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Charging bears by Tesla’s ghost - John Rigby & Co.
High in Croatia’s Velebit Mountains, Rigby’s Head of Communications Simon K. Barr went in search of theLearn more
www.johnrigbyandco.com
High in Croatia’s Velebit Mountains, Rigby’s Head of Communications Simon K. Barr went in search of the Eurasian brown bear. What followed was a hunt that blended history, science and the pulse of the wild, in a landscape where Nikola Tesla’s ghost still lingers.
The air bit at my knuckles as I gripped the stock of my Rigby. Below me, the Velebit Mountains sprawled across Croatia’s Lika region, a jagged tapestry of beech and spruce stitched with autumn’s fiery threads. I was here for the Eurasian brown bear, cousin to North America’s grizzly, a beast as old as the hills and twice as stubborn. Somewhere in that deep wilderness, a 500-pound bruin awaited me.
The Balkans are a rugged corner of Southeastern Europe, carved between Western Europe’s order and the Middle East’s sun-baked expanse. Croatia, Albania, Serbia, Romania, Greece, Bulgaria, and the republics of former Yugoslavia all contribute to this patchwork of wild, sparsely populated mountains. Hunters here find red stag, chamois, mouflon, roe, wild boar, and – rarer still – the wolf, lynx, and bear. It was that pull which brought me to Croatia.
This is my tale of hunting Europe’s mightiest mammal. But this isn’t just a hunting story, it’s a balancing act of nature, and a nod to a genius born in the shadow of these very Croatian peaks. Our journey began in Gospic, a stone’s throw from the Northern Adriatic Coast, where the Velebit rise like the spine of an ancient beast. As the truck rattled along, we passed Smiljan, birthplace of Nikola Tesla. I pictured him tinkering with electrical coils while bears raided nearby orchards, paws sticky with plum juice.
Our guide, Milan “Mike” Perkovic, had spent 18 years in Croatia’s Forestry Department, the last 12 devoted to hunting and wildlife. Riding with us was his ranger, a reformed poacher turned gamekeeper, chuckling at the irony. “Bears don’t eat bears,” Mike told me with a smirk, “only wolves will take a bite. But if you drop a boar or deer here, you’d better get to it quick. Bears claim it faster than the taxman.”
Croatia’s got about 1,000 bears, give or take, though Mike reckons it’s more, and I’d wager he’s right. The EU sets a yearly cull at 150, most taken by hunters, the rest lost to trains or cars. Still, the population grows. Sows drop two cubs on average, sometimes four, and they aren’t shy about trouble: raiding beehives, trampling orchards, even killing livestock. One bear recently polished off 10 sheep in a single night, a feat that would show a wolf a thing or two. When they wander into towns, it’s pandemonium. Imagine a 394-kilo record-breaker, that’s 800 pounds of Croatian bear, crashing your backyard barbecue, scattering chairs and sending the neighbours howling. Hunting’s not just a sporting endeavour here. It’s keeping a leash on chaos and provides a way to keep the scales tipped towards a natural balance and harmony.
Bear hunting has long been legal, though you need a government tag to tangle with these bruins. Unlike Sweden, where dogs bay bears, here it’s man against beast. The season runs February to May and September to December, though most locals don’t begin until October’s chill sets in. Mike had four tags for this stretch of the Velebit, a mix of forestry and private concessions, and our plan was simple: stalk by day, sit by night.
The terrain was unforgiving – steep slopes, slick leaves, and thick spruce – but magnificent in the autumn light. On day one, Mike moved ahead, silent as Tesla’s ghost. We glassed sows with cubs and young boars too green to take. Hunting here is selective: only old males. “Patience,” Mike growled, “is the hunter’s prayer.” He knew it well – last spring a sow had charged him from nowhere, cubs squealing behind her. He’d dodged her by inches, her roar splitting the air like a chainsaw. “A wounded bear’s a problem,” he said. I nodded, aware how easily the hunter could become the hunted.
By dusk we changed tactics. Farmers sell maize for feed stations, drawing bears away from crops and livestock. Think of it as a bruin buffet, and for hunters, it gives a chance at a clean, selective shot at older boars.
That first night, under a bright moon, I counted 17 bears through my Leica binoculars: sows, cubs, and young males, but not the one. On the second night, seven larger bears arrived before a sow with cubs scattered the lot. Then, briefly, the big boar appeared, hulking on the track, but she spooked him off. My heart sank. So close.
On the third night, we climbed back into the rickety tower. The air was sharp, the moon high overhead. Smaller bears nosed through the maize until the stage cleared. Then he came… a 500-pound boss bear, shoulders broader than any other bruin we had seen.
My heart hammered as he prowled, no clean angle offered. Then, finally, he turned broadside. I exhaled, squeezed, and the Hornady DGX cartridge slammed into his scapula, breaking him down. I cycled the Mauser action and sent a follow-up into the vitals. The valley fell silent.
Hauling him out, I felt the weight of fur and muscle, Europe’s strongest wild mammal. Bear meat is a delicacy here but must be tested for trichinosis and rabies. Within 24 hours it would be shared. Nothing goes to waste: organs, fat, teeth, and DNA are catalogued by scientists monitoring population health and diversity. Each bear becomes part of the record, proof that hunting is not only tradition but a tool for balance.
Back in Gospic, Mike and I raised a glass to Tesla’s ghost and the bear that tested me. Like Ruark might say, it was a dance with a bruin as old as the hills, where the rifle’s growl met the mountain’s silence. Hunting here is no game of chance. It’s duty, science, and one hell of a ride.
In the Velebit’s embrace, Rigby at my side, I felt the pulse of Croatia’s wild heart, beating strong, a rhythm born in Tesla’s foothills and echoing through the ages.
