operation would not be impossible—break down the Bedford Level and flood five counties! Then you might enjoy in the Midlands such scenes as to-day we see in Spain.

That test of individual skill has, it may go without saying, been demonstrated during all these years times without number. There are not, within the authors’ knowledge, a score of men who have fairly gathered to their gun in one day 100 ducks in the open marisma. Again, while one such gun, who is thoroughly efficient, will secure his century, others (including excellent game-shots) will fail to bag one-tenth of that number. There can be no question here of “luck” in that long run of years.

A feature, more valuable than the figures themselves, is the light they throw upon the varying distribution of the Anatidae (both specifically and seasonably) in the south of Spain.

1897. November 25.—Las Neuvas (C. D. W. and B. F. B.) 307 ducks, 53 geese (Geese, all the afternoon, came well in to decoys)

1898. January 29, 30, and 31.—Two Guns (W. D. M. and W. J. B.) 437 ducks, 17 geese

1903.January 18.—Flight-Shooting with 12-bore at Caño Dulce (one Gun)

Total, 224 ducks and 3 geese. About one-half shot on natural flight before 11 A.M.; the rest later, over “decoys.” Nice breeze all day.

1903. February.—Three Consecutive Days’ Flighting (one Gun)

On the 24th a succession of pintails came in, all in pairs. Almost the entire bag of that species was made in double shots.

1903. March 4.—Beyond Desierto, Flighting (one Gun)

Put away many thousands of teal early. These kept coming back in small lots all day. But the wind held wrong all through, and the Viento de la mar (= sea-breeze) did not blow up till 5 P.M. Nine camels passed close by.

1904. November 8.—Laguna de Santolalla (one Gun)

1905. November 8.—(P. Garvey, C. D. W., and B. F. B.)

Santolalla       264 ducks

1905. December 3.—Caño Dulce (one Gun)

1905-6. Two Days at Caño Dulce (one Gun)

The total on December 17 represents the “Record,” and was made (as was that with geese, see p. 131) by B. F. B.

Following is a list of the different ducks shot by one gun during two consecutive seasons:—

IN the Spanish ibex Spain possesses not only a species peculiar to the Peninsula, but a game-animal of the first rank.

Fortunate it is that this sentence can be written in the present tense instead of (as but a few years ago appeared probable) in the past.

Since we first wrote on this subject in 1893 the Spanish ibex has passed through a crisis that came perilously near extirpation. Up to the date named, and for several years later, none of the great landowners of Spain, within whose titles were included the vast sierras and mountain-ranges that form its home, had cherished either pride or interest in the Spanish wild-goat. Some were dimly conscious of its existence on their distant domains: but that was all. Not a scintilla of reproach is here inferred. For these mountain-ranges are so remote and so elevated as often to be almost inaccessible—or accessible only by organised expedition independent of local aid. Their sole human inhabitants are a segregated race of goat-herds, every man of them a born hunter, accustomed from time immemorial to kill whenever opportunity offered—and that regardless of size, sex, or season. That the ibex should have survived such persecution by hardy mountaineers bespeaks their natural cunning. Their survival was due to two causes—first, the antiquated weapons employed, but, more important, the astuteness of the game and the “defence” it enjoyed in the stupendous precipices and snow-fields of those sierras, great areas of which remain inaccessible even to specialised goat-herds, save only for a limited period in summer.

We rejoice to add that at this eleventh hour a new era of existence has been secured to Capra hispánica at that precise psychological moment when its scant survivors were struggling in their last throes. The change is due to graceful action by the landowners in certain great mountain-ranges; and if our own explorations and our writings on the subject have also tended to assist, none surely will grudge the authors this expression of pride in having helped, however humbly, to preserve not only to Spain, but to the animal-world, one of its handsomest species.

This new era took different forms in different places. In certain sierras—those of less boundless area—the owners have undertaken the preservation of the ibex partly from their realising the tangible asset this game-beast adds to the value of barren mountain-land, and partly in view of the legitimate sport that an increase in stock may hereafter afford.

But the main factor which has assured success (and which in itself led up to the private efforts just named) took origin in the great Sierra de Grédos. This elevated region is the apex of the long cordillera of central Spain, the Carpeto-Vetonico range, which extends from Moncayo, east of Madrid, for some 300 miles through the Castiles and Estremadura, forming the watershed of Tagus and Douro. It separates the two Castiles, and passing the frontier of Portugal is there known as the Serra da Estrella, which, with the Cintra hills, extends to the Atlantic sea-board. Along all this extensive cordillera there is no more favoured resort of ibex than its highest peak, the Plaza de Almanzór, of 2661 metres altitude (= 8700 feet) above sea-level.

In 1905, when the ibex were about at their last gasp, the proprietors of the Nucléo central, which we may translate as the Heart of Grédos, of their own initiative, ceded to King Alfonso XIII. the sole rights-of-chase therein, and His Majesty commissioned the Marquis of Villaviciosa de Asturias to appoint an adequate force of guards.

Six guards were selected from the self-same goat-herds who, up to that date, had themselves been engaged in hunting to extermination the last surviving ibex of the sierra, and whom we had ourselves employed during various expeditions therein.

[A similar cession of sole hunting-rights to the King was simultaneously made by the owners of the “Central Group” of the Picos de Europa in Asturias. There are no ibex in that Cantabrian range; the graceful act was there inspired by a desire to preserve the chamois, animals with which we deal in another chapter.]

The Spanish ibex is found at six separate points in the Peninsula, each colony divided from its fellows as effectually as though broad oceans rolled between. The six localities are:—

(1) The Pyrenees—which we have not visited.

(2) Sierra de Grédos, as above defined, and as described in greater detail hereafter.

(3) Sierra Moréna, a single isolated colony near Fuen-Caliente, now preserved (see next chapter).

(4) Sierra Neváda and the Alpuxarras (cf. infra).

(5) The mountains along the Mediterranean, which are properly western outliers of Neváda, but which are usually grouped as the “Serrania de Ronda,” some lying within sight of Gibraltar. Several of the most important ranges are now preserved by their owners (cf. infra).

Our informant has reason to believe that ibex also exist (or existed within recent years) in the rugged mountains of Tortosa, farther east in Catalonia.

In the form of its horns the Spanish ibex differs essentially from the typical ibex of the Alps—now, alas, exterminated save only in the King of Italy’s preserved ranges around the Val d’Aosta. In the true ibex the horns bend regularly backwards and downwards in a uniform, scimitar-like curve. In the Spanish species, after first diverging laterally, the horns are recurved both inward and finally upward. That is, in the first case they follow a simple semicircular bend, while in the Spanish goats they form almost a spiral.

A minor point of difference lies in the annular rings or notches which in the true ibex are rectangular, encircling the horn in front like steps in a ladder, while in Capra hispánica they rather run obliquely in semi-spiral ascent. These annulations indicate the age of the animal—one notch to each year—but the count must stop where the spiral ends. Beyond that is the lightly grooved tip, which does not alter.

The horns of old rams (which are often broken or worn down at the tips) average 26 to 28 inches, specially fine examples reaching 29 inches or more. The females likewise carry horns, but short and slender, only measuring 6 or 7 inches.

The six isolated colonies of ibex, separated from each other during ages, live under totally different natural conditions. For while some, as stated, exist at 8000, 10,000, or 12,000 feet altitude, others occupy hills of much more moderate elevations—say 4000 to 6000 feet, some of which are bush-clad to their summits. Under such circumstances there have naturally developed divergencies not only in habits, but in form and size. Particularly does this apply to the horns, and for that reason we give a series of photos of typical examples from various points.

Neither in Grédos nor Neváda are the rock-formations so precipitous as in the Picos de Europa in Asturias—described later in this book. They present, nevertheless, difficulties possibly insuperable to mere hunters unskilled in the technique of climbing. Rock-climbing forms a recognised branch of “mountaineering,” but of that science the authors (with sorrow be it confessed) have never been enamoured. To us, mountains, merely as such, have not appealed. But they form the home of alpine creatures, the study and acquisition of which were objects that no terrestrial obstacle could entirely forbid, and we enjoy retrospective pride in having so far surmounted those antecedent terrors as to have secured a few specimens of this, the most “impossible” of European trophies—the Spanish ibex.

An awkward situation is a subrounded wall of rough granulated granite blocking our course and traversed obliquely by an up-trending fissure barely the breadth of hempen soles, its inclination outward, and the “tread” carpeted with slippery wet moss still half frozen. It is seldom what one can see that gives pause, but the fear of the unseen. Here we hesitate by reason of the uncertainty of what may confront beyond that grim curve. The fissure might cease; to turn back would clearly be impossible. Impatient of delay our crag-born guide—a homo rupestris, prehensile of foot—seized the gun, and with a muttered ejaculation that might have included scorn, in three strides had skipt around the dreaded corner—of course we followed.

Snow-slopes tipped at steep angles never inspire confidence in the unaxed climber, especially when the surface is half melted, revealing green ice beneath, and when the disappearing curve conceals from view what dangers may lurk below. Again a suddenly interrupted ledge—say where some great block has become disintegrated from the hanging face—necessitates a sort of nervy jump quite calculated to shorten one’s days, even if it does not precipitately terminate them.

Such are the ibex of the loftier ranges—Grédos and Neváda. But in the south, wild-goats are found on mountains of inferior elevation, 4000 to 6000 feet, many of which are jungled—some even forested—to their summits, and there they cannot disdain the shelter of the scrub. We have hunted them (within sight of the Mediterranean) in ground that appeared more suitable to roe-deer, and have seen the “rootings” of wild-pig within the ibex-holding area.

In such situations the wild-goats take quite kindly to the scrub, forming regular “lairs” wherein they lie-up as close as hares or roe. Amidst the brushwood that clothes the highland—heaths and broom, genista, rhododendron, lentiscus, and a hundred other shrubs—they rest by day and browse by night without having to descend or shift their quarters at all. On these lower hills the ibex owe their safety, and survival, to the vast area of covert, and, in less degree, to their comparatively small numbers. So few are they and so big their home, they are considered “not worth hunting.”

During summer the ibex feed on the mountain-grasses, rush, and flowering shrubs which at that season adorn the alpine solitudes; later, on the berries and wild-fruits of the hill. By autumn they attain their highest condition—the beards of the rams fully developed and their brown pelts glossy and almost uniform in colour. At this period (September to October) the rutting season occurs and fighting takes place—the champions rearing on hind-legs for a charge, and the crash of opposing horns resounds across the corries of the sierra. Even in spring memories of the combative instinct survive, for we have watched, in April, a pair of veterans sparring at each other for half an hour.

At that season (April to May) the ibex are changing their coats. The males lose the flowing beard and assume a hoary piebald colour, contrasting with the dark of legs and quarters. The muzzle is warm cream colour and the lower leg (below knee) prettily marked with black and white. On the knee is a callosity, or round patch of bare hardened skin. The horns of yearling males are thicker and heavier than those of adult females.

Though the hill-shepherds in summer drive out their herds of goats to pasture on the higher sierra, where they may come in contact with their wild congeners, yet no interbreeding has ever been known; nor can the wild ibex be domesticated. Wild kids that are captured invariably die before attaining maturity. The horns of the herdsmen’s goats differ in type from those of the ibex, which can never have been the progenitor of the race of goats now domesticated in Spain.