There are bird people.
And then there are vulture people.
A distinction you don’t appreciate until you’ve had coffee with one.
I met Pablo — thin, wiry, perpetually sunburnt — at a rickety wooden table in the Sierra de Cazorla. His battered field notebook sat between us, next to a half-eaten bocadillo. On the hill behind him, dozens of Griffon vultures circled in lazy spirals. To him, this was just… normal. To me? Slightly unnerving.
“People don’t get it,” Pablo said, lighting a cigarette with the kind of resigned sigh unique to field biologists. “They think vultures are dirty. Evil. Like in the cartoons. But they’re doctors. Forest doctors.”
Spain is Europe’s vulture capital. Thanks to strict anti-poisoning laws, protected habitats, and, frankly, the stubbornness of people like Pablo, we’ve got four thriving species:
- Griffon vulture (Gyps fulvus)
- Black vulture (Aegypius monachus)
- Egyptian vulture (Neophron percnopterus)
- Bearded vulture (Gypaetus barbatus)
And while most of Europe lost its vultures decades ago, here they soar — managing carcasses, limiting disease spread, and preventing ecosystem imbalances. The EU even funds parts of their conservation under programs like LIFE.
“You know how many cows die in summer here?” Pablo asked. “Hundreds. Without vultures, the carcasses rot, spread disease, attract feral dogs. Vultures are free sanitation.”
Of course, nothing is simple.
The EU’s past bans on feeding stations (ironically triggered by mad cow disease regulations) almost wiped many colonies out. Without predictable food sources, vulture populations plummeted. Only after intense lobbying by groups like Fundación Gypaetus and SEO/BirdLife were the bans relaxed.
Pablo’s team runs one of several feeding stations nearby — controlled, monitored, and absolutely reeking. They deposit carcasses. The vultures arrive in organized chaos. First Griffons, then the Blacks, with the Egyptian vultures sneaking in for leftovers. Occasionally, the mythical Bearded vulture drops in to steal bones, which it’ll smash on rocks to get at the marrow.
The scene, if you’ve never watched it, is astonishing. Brutal and graceful all at once.
We spent the afternoon counting wing tags through binoculars.
“312… 547… 312 again… where’s 721?”
Pablo muttered like a bingo caller for the macabre.
Spain’s vulture resurgence isn’t just about birds.
It’s part of a bigger rewilding mosaic that includes bison, lynx, and wild horses — projects I’ve mentioned before. Organizations like Rewilding Europe are helping stitch this vision together across fragmented habitats.
And — as with everything — friction remains.
- Farmers worry about predators.
- Wind farms threaten flight paths.
- Poison bait traps remain a constant illegal menace.
- Public opinion flips between fascination and horror.
But for every poisoned bird Pablo buries, there’s another chick successfully fledged. And that matters.
Before I left, Pablo offered me a sip from his flask.
“To the ugly birds,” he said.
“To the ugly birds,” I repeated.
And for once, I meant it as a compliment.