From the folding lawn chair, cerveza in hand, I
scan the endless cornfields and watch an infinite number of dove speed
overhead. Travis keeps the barrel
pointed skyward. His bird boy,
actually a man of at least forty years, flawlessly loads more shotgun shells
into the bottom breach of the twenty-gauge Benelli semi-automatic bird
exterminator. Travis aims and fires again.
“Buenos noches paloma!” The bird boy says.
Travis laughs and tracks another dove coming in low and fast across the
front of the blind we’re hiding behind.
As I sip my cerveza I hear the sound of his shotgun exploding just a few
feet away. Moments later, tiny
dove feathers sprinkle down upon our blind like snowflakes in a gentle winter
storm.
“Do you want to go to Argentina?” My dad asks.
“Argentina?
I’d love to go to Argentina.”
I said.
“Your mom surprised me at that silent auction last
month. She bid on a gentlemen’s
dove hunt at a lodge in Cordoba, Argentina. It’s all inclusive, we just need to get there.”
My initial thoughts were, why travel thousands and
thousands of miles away to kill something that probably lives sporadically
throughout our own country- actually the winged upland bird lives throughout
Virginia, North Carolina, and just about every other state in the conterminous
United States. Little did I know
traveling to the southern hemisphere to shoot dove is the trip of a lifetime,
an epic event in the life of any one that considers themselves hunters.
“Because there’s millions and millions of them,” my
dad said.
Actually, the population hangs around twenty
million. I was home visiting my
family on summer vacation when the proposition was proposed. A quick YouTube search showed several
videos of hunters dressed in khaki and camouflage blasting shadows from the
sky. The swarms had to have
contained hundreds. Almost
mechanically one swarm followed another and hunters with massive grins pointed
their barrels skyward, picking doves from the swarm methodically. Was it really this easy?
“They’re a pest.” Travis explained. “Most American morning dove have one
litter a year, Argentinean dove have four. There is no limit to what you can shoot from the sky,” he
said.
“Alaska is a long way from Argentina.” I said. “How about next spring break?”
I
never really kept a bucket list; instead I prefer to live my life in the bucket,
and Alaska is that bucket. But I
was glad I could accompany someone else fulfilling their dream. Despite spending the last seven years
in a hunter’s Mecca, I have yet to pull the trigger on any big Alaska game.
I never really grew up hunting. My father was raised a hunter. He talked a lot about hunting, but
never took me hunting. Instead of
repeating a tradition of hunting in the family he taught me a different passion
for the outdoors. Almost monthly
we hiked and camped throughout the foothills and crags of the Shenandoah
Mountains. We left no trace;
instead taking only memories and photographs. Coming and going through the deciduous forests I would count
blaze orange dots strewn across the hillsides as our backpacks and cameras sat
in the backseat. He taught me to
shoot a camera instead of a gun. I
don’t despise hunting, nor do I dislike it; I just don’t feel called to
it. Not the same way I feel called
to trek quietly through a pristine forest, climb upwardly upon a rocky ridge,
ski through endless powder, or pedal across wide valleys and along narrow
single-track. Argentina was a long
way to go to learn how much I still love my father; maybe it was just a way of
saying thank you for all the times he took me outdoors as a child.
Bags were packed. Boarding passes were printed. Somewhere in between being extremely busy and very hectic I
managed to slip out of Fairbanks, Alaska.
Luckily five flights would give me plenty of time to pour over my travel
guide to Argentina and learn as many Spanish phrases from the books’ appendix
as possible. In aisle seat 17C I
glared over two people and out the tiny window, winter slowly disappearing as
we rose above the clouds.
Somewhere over the central mid-western states on my third flight spring
lurked below.
At Miami airport I met up with the crew: Travis, my
brother-in-law from North Carolina; my dad and his good friend Bob, from
Virginia. I could almost imagine the Argentinean dove begin to quake and quiver
as we lost latitudes and Cordoba became within reach.
International flights are like a bad hangover that
won’t go away. Cramped, tired but
restless, the entire interior of the plane seems to shrink around you as you beg
to the table tray in front of you for the flight to end. Your feet swell, your breath stinks,
the tiny little drinks don’t calm the sensation you get when a stewardess runs
over your toes then smashes into your knee with the concession cart. The plane,
a tiny blip on a cartoon map projected onto the bulkhead in front of me, moves
so slowly, I stare and steadily try to will it forward. Just when my head feels like its about
to explode the plane touches down in South America. Warm air floods the interior and everyone begins to push
towards the exit hatch.
The stewardess starts speaking Spanish. As jet lag begins to set in, I stumble
off the plane and shuffle towards customs. Gestures and friendly glances become my primary mode of
communication. The gate clerks and
customs agents, whom I assume are friendly, only briefly look at me in the
midst of a long bout of Spanish that I have no recollection of. It’s been fourteen years since I flunked
out of Spanish in high school. I think this is going to be a long week.
“What now?” I asked my dad.
“Some one is supposed to meet us here,” he said.
An extremely helpful man approached our group and
somehow knew my dad’s name. He
spoke some English, enough to be dangerous. I carried my own bags. Then watched
my dad get snookered into a baggage cart and bag boy, whose services I’d be
surprised to see come free.
“He knew my name,” my dad said.
“It’s on your suitcase,” I said.
I threw my pack on my back, grabbed Travis, and
headed for the door. The bag boy
followed us like a lost puppy to the lobby, and despite my resignations turned
out to have a clue who we were, and where we were supposed to go. He ungrudgingly showed us out into the
parking lot and safely to our driver.
Speaking just enough English to be helpful, maybe even charming (with
the right group of tourists). But,
he did manage to get a small tip from my dad’s pocket.
Cordoba reminded me a lot of the mid-western United
States. There was expansive
farmland filled with corn, sorghum, and soybeans growing everywhere. It was a mixture of central California
and Iowa. Rows and rows of varied
agriculture sprang from rich soil as semi-arid hills loomed in the
distance. Despite being the second
largest city in Argentina, we quickly left the urban and crossed into the
rural. Small stands of trees lined
the highway and separated the thoroughfare from the farmland.
Racing northward my eyeballs struggled with my
eyelids. I wanted to see as much
as possible, even along the drive to our hunting lodge. Unfortunately after
forty hours in transit, my eyelids won.
I was finally jolted awake as our shuttle van drove off the paved highway
and onto the dirt road leading to the Estancia del Pilar.
An Estancia is a fancy Spanish way of saying cattle
ranch. There were no cattle, so in
this case it means a hunting lodge that’s dressed up to look like a ranch. The single story buildings were a
balance of boldness and simple sophistication. White stucco walls were accented with large windows and dark
hard wood. Maroon clay tiles lay
upon the floor. Crouching through
narrow entries you immediately were greeted with high ceilings. The smell of old cigar smoked still
lingered in the air. Strong
leather couches faced one another and had probably heard many stories of
success and failure found in the killing fields lurking just outside the Estancia. Before they really knew my name I was greeted
with a hot towel and a whiskey.
Wandering through the parlor I imagine Ernest Hemingway smoking a
cigarette and drinking gin in these very rooms, bragging of his takings from
fields a continent away. Finishing
my glass of whiskey I switch to Malbec and imagine what sort of pretentiousness
is required to survive here, and sustain this life of luxurious sportsmanship.
“My name is Nacho. I will be your field guide, it’s time to go shoot some
dove.” Ignacio the head guide said.
They don’t waste any time I thought. I feel a little less like a customer
and more like a warrior arriving to help a people troubled by a pesky
bird. Nacho loads us into the same
van we had arrived in shortly before, and we head into the fields, with little
explanation along the way. Ten minutes later the door of the van slides open
and I’m prompted out. Seconds
after that a shotgun is placed in my hands and my bird boy gestures
skywards. Making a sideways L with
his thumb and index finger, then slightly moving his thumb, I understand this
as the international gesture to start blasting.
A conveyor belt of little dark shadows flutters
overhead. We’ve been dropped along
a dirt road; shooters are spread about fifty yards incrementally apart. With a wall of corn to my front, I hear
concussions to my right and left, the hunt has begun. The corn comes to about
my face. It is fall in Argentina
and the corn must only be a few weeks from harvest. The last time I shot anything flying through the air was
seven years ago, and that was a clay florescent orange disc. I quickly run through a couple
techniques I remember. Look down
the barrel; hold your head so the bead on the end is level. Keep the gun moving and track the
barrel with the bird’s speed. Lead
slightly ahead of the flying object.
Depending on speed of flight and wind, the lead can be adjusted. Squeeze the trigger. Despite a thorough understanding of
upland bird hunting, I continued to spray the air with number seven birdshot,
and the birds continued to fly past, unscathed.
“Empty.” I said. My bird boy quickly swooped in and easily shuffled four
shells back into the shotgun.
“Enough
of that.” I said. He looked
confused. I grabbed one shell from
his hand and put it in my pocket. “I’ll load.” I said.
Handing me a beer was great.
Even waving fresh air across my face with a cabana leaf would be cool,
but something about someone loading my gun seemed awkward. After several years in the Army and
some of them spent in combat, I like to be solely responsible for my firearm,
and its ammunition. Plus, loading
my own shells, at my own pace, probably saved me hundreds of dollars in shells
when it came time to cash out.
“Ok,
SeƱor,” he said.
All
right, focus, I thought. I’ll give
this one a little more lead.
Squeeze. Bang.
“Bueno.”
The bird boy said as the dove took a nosedive strait into the corn.
For
the next two hours I blasted hundreds of rounds into the air. Birds would explode
in a puff of feathers. Sometimes
I would see the back end separate from the body in an even bigger puff of
feathers. The really amusing ones
were direct hits; those would suddenly stop and whirl out of control like a
broken helicopter, spinning rapidly towards the ground.
By
the end of our session the ground was littered with dead dove and I was
standing atop a mountain of spent plastic shotgun shells. Just as I was setting down my gun and
reaching for a beer from the cooler, my dad came walking up, grinning ear to
ear.
“Wow,”
he said.
“Yeah,
that was hard,” I said.
“You
did all right,” he said, looking around and surveying the dead dove he stepped
over to visit my hunting spot.
The
van quickly pulled up and I was handed another beer from Travis already sitting
inside. I could get used to this
kind of hunting I thought- a guy that wants to load your gun, a lawn chair in
the shade for when you get tired of shooting an endless supply of game, a
cooler full of beers, and the best part is I left the dirty gun and a mess to
clean up out in the field for someone else to deal with.
Moments
later we walked back into the Estancia.
I was handed another whiskey and freshly grilled dove was waiting to
accompany the cocktails on a platter.
We flopped down in the leather chairs and immediately stories of triumph
and trial filled the air. Let the
pampering begin I thought, when is dinner, I am Hemingway.
Six
hundred and sixty one dove later I was done. One thousand four hundred and eighty two dove later, Travis
was done. Seven hundred and eighty five dove
later, Bob was done. Nine hundred
and sixty eight dove later, dad was done.
I ate dove every day, but I didn’t eat three thousand eight hundred and
ninety-six dove. I ate bacon
wrapped maple dove, dove dumplings, baked dove with a peppercorn and mustard
sauce, dove salad, and spicy dove spaghetti. Chancho, the feral hog, ate dove sushi every day; as did the
local foxes, eagles, and millions of bugs emerging from everywhere. Eight of our bird boys took home bags
of dove for their families, and their neighbors families. In the end, I imagine a few dove were
left to decorate the cactus and that’s ok, because as long as they were dead,
the farmers were happy.
“My
grandpa always talked about hunting in another country.” Travis said. “He taught me to hunt dove right out
our back door in Ashe County. He
was born and raised in western North Carolina.”
“He
would be glad you’re here.” I said.
“And someday you can teach your child to hunt the same hills, sharing
stories of the time you hunted the best in the world.”
“I
need to do this.” Travis says, and then removes the brightly colored shirt he’s
been wearing for two days. “This
was my granddaddy’s”
“Oh.”
I said.
After
putting his hunting vest back over his undershirt, Travis takes several dead
dove littering the ground around his shooting spot and places them in a circle
from beak to tail. Then, he folds
up his grandfather’s shirt and places it in the middle. Removing a tiny bottle full of vodka
from his pocket he takes a swig and dumps the rest on the shirt. Then, removes a book of matches from his
shooting vest pocket. Folding the
first over, he strikes it upon the rough back using his thumb and forefinger. Then,
tosses the book into the fire pit.
The shirt and surrounding dead birds become engulfed in flame. I hand Travis another cerveza and we
stand back to watch his grandfather’s shirt burn.
I
sit next to my dad after the hunt on the last van ride back to the
Estancia. “This has been a good
trip. Thanks for inviting me.” I
say.
He
just grins his big Argentinean dove slaying grin and pats me on the back.
I hesitate. “I hope we can keep taking trips
together.” I say. Then, I slug the
rest of my beer and crush the can.
The van hits a pothole and dozens of dove flush up from a bush just to
the right along the side of the road.
I watch the shadows in unison turn into the sun and flutter towards low
hills lurking in the distance just above the rows of corn.
