Wild with Doves

The full moon was reflecting brightly off of the slow-moving river as dozens of white-winged nightjars crisscrossed ghostlike over the surface, snatching up insects. With a melancholy chorus of toads intoning their mantra in the background, only the occasional ker-plunk of lead and cut bait hitting the water broke the tropical spell. As we continued fishing for 25-pound shovel-nosed tiger catfish and El General, their pot-bellied, bullhead-like cousin, Ramon, a local Indian vaquero, pulled a dried gourd the size of a watermelon from a burlap bag and began carefully stroking the waxed leather string stretched across its cut-off bottom. Boooowww . . . ugghhh  . . . owwoohhh sounded the vibrato in the fundamental register. A few seconds later, from across the rio, came two guttural coughs in response: Uggghhhh . . . ummph. Then all hell broke loose up and down the waterway as the local birds loosed a cacophony of alarms from the safety of tall palms. El Tigre was on the prowl!

We were in Bolivia, in the northeastern department of Beni, on the first leg of a cast & blast trip in this impoverished and poorly understood country of South America. Hearing the jaguar that night was a special treat, and it highlighted one reason we had chosen the landlocked nation that is roughly the size of Texas and California combined: It still has large undeveloped areas. Since the country’s declaration of independence from colonial Spain by namesake Simón Bolívar in 1825, Bolivia has been on a seemingly endless rollercoaster ride of military and civilian governments eager to exploit its abundant natural resources yet remiss about developing infrastructure. Today Bolivia remains very much Third World, though things are improving in the oil- and gas-rich lowlands.
    Like much of Africa—and, indeed, parts of Bolivia offer a distinct resemblance to the Dark Continent—the allure of a bush adventure here holds great attraction for many. Another lure for dove and pigeon shooters is the short six-hour flight from Miami. You get on the plane at around 11 pm, go to sleep and wake up at sunrise about to land. Once in Santa Cruz’s modern, small-town-size airport (most flights stop briefly in the capital, La Paz), clearing customs and making connections is simple. Guns are quickly checked by local authorities, and as long as you haven’t miswritten the serial numbers, it is very much “No problemo.” But the real attraction is the varied hinterland of the country itself. Bolivia has a great variety of topography and habitats. From the snow-covered Andes to the remote desert scrub wilderness of the Gran Chaco and everything in between, one can’t help but feel like a pioneer observing wildlife and shooting in a place that seems frozen in time.
    At our four-star hotel in Santa Cruz, my friend Bill Cleveland and I met Floridians Steve, Chauncey and Dan, three other clients who would accompany us for peacock bass (the catfish were a nighttime bonus) on a lake two hours north by Cessna. For the second leg of our trip we planned to fly south for eared-dove shooting.
    The fishing was very good, and the remote Amazon Basin lake reminded me, again, of Africa. On the high ground between sections of virgin forest there were African-looking termite mounds in grassy savannahs, and even the red earth smelled like Africa. Nature-watching was incredible, with numerous macaws, exotic swallow-tailed hummingbirds and primitive-looking hoatzin birds flying weakly across the waterways. There also were freshwater dolphins swimming in the gin-clear lake. It was hard not to feel that we were on safari—especially when the pilot reported seeing a large spotted cat while checking his plane one night . . . .
    After two days of fishing we took off to the southeast for the dove lodge. From the air it was fascinating to see the numerous mounds built by the Earthmover people—a pre-Columbian culture that raised up the ground in regular geometric patterns over huge areas. After an hour we passed out of the Beni, with its rivers and swamps, and flew over tall, dry gallery forest interspersed with crops arranged in pinwheel patterns—unmistakably the sign of Mennonites. In parts of Bolivia, conditions were once considered too extreme for farming. This didn’t stop the industrious German-speaking Anabaptists, though, as they found the country to be a good place to work and worship. With pie-shaped fields radiating from a central core of homes and buildings, the colony we saw looked like something from a futuristic state fair.
    Continuing southeast, we soon began to see huge plantations recently dozed from the virgin forest. Around many the piled-up tree trunks were still burning. I couldn’t help noticing bits of charcoal mixed with the soil. In this region the sunflower is king, and the agribusiness plantings stretch as far as the eye can see. The cropfields are separated by wide windbreaks of tall native forest and shrubs, creating prefect interspersion ecology for eared doves.
    Ahead in the distance a series of rocky hills loomed like pyramids above the flat farmland. As we closed in on one of them, we saw perched near a cliff the terra-cotta-colored lodge, literally surrounded by sunflowers below. We landed on a dirt crop-duster strip near the base of the hill, deplaned and made the one-mile drive to the comfortable stucco building. Again the African comparison was unavoidable, as the lodge’s palm-thatched octagonal atrium looked much like a ronduval, and the rocky hilltop a kopje. After depositing our gear in shower-equipped rooms, we sat down to an excellent noon meal. Then we gathered our guns and kit for the much-anticipated afternoon sortie.
    Fifteen minutes after leaving the lodge we arrived at a field swarming with doves. We drove along one edge, stopping at intervals to deposit shooters, shells and bird boys. Even though it was obvious the birds were not going anywhere, when we arrived at my spot it was hard not to rush out to get started. Before departing, though, I faced the age-old dilemma: which gun to take? I had brought a 28-gauge Parker Reproduction and a 20-gauge Connecticut Shotgun Manufacturing RBL. I ended up going with the RBL, which I had brought to put through its paces.
    Once in the field, I found a “feeder stream” of birds coming in from the direction of the 40-foot-tall tree break. Even though the birds’ flight paths were rather consistent, the elevations and angles were varied. Some doves were cruising by steadily more than 50 yards up; others were flashing overhead at 20. Some darted in trying to land on the decoys I had placed on drooping sunflower heads. (My love for decoys is strong, but they’re totally unnecessary here). Occasionally a few birds would come from behind, right to left, so it was an arduous task to try to cover it all. I sat on a small folding stool and asked my bird boy, Hector, to crouch motionless 50 yards behind me. Even though he was wearing earplugs and indicated that he didn’t mind being shot over, I prefer to err on the side of caution. I positioned the full case of shells next to the stool and filled my Boyt belt bag myself.
    Then the shooting began. It started with a surprising string of hits, and I thought, This is easy. Then I got lost in the action and began forgetting my form. Not succumbing to “weasel-in-the-henhouse” syndrome is difficult with doves, and if you begin thinking before the shot, you won’t connect. If you begin thinking too much afterward, you’ll miss the next bird. The predator in me is strong, and that’s why I enjoy shooting—and eating—eared doves . . . to a point. Psychologically, I know the killing has no biological impact on the population, but I still want to honor the birds without wantonness. Therefore, I limit my shooting each session. Another reason for limiting myself is physical, as after a certain amount of shooting I begin experiencing fatigue. On this trip I was wearing ESP digital hearing protectors and had taped both thumbs to keep from getting sore, but still I eventually developed a slight “hitch” on pulling the trigger. I called to Hector, and we took a 15-minute break, enjoying a Coke as we picked up some of the kill. I couldn’t help positioning several dead doves in feeding poses on the sunflower heads. More as totems than decoys, perhaps, I wondered if the local Indians used them this way. I do know they hunt the dove roosts at night with slings, and we picked up scores of round clay-ball ammunition at a roost some distance away.
    After the break we moved closer to the treeline to sample a favorite shot: the high incomer. Standing about 25 paces back in the sunflowers, it was a reaction/move shot as the doves cleared the trees and zoomed overhead. The birds were traveling with a tailwind and didn’t allow time to “think and miss.” It was also very nice to use a different set of muscles by standing rather than sitting. The birds would come directly over without flaring only if I remained absolutely motionless until the millisecond before the shot. Some of the high hit birds arced 60 yards out into the field. I kept swinging on these magnificent speedsters until the case of shells started looking thin and the shooting began feeling like work. Time to quit. My tally: 18 boxes of shells for, well, I won’t mention how many birds . . . .
    Our host, Ryan McCollum, who at the time operated the booking agency Wingshooting the World, was driving up and down the rows checking on the shooters, and I flagged him down for a pickup. Even though it’s usually moderate to warm in winter in Bolivia, a cold front was descending and I was glad for a fleece jacket.
    After a shower and clothing change at the lodge, we filtered into the spacious atrium for drinks and hors d’oeuvres and then another memorable meal.
    The next morning dawned clear after a gentle overnight rain. A few puffy clouds were rapidly dissipating, and a gentle south wind was drying things out. The 28-gauge Parker Repro got the nod this day, and I had two cases of shells loaded into the vehicle. Bill took the RBL 20, and we added a slip-on recoil pad to accommodate his taller 6' 3" frame.
    The weather was ideal for doves, and the gauge-load combination seemed perfect too. Unlike the previous afternoon, there was no “stream” of doves. Today the birds were swarming crazily everywhere. Hunkered down on my stool in the sunflowers, I soon wore a circle around the base trying to cover all of the angles. I’m afraid I eventually forgot myself and took to defending the post against all comers. As frenetic as the shooting was, after an hour I grew tired of sitting and decided to walk the half-mile-long windbreak looking for Picui ground doves—a favorite on the table. On other trips to South America I had seen them in swarms; now in late August they were rare. I finally bagged a few of the birds by jump-shooting, but the real prize was a chukar-size Chaco chachalaca that made a squawking burst in cover that was so heavy, it was unclear whether my shot had connected until Hector came out proudly holding the trophy. I also took a brace of white-tipped doves, a solitary forest-dwelling species a quarter larger than the eared.
    When the shoot ended at noon we drove back to the lodge, where it became apparent that the others had been mixed-bag hunting as well. One of the locals had bagged a peccary—with dove loads! Before long the little pig was flayed-out on the barbecue next to skewers of doves, peppers & onions, and the plucked chachalaca—all basted with soy-chile-ginger marinade.
    After lunch everyone retired to their rooms to enjoy that most civilized custom: siesta. An hour later the bird boys knocked on our doors, and we readied ourselves for the short drive to the field. This time we shot a different location, perhaps a mile from where we’d been in the morning but identical in all other respects. Again I started on a stool in the middle of the sunflowers, and again I found birds coming from all directions. How does one describe South American dove shooting? It’s like a fine dinner: It’s not the individual bite that is remembered, but rather the meal as a whole.
    After 90 minutes of frenetic shooting my appetite had been sated, so I walked over to the treeline to rest in the shade. Still I was unable to resist taking the odd high bird. By this time the sun had begun setting, and I stashed my shotgun and shells and pulled out my camera. I walked a quarter-mile down the line to where Bill was shooting. His quick smile and pile of yellow hulls showed that he was having a good time. I set up a tripod nearby and tried to be unobtrusive, but it really didn’t matter; the birds flew unabated and Bill shot well, oblivious to my presence. High birds, low birds, crossers, outgoers—most were saluted and many of them fell.
    I couldn’t help but notice how Bill’s shooting had improved. When I’d met him a few years earlier, like so many folks who don’t shoot regularly, his success had been “streaky”—good days and bad. But South American dove shooting two years in a row had really improved his form. Of course this kind of volume will help anyone, but there is something special about shooting game that really pulls a person into the shot. For me, there is an “edge” to real birds that clays just don’t offer.
    A half-hour before sundown Ryan came by to see if we needed anything. Bill was ready to go, and so was I. We gathered our equipment and enjoyed a cold one on the ride through the fields as Ryan picked up the others. Back at the lodge we had a fabulous evening meal and then retired to the patio to swap hunting stories.
    The next day we would drive two hours to Santa Cruz and then head home. But I knew my absence would be temporary. It was only a matter of time before the calls of El Tigre and the lure of the birds would draw me back to Bolivia.

Author’s Note: For more information on shooting in Bolivia, contact Ryan McCollum at The Detail Co., 800-929-4868; www.detailcompany.com. Other booking agents that offer cast & blast trips to Bolivia include Trek International Safaris (800-654-9915; www.treksafaris.com) and San Miguel Outdoors (512-891-7787; www.sanmigueloutdoors.com).

Clair Kofoed is an Editor at Large for Shooting Sportsman.