Wild in Argentina

Extreme mixed-bag gunning at Estancia Las Colas

The scene was downright Hitchcockian. Everywhere I looked there were birds. Birds swooping to my left; others diving to my right; still more streaking straight at me, only to veer at the last possible moment. There were so many birds that it was unnerving-especially knowing that had they ever turned on us, they could have picked our bones clean in a minute.
[img 1 right caption=Las Colas, the estancia in Entre Rios province where the author found hot-barrelled dove shooting.]
Our ragtag group of Guns was scattered around a picked soybean field, positioned in makeshift blinds along the treeline. We were armed with 20-gauge doubles and autoloaders, and though we fired at will, resistance seemed futile. Still we kept on, loading and shooting as quickly as our aching fingers would allow, plucking bird after bird from the sweeping hordes. We were the last line of defense against the winged marauders, and we felt the weight of mankind's fate on our shoulders . . . .

OK, OK, so I exaggerate, but it's easy to do when describing the Argentine experience. In fact, almost everything about the country lends itself to hyperbole. From the succulent beef to the robust wines to the swarms of challenging gamebirds, the quantity and quality are so extreme that embellishment comes naturally.

Even the journey to South America can seem epic. Mine took 13 years, beginning when I signed on with Shooting Sportsman and first saw photos of heaping mounds of doves and neat rows of ducks laid out before stately estancias. In those days the concept of shooting that many birds was so alien to me that I doubted I could ever do it.

Time passed, however, and my curiosity grew. I read more articles about Argentina and spoke with sportsmen who'd been there and partaken. The rationale for thinning plague-like populations began making sense and, though I realized the underlying reason was sport, I appreciated that the birds weren't being wasted but rather consumed by local residents.

Last year I finally was ready to take the plunge; I needed to go and see things for myself-good or bad. I asked around and was told that if I wanted a first-class experience with a veteran outfitter, Miguel Medus was the man to call. Miguel has owned and operated Argentina Wild Wing Shooting in the province of Entre Rios for 27 years. His US booking agent is Roger Anderson, and Roger was able to place me with a group from New Jersey for a three-day mixed-bag shoot and some cultural bonus time in Buenos Aires.

It was a warm late-June afternoon when I boarded the plane in Portland, Maine, for the short hop to New York's Kennedy International. From Kennedy, a 10-hour direct flight had us on the ground in BA at 10 am. Once through customs, I met the rest of our group: Greg Huljack and his son, Dave (who'd be celebrating his 28th birthday during the trip), and their friends Roger Locandro and Tony Berardo. All were veteran hunters, but none had experienced the kind of high-volume shooting we were expecting.

By a stroke of luck, Argentina was playing Germany in the World Cup Soccer quarter-finals that day, so Miguel's man who greeted us at baggage claim had an easy time shepherding us through the gun-permitting process. The back-room officials were happy to stamp our papers, collect their fees and get back to watching the game.

Our first close-up view of the country was through van windows as we were whisked out of the airport and driven north through the city. Blue-and-white flags hung from windows and balconies in patriotic support of the national team. The high-rises quickly gave way to low-rises, which quickly gave way to nothing at all as we crossed the Parana River and headed out across the fertile pampas. Three hours later we arrived in the town of Gualeguay, and several miles beyond there we drove through the pillared gates of our destination: Las Colas.

Las Colas is one of six estancias that Miguel operates for bird shooting in Argentina. The beautiful Renaissance-style buildings were constructed for a cattle baron in 1908 and, sticking with the cattle theme, named "The Tails" for their location on the "backside" of the 3,000-hectare (7,500-acre) ranch.

We'd barely settled in-to our rooms when Tom-as Dobie, the delightful South African lad who was managing the estancia, informed us that it was time to suit up for doves. It was getting on in the afternoon, so we would be driving to the closest of five roosts that can be reached easily from Las Colas.

Soon we were taking positions in bamboo blinds around the perimeter of the beanfield mentioned earlier. The paloma (doves) were not feeding here but rather returning to the surrounding woods from forays to outlying wheat, barley and sunflower fields. Roberto was to be my bird boy for the next few days, and he had situated us in a corner where we could watch doves approaching from a distance. A few birds already were flying, so once I'd uncased my Zoli 20-bore and emptied a box of shells into my pouch, I was ready to begin.

It turns out that the first few birds of the afternoon are like appetizers before the main course. There's plenty of time for savoring. I remember my first dove with delicious clarity: a left-to-right crosser that I watched the entire length of the field. It never wavered in its flight line, stroking headlong toward me, and I raised up, mounted the gun, swung through and fired in one motion. The bird tumbled into the adjoining hedgerow.

"Muerto," Roberto announced. Dead.

The second bird suffered a similar fate, this time falling in the field just shy of the hedge.

"Bueno," Roberto said.

Hey, I could get used to this, I thought. I continued to enjoy cool, calculated shooting at a predictable trickle of birds.

Then everything changed.

It was barely perceptible at first, but soon there was a definite shift. Birds began appearing more frequently and from different directions. There also seemed to be a new urgency in their flights, as if suddenly they felt the pressure of fleeting daylight.

The gunfire around the field echoed the change. What had started out as sporadic popping grew steadily to resemble a raging firefight. I was swept up in the frenzy as well-my smooth, methodical shots becoming hurried jabs at erratic-flying birds.

Roberto was like a good bartender who never lets your glass get empty. Every time I would start feeling my shell bag lighten, he would fill it with more cartuchos. When the action slowed an hour later, 22 empty boxes lay amongst the pile of yellow hulls.

Unlike the other bird boys who retrieved each dove as it fell, Roberto waited until the end of the day to pick up. This afforded me better shooting, as he was not out flaring birds during the heat of the action. When he eventually returned with the burlap bag and emptied the contents beside the blind, I couldn't believe my eyes. (Wow, did I do that?) Surprisingly, there were none of the feelings of gluttony or remorse I'd feared, but rather a sense of pride in my accomplishment. It was clear from what I'd seen that there was no shortage of doves-and not a huge stretch to believe my efforts had been helpful.

That night at the lodge the mood was euphoric as the group sipped Scotch, puffed on cigars and relived the afternoon's shooting. It had been what we'd hoped for, and our appetites were whet for more action.


Camo gloves? Check. Facemask? Check. Spanish dictionary? Check. The next morning we were up at 5 to chase ducks and, following a quick breakfast, drove an hour to a collection of ponds on a neighboring estancia. June below the Equator is midwinter, but the pre-dawn temperature was already in the low 40s. This, along with clear skies and no wind, did not bode well for ducks, as the half-dozen decoys bobbed lifelessly on the pond's glassy surface. But we were in Argentina; the birds flew anyway.

For the next few hours they came in singles and pairs and flocks of a dozen or more, some settling into the decoys, others circling warily and offering passing shots. Roberto had a couple of plastic duck calls and was constantly whistling or quacking in efforts to draw birds close.

"Pato, pato, pato," became a familiar phrase as Roberto let me know more ducks were approaching. On those occasions when the birds wouldn't decoy and I'd shoot a particularly high bird, he'd comment simply, "Alto."

Eventually enough ducks were floating on the pond for Roberto to wade out and retrieve them. Only then did I get to admire the incredible variety of species, including rosy-billed pochards, silver and speckled teal, yellow-billed pintails and Brazilian ducks. They were all handsome birds and made a stunning tableau laid out behind the blind.

By the time the Land Rover arrived to collect us, I had taken as many ducks as I would have on a dozen hunts at home. My partners in the other blinds had cleaned up also, and we returned to the lodge with an impressive collection of birds.


That afternoon we drove to a cattle ranch that held perdiz-partridge-like tinamou about the size of chukar. Our group of five Guns, each with his own bird boy, lined out and began walking the brushy pastures. The perdiz would hold tight and then make low, dashing flights to the sides. In 45 minutes we flushed 25 birds and shot 17. One of the party also dumped an Argentine hare, which had looked like a small deer bounding downfield.

A five-minute hop to a picked cornfield, and we were back into doves. Ro-berto and I set up in a corner where the birds were funneling between two copses of trees. It was another phenomenal afternoon, and I burned through 24 boxes of shells. My bird pile was not as large as it had been the first day, but it contained one of the beautiful green parakeets that had been flying with the doves as well as a paloma grande, a pigeon that's often compared to the English wood variety.

On the way back to the lodge that evening, one of the Rovers stopped to drop off sacks of doves to a group of women and children waiting by the roadside. It made us all feel better to confirm that the birds weren't going to waste.


The next morning the Southern Cross was fading as we settled into blinds in a horizon-spanning marsh. Incredibly, the low-country area around us had been dry just a month prior; now it was inundated with water-and ducks. Several times during the hunt I turned at what sounded like the roar of jet engines behind me, only to see clouds of waterfowl rising and settling a mile out in the grass.

"Mucho patos," Roberto said.

"Si," I agreed.

The birds did not decoy as well this day, and there were a lot of high passing shots. Roberto had to make some long retrieves on ducks that sailed farther than expected.

Lunch and a siesta were a welcome respite before we returned to the first afternoon's roost. Again the action began posthaste, and for the next two hours I had the fastest shooting I've ever experienced.

It's hard to describe the utter chaos of the peak of a dove flight, with birds flitting helter-skelter in all directions. Picking one bird became almost impossible, as I'd try to focus on a single only to be distracted by 10 others crossing its path before it reached me. Sometimes I'd succeed in tracking a distant dove and follow it through to its terminus in a long, arcing stream of feathers. ("Plumas," Roberto would comment about the drifting wake.) Other times I'd simply close the gun, look up and snap-shoot a bird overhead. Never before had I been in such a "groove," and it felt as if I couldn't miss.

Bang. "Muerto."

Bang. "Muerto."

Bang. "Bueno."

When I finished the twenty-third box of shells with six straight kills, I decided to call it quits. By then the flight had slowed, and there was just enough time to wander around and admire the shooting of my partners.

At dusk Miguel returned from gunning an adjacent field with his son, and I met him with a wide smile. "Now that was what I came here for," I said. "Amazing."


The final morning we had a grand-finale duck shoot in thick fog. My gunning was similar to the previous days', but Greg and Dave had an exceptional outing, and Roger and Tony couldn't keep the birds out of the decoys. When I was done shooting, two gauchos rode over on horseback to help us pick up. The older gentleman spoke with Miguel, who replied, "Si, si," and handed him the bag full of ducks. Evidently, the man wanted to take the birds home to his family.

It's interesting what different people take away from a trip. Photos and souvenirs are concrete evidence of "been there, done that." Memories help one relive an experience years into the future. Just as valuable, however, are lessons learned and eyes opened to different cultures and ways of doing things. Argentina helped me answer some of my own ethical questions and develop a passion for wingshooting I had only speculated about. No trip anywhere can offer more valuable results.

And that, mi amigo, is no exaggeration.



Filson Shooting Shirts
[img 2 right caption=The Filson Super Shooting Shirt.]
We've all seen him. You know, the guy in the ad for the high-volume shoot who's pulling back his sleeve to reveal a horribly bruised shoulder. I can't tell whether the poor SOB's laughing or crying, but I can tell you that before I left for my trip, I knew I didn't want to end up like him. Think about it: If you're shooting a six-pound 20-gauge and standard loads, you're looking at 16-plus pounds of recoil per shot. Multiply that by a couple of thousand rounds and you're talking some serious abuse. So how's a shooter supposed to protect himself? I called C.C. Filson and ordered some insurance: the Super Shooting Shirt.

I'd seen this shirt at the 2006 SHOT Show, and it had struck me as the perfect medicine for taming recoil. Its secret is a removable SIMS Limbsaver pad that slips into a pouch beneath the shoulder shooting patch. According to company literature, the pad incorporates "impact pillars" that reduce the rate of energy transfer from the gun to the shooter. Works for me.

In fact, while in Argentina I fired more than 1,500 rounds while wearing the shirt and came away with nary a bruise. (The only bruise I did receive was while using a strap-on pad that I'd brought for comparison. The pad kept shifting, and a number of times I shot with the gun butt completely off of it.)

The long-sleeve shirt is made with (100-percent-cotton) Dry Finish Cover Cloth for abrasion resistance and comfort in warm weather. It has Oil Finish Cover Cloth patches on the shoulder and forearms and is available in a left-hand version as well. It comes in tan/otter green, navy/tan, tan/blaze and hunter otter (tan/otter and tan/blaze in the left-hand version) and costs $125. It would work equally well in the uplands throughout the US and wherever claybirds are shot. For more information, contact C.C. Filson, 866-860-8906 or 206-624-4437; www.filson.com.



Author's Note: For more information on Argentina Wild Wing Shooting, contact Roger Anderson, Parana River, Ltd., 866-742-3113; www.argentinawildwingshooting.com.

Do you like what you read? Subscribe to Shooting Sportsman»