Buenos Noches Paloma

I’m 95° degrees south of home.  Which is another way of saying I’m half way around the world.  Actually, halfway under the world, visiting a foreign land, struggling to speak a foreign language in order to help my dad cross a lifetime dream off his bucket list.  I watch my brother-in-law blow the ass-end off another Argentinean eared dove and wish the sun would set a little faster so I can go back to the Estancia and drink some more Malbec. 

“Muy bien,” the bird boy says.

“Muchas gracias,” Travis, my brother-in-law says.

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, Señor,” 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.

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Samuel Chamberlain doesn't normally prefer to blast small flying creatures from the sky, actually, he's been recently dabbling in absolute pacifism, and thus a trip to the Southern Hemisphere consequently resulted in falling off the wagon.  Thankfully, Hemingway would abide, and there was plenty of Malbec and Whiskey readily available. Though an opportunity to write a quest piece doing something extraordinary is always worth it.

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Photos by Jay Chamberlain and Travis Birdsell