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Copy of my Journal of the trip.
Expectations: By Mark Hoffman. Canada. mhoffman@kootenay.com
Based upon stories I had been told, the doves were expected to be plentiful. I expected large flocks, passing in mass every so often. Expectations of flurries of shooting with periods of waiting were expected. I also felt my recently purchased Bennilli 20 gauge Cordoba to be the exact weapon that would all but take recoil and all discomfort out of the equation. Shooting a case of shells a day was thought to be more than enough.
Flights
I had two sets of tickets. One set was from XNA to Santiago, Chile and return. The second was from Santiago, Chile to Cordoba, Argentina, Cordoba to Buenos Aries to Iquazu and return to Santiago Chile. Based upon the tickets the initial airlines only wanted to have my luggage go to Santiago. With luck I noticed this and with great difficulty had my luggage ticketed to Cordoba. Without that you would have to enter Chile to get your bags to sent them to Cordoba. Entering a country with a gun is always a problem. Just that event cost my son and extra 2 hours and $160.00. I lucked out catching that error.
The flight left XNA at 2 PM. Arrived in Dallas with flight to Santiago, Chile leaving at 9 PM. The all night flight was somewhat sleepless and the seats got hard after a few hours of sleep. Glad that I bought a cheap Louis L’amour cowboy book. We arrived in Santiago at about 8 AM in the morning. Changed airplanes to Cordoba for the 1.5 hour trip over the Andes. The mountains were spectacular to view, but surprisingly steep and narrow compared to the Rockies. Cordoba looked like it was the flat lands of Indiana—flat and cultivated fields.
Upon arrival in Cordoba a baggage claim porter was awaiting us. He collected our baggage took us past the customs lines to the police office. They were awaiting us to clear our guns with the paperwork we had forwarded to J.J. Ceceria. It was the smoothest customs and immigration that I had ever gone through. They inspected our guns compared serial numbers and applied their numerous stamps. The gun permits were all pre-paid by J. J.
The ride to the Camp was about an hour in length due East. The road was good national two-lane road through farmlands. Since it was Spring the only green crops were winter wheat, but the crop stubble was corn, Milo, soybeans, alfalfa. The numerous little towns were very agricultural orientated. The farm supply stores and grain elevators were the main buildings in the towns.
Arrival in Camp.
Upon arrival at camp we were greeted by a tree line drive to the estanstia. The buildings were thatched reed roofs and pink adobe walls. The rooms were separate from the dinning room and kitchen. Very adequate rooms with comfortable beds, sink, bathroom and shower. Nice décor and very clean. After cleaning up we had a hordourves, steak dinner, great dry red wine. We were “chomping at the bit” to go hunting.
First Day
We awake and want to get going, but have breakfast and coffee. We load up in the truck at about 8:00 AM and drive about 30 minutes to dirt and gravel roads. NOW WE MUST BE GETTING CLOSE. We pull into a farm lane then to a farmhouse—doves flying everywhere. We meet our bird boys—older gentleman. Get in the truck and head down a fencerow. Along the fencerow are small blinds—wooden steaks to break-up your outline. The bird boy gets a case of shells and a stool and off we go. There are doves everywhere in groups of every number 3-10. They are moving from the wheat field to the roost 200 yards behind us and from the roost to the wheat. They seemed to be everywhere. Load up five shells and start shooting and shooting. It was a feverish pitch. Trying to let no dove get by—this way that way. After a few boxes of shells I sit down and appraise the situation. I have worked myself into a sweat. I realize I must change my thinking. Letting one dove get by will not be the last dove. Have a beer and a smoke and relax. Pick your bird and enjoy your shoot and the shots that are presented. Take in the hunt and environment—and give Scott some shit. Scott is hunting fifty yard away. Bang, bang ah shit is heard often. It takes awhile to get the lead; then doubles, triples are common. Most shots are 30 to 40 yards with the occasional surprise salute that brings one down at long range. I switch from sustained lead to pass through and back and forth. Each work well, pass through better on the on comers. Then I forget to even think about it. We each kill 400 or so in the morning and get tired—time for lunch.
We load up into the truck and drive about ten minutes to a pole building in a scrub brush thicket on the edge of a wheat field. One side of the building is a brick hearth with wood coals cooking dove shichkabobs, beef, pork and sausage. A table is set with tablecloth, utensils, bottled water, and red wine and cloth napkins. The other three walls are open with a canvas tarp blocking the wind on one side. What a spread of food. We eat too much and feel stuffed. The guide, Marsello, says to take a rest in the hammocks that are stretched in the trees behind the building. There are two yellow cloth hammocks set for our use—it is not long and I am asleep. After about an hour I awake and feel great. My only thought is, “I wonder what the peasants are doing”.
We pile into the truck for the afternoon hunt. Back to the farmhouse we go but we head closer to the dove roost. The estimate of the total number of doves in the roost is 22 million and four nesting a year. The wind is not blowing as much and the doves are a little higher. I decide to change choke in my shoot gun to modified from improved modified. We start to shoot and I find a groove. Once I go thru a case of shells I have 400 more doves and lack a little for a total of 1,000 for the day. “Open up another case lets get 1,000”. I take a break, have a beer and go down to visit Scott and take some pictures. Scott’s thumb has blisters from loading his gun, but he is still shooting. He also lacks but a few hundred for his 1,000 birds. Following the break, we shoot until we reach 1,000 and then finish the box of shells. We are both tired of lifting the guns. The pain in the shoulders is nothing to the pain in the arms and shear exhaustion of the arms. I have shot enough for today. It is time for a hot shower, a good stiff drink and relaxation.
Dinner was a great steak cooked outdoors over coals. No need for an appetite it is great. We have survived the first day, killed 1,000 doves each. Our guide brings out a metal that commemorates the 1,000 doves. He remarks that less than ten percent of the hunters reach that goal. He probably tells each group that, but it feels good anyway.
Second Day
The first day I shot 1,520 rounds and my shoulder showed signs of blood vessels broken on the surface of the skin with some oozing of blood, but not much bruising. However, I decide to use a shooting pad for the second day since my t-shirt was sticking to my body. It is a little cooler and I will keep on my fleece jacket for more protection. I also take two Acetaminophen just in case.
On the first day not knowing what to expect I concentrated on getting one bird. Today I want to concentrate on getting multiples from groups. Also, I felt it would be neat to try for two with one shot, particularly waiting for two to fly together. Hell, I already have a 1,000 in one day.
We have a new guide, Roberto, who is the brother of J.J. the owner who is in S, Africa. A little more nervous than Marcello, but OK. He takes us to close to where we were hunting the day before. Both Scott and I are more relaxed than the day before and we start banging away. The shooting is great. Small groups 3-10 are flying from and to the roast. I stand in front of the blind and behind—screw the blind I stand on the side. I take shoots both ways. My goal of getting doubles is fun and achieved. Twice I get five from a group and total 407 for the morning. We break for lunch. Same as yesterday, lunch was great. The nap is great on the hammock.
In the afternoon we go to a new place near a water hole created in a wheat field near the roost. Scott is placed near the water hole along a fence on the edge of the roost. I move down the fence fifty yards or so. There are plenty of doves but most are swinging over the water near Scott. I shoot a case of shells with 355 more doves. Most are shoot at long range. I impressed myself, but my shoulder and arms are tired. No 1,000 for me today.
I go over to give Scott some shit, and discover he is in a shooting frenzy. Large groups are swinging over the water hole then over him thru a gap in the trees. He cannot keep his gun loaded. I grab a beer and sit and watch. His case of shells is gone; “hell, let’s start another one”. He lacks 200 or so for another 1,000. In a non-stop fashion he bangs away. The doves that come over the trees he shoots with regularity falling on the road and trees. We remark that this spot is the “Dove Cemetery”. His normal shot is less than 30 yards. We are all counting, morta, morta, morta. Finally, he has done it—no no wait he lacks 23 more. “Load-up Scott, the pressure is on again”. After much grief he achieves his 1,000 doves for the second day. Another beer is in order.
Back at camp, we have a drink in the courtyard and relax after a shower and change of cloths. Another great dinner, but who cares we are tired. Scott gets a deck plaque for his second 1,000 doves. It was another great day.
Third Day
We have a new guide for this day, Daniel. Daniel is a large fellow, a quiet and an unassuming sort. We are old hands at this now. We know what to expect; some of the edge and excitement is gone, however. We have a quick breakfast and off we go. Memory of the morning stop has faded, but all the spots except the “dove cemetery” seemed the same, shots of about 30 to 40 yards with doves flying to or from the roost. The sport of wing shooting had become more of a reaction rather than being technical. I am no longer thinking “sustained lead” or “swing through”, all is just “happening”. I am also more relaxed about letting a few get by and picking good shots. It is also fun to take some needed breaks and go give Scott some grief. More beer has been consumed this morning and much more relaxed, and I do not need to shoot more than a case of shells. Even with a light recoil 20 Cordoba and shooting pad my arms are tired and shoulder is sore and oozing blood. I shoot 77 percent and feel good. Time for lunch.
The lunch is the same. Very tasty and the nap afterwards is good too. The afternoon hunt is in a location near a grove of scrub trees a short distance from the roost. Doves are swinging over the trees then on to the roost. I locate outside the grove in a blind of sorts. The shoots are good. Scot locates in an opening in the grove. His shoots are quick in presenting themselves. He stands on the road and bangs away. We shoot and shoot. Then a lone pigeon flies by my blind. What the hell. Bang, it falls near the fence. I pick it up and it has two bands, one on each leg. Bird boy and guide are excited about the dead pigeon, and the bird gets a quick burial---oops. Scot and I finish our case of shell—that’s enough. “Cervasa pou fa vour”.
Part of the ritual is to have your picture taken with a pile of doves and shotgun shells piled in front of the mess. The bird boys pickup the doves and shells and make the pile. Scott’s camera is dead; I left my camera in the back seat of my truck and Daniel has only his cell phone camera. Well, we will see how this works. That’s the last we see of the shot.
The last night at the lodge is spent with J.J.’s wife. She is the money collector and Mate drinker. Her personality does not need Mate, and with Mate she is “wired”. Our thoughts are on the rest of the journey and backing. The worst dinner we had of the trip is had that night. It was Spaghetti with meat sauce. I can get pasta anytime. I will take the steak anytime. The red wines were great.
Looking back on my expectations, the doves were not in waves but in groups of 3 to 10 and constantly flying by to the roost. The shoots were presented with plenty of time to prepare for the shot. The trick was to pick the second bird and third bird, and to lock on to a specific bird. Most of the shots were at least 30 yards. Shooting two cases of shells a day was a lot. Even with adequate padding and light recoil gun, nothing could have prepared my arms for the constant uplifting. Once I learned to take a break and “smell the roses”, have a beer or water and watch Scott shoot, the sum of the hunt was realized. The day was a lifetime of sporting clay shooting. There was not away to develop an adequate expectation.
Bill Pope, Arkansas- BPope12345@aol.com
CLASSIC HOT BARREL ARGENTINEAN STYLE
They never stopped coming. The birds appeared in droves out of an early morning sky that despite the gossamer like fog bore the essence of a bluebird sky day. That remarkable sight was my first encounter with one of the fastest flying game birds on this planet - the Eared dove of Argentina. Having been a dedicated wing shooter for over four decades, this was to be my long awaited exposure to what is truly said to be the best and potentially last big bag shooting experience in the world. I was not disappointed. Despite growing up on the Canadian prairies with some of the finest waterfowl and upland hunting to be had in North America at my very doorstep, stories of remarkable South American hot barrel hunts kept finding a home in my future plans. Unfortunately over time plans often tend to get pushed about to meet other pressing goals. That all changed when I discovered a five-day, all-inclusive hunt located within the finest dove area in Argentina that included 2000 free shells. I could hardly believe the quoted cost but with a bit of research it was all enthusiastically confirmed as hunters reported burning up over a 1000 shells a day with birds in numbers the likes of which one could only dreams of. Needless to say, I soon had a May hunt booked with J.J. Caceria from Cordoba for both dove and pigeon.
Cordoba, which is located in the central region of northern Argentina, is home to an estimated 23 million doves. The Eared doves around Cordoba are not known to migrate and are hunted by pass shooting as these enormous flocks move between roosting woods and the vast cultivated farm lands in the area where they feed. The Eared dove, which is a close but smaller relative of the North American Mourning dove, can breed four times a year and because of their sheer numbers and impact on crops are not as yet regulated by seasons or bag limits. Despite this lack of regulatory protection and the plight of the passenger pigeon in North America, the Eared dove numbers around Cordoba are, as I discovered, more than holding their own. But that was not the only factor about these phenomenal birds I was about to uncover.
Consequently and despite of the residual jet lag that had accumulated from three days of flights, I was not about to pass on my first day of wing shooting. The sky was still as black as the inside of a cave when we left the confines of J.J. Caceria’s first rate hunting lodge. After a relatively short drive of less than an hour, Pato, my bird boy, and I were well ensconced within a field that revealed little of its character in the predawn darkness. However, as the first rays of dawn began to creep over the eastern sky, it readily became apparent that we were set up in an open field forty-yards shy of a tree line that ran for a half mile and directly intersected the anticipated flight line between an established dove roosting area and a freshly cut maize field. I didn’t have to wait long as, despite the fog, they first began to appear out of the incipient light as single birds passing high over head resembling small winged rockets that had been launched from somewhere in the darkness. To say that they made a difficult target would be an understatement indeed. They not only appeared to be smaller than I expected but about twice as fast and high as I had expected. Thankfully for this trip Beretta had been kind enough to provide one of their new Xtrema 2 shotguns with its recoil reducing Kick Off system. It fit me like a glove, so I was more that grateful when I was able to pick off at least some of the early morning flyers. Unfortunately, as the sun gathered strength and the fog began to dissipate the birds seemed to not only elevate their flight line but began a flight pattern the likes of which I have only rarely encountered. It became erratic with birds twisting and diving as soon as they came into view over the tree line and at speeds that pushed my shooting skills to the limit. At times they simply left me in awe. They were proving to be everything and more than I had envisioned, not only due to their sheer numbers but also due to the level of shooting skills required to bring a bird to bag. The smallest flaw in one’s target acquisition or follow through and your shot found little but thin air. By lunch I had already pushed 375 shells through the Beretta, with a mere 153 birds accounted for, which worked out to a 40 percent hit rate. My jet lag and recent lack of practice was certainly showing. Thankfully, after a great open air barbeque field lunch and a welcome siesta we changed locations in order to hunt a new flight line between a watering and roosting area. While I only pulled the trigger 275 times that afternoon my success rate did climb a little to a 53 percent hit rate for a tally of 145 birds. I was sure relearning some elementary shot gunning basics including not only picking out and staying on a single bird despite their incredible numbers, but to never, but never, stop your follow through. Needless to say, I was well off the lodge’s group hunt record of a 61.8 percent harvest rate and the lodge’s average of 1000 rounds and 300 to 400 birds per hunter per day. While I needed to pick up my socks, I was somewhat relieved to learn that the lodge’s overall average hit rate, in reality, stood in the low 40 percentile. So at least I was holding my own percentage wise despite it being my first day of some of the fastest wing shooting I have ever experienced.
While day two saw a reduction in my overall shot total, down to 455 shells, I did up my hit rate to 57 percent and 260 birds. While I was seeing as many birds as I had the previous day, in other words countless numbers, I suspect I began to not only shoot a bit better but I also began to hold off on birds, which I may have previously thought were within range, when they were not. Day three and the morning of day four were basically repeats of the previous two days except that we moved locations a number of times to intersect new flight lines heading to corn fields and other maize fields. I was more than grateful that my shot total and hit percentage of 56 percent hung right in there for a tally of 468 birds based on 835 pulls of the trigger. By the end of the forth morning I was already beginning to look forward to my impending pigeon hunt, but without a doubt the lodge saved the best portion of my dove hunt for the last afternoon. At about two in the afternoon I found myself staked out near an old windmill and a small waterhole. The numbers of birds I saw on that flawless bluebird sky afternoon was simply remarkable. Solely based on the numbers I was seeing I was determined to up my hit rate to beyond that of the lodge record, so I held off on any questionable birds and truly bore down on every shot that I made. It paid off as for 315 shells I put a total of 200 birds on the ground for a hit rate of slightly over 63 percent. What a way to end a picture perfect dove hunt.
Argentina is a vast and diverse land, the second largest, in fact, in South America. It extends from a sub- Antarctic climate in southwestern Patagonia to the rich plains and temperate climate of the pampas in the north. It is bordered by the majestic Andes in the west and the Atlantic Ocean to the east. It even boasts one of the most unique and beautiful waterfalls in the world, Iguazu Falls. Iguazu Falls is actually a series of 275 spectacular individual falls all within a rain forest like setting. The largest of which, Devils Throat, with a drop of 250 feet leaves one’s visual senses agape. Despite having seen both Victoria and Niagara Falls, Iguazu in its totality, from my perspective, leaves both wanting.
As part of experiencing this rich land and all that it has to offer, we left behind the flat expanses of the dove fields and moved on to the rolling countryside of Alta Gracia for two days of hunting wild pigeon. A three-hour drive and we finally arrived at the outskirts of Alta Gracia where we hooked up with our local guide and bird boy. What followed was a most pleasant surprise as after bounding along on I don’t know how many back roads we arrived at an incredibly picturesque river valley. The Anisacate River might as well have stepped right off the pages of an African travel magazine. Trees, grasses and flowering plants abounded. It clearly brought me back to some of my African safaris, what a place to hunt pigeon.
A short walk and I soon had a spot on the edge of a gravel bar picked out as it not only offered a natural hide among some willow like shrubs but afforded a 360 degree view of the river and surrounding valley. Once again the wait was short as birds that were both traversing the river valley and following the river began showing up as singles or in small flocks of two or three. Time for another lesson in shooting, as despite their size, I soon discovered these birds were anything but a pushover. They often appeared over the treeline seemingly out of nowhere, twisting and diving at speeds that I was sure was jet-fueled and most often at the outer edge of reasonable shooting range. While the numbers of birds were not quite what I expected, those that I did get a crack at certainly pushed my shooting skills to the limit. The guides even put out a few decoys in an effort to bring the birds in a bit tighter and, in some case, it shortened the range by those 15 or 20 critical yards. What a blast! The day just seemed to fly by, no pun intended. Despite the degree of difficulty in bringing these birds to bag, I still maintained a 50 percent kill rate with 80 birds.
But unquestionably the lodge saved the very best to the last, as day two of my pigeon hunt found me on a hilltop that transected the flight line of countless birds traveling back and forth between a roosting area and a huge cattle-feeding station. The shooting from my natural grass-hide was simply remarkable as the majority of birds showed up as either singles or occasionally doubles. But their numbers just didn’t slow for the entire day. The pace was outstanding as I just kept feeding more shells into the Beretta. By this stage of the hunt the fingers on my right hand were numb from the constant effort of reloading and I had worn holes clean through on both the thumb and index fingers of my shooting gloves. By mid afternoon when I hit a tally of 250 birds for 350 shots, I shut it down. It was truly one of, if not the finest days of wing shooting I have ever experienced and justifiably I just wanted to leave it that way. Is Argentina a wing shooter’s paradise, in my mind without a doubt.
Hunt Specifics:
Host: Jose Grasso, owner J.J. Caceria, Cordoba, Argentina
Web site: www.argentinadoveshunting.com
United States Representative: Layne & Georgina Balke, 817 797-9020
Shotgun: Beretta Xtrema 2, 12 gauge
Choke: Modified
Shot size: # 71/2 for pigeon # 9 for dove
Total shells fired: 2800
Total number of birds: 1224 dove 330 pigeon
Hunt temperatures: 45 to 73 degrees Fahrenheit
Best hunt dates: March to December
Mark Hoffman. Canada. mhoffman@kootenay.com
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