When upland bird hunters think of Argentina, they dream of no-limit dove hunts. Waterfowlers on the other hand dream of South American duck and twenty five-bird limits — limits not seen in the United States since Nash Buckingham was a young man.
I’d read Mr. Buck’s accounts of hunting generous amounts of Mississippi ducks. Now I was on my way to Argentina and — I hoped, I dreamed – generous limits of my own.
The idea for the trip was hatched with short notice…
“It’s time for me to hunt in Argentina,” Ray said. “Wanna come? Duck and a side-trip into dove.”
“Well, *#%@ yeah!” I replied enthusiastically.
“A friend just returned and recommends ‘Argentina Wingshooting’ for duck,” Ray said. “I’ll make the arrangements. You show up at Logan at the end of May with your stuff and your checkbook.”
“Done,” I said. “I’m all in.”
Flight reservations, emails, gun rental arrangements, questions and answers, our checks and cash, passports – we finally were on our way. Boston to Newark; Newark to Buenos Aires. A three-hour drive north and we were “home” at last. In the heart of Argentina’s duck country. And, oh yeah, dove too!
Our host at the comfortable lodge was Gaston Piarrette, an energetic and experienced factotum who organized our hunts, our meals, our rooms and our general comfort. The roomy quarters were north of Buenos Aires on the Nankay River – duck country on the oft-flooded plain between the Parana and Uruguay Rivers. Ray and I saw huge flocks of duck that evening. We smiled.
We hunted four days.
Get up at 5:30 in the morning. Coffee and a snack and leave for the blinds at 6:15. Hunt from 7:15 until 9:00 or a limit. Back to the lodge for a late breakfast. Nap. Up at noon. Lunch at 1:00. Leave at 2:00 PM for the hour’s drive to the dove fields. Hunt dove from 3:30 until dusk. Shower, shave and get ready for cocktails at 7:00. Dinner at 8:30. Sleep. Get up the next day and do it again. Lots of birds. Heaven.
Antonio served as retriever, caller, spotter, loader and shooting coach among other things.
Now, shooting at dove was a fine way to spend an afternoon, but Ray and I were waterfowlers. And in the mornings, my goodness, in the mornings, there were ducks. Rosy-billed Pochard, Silver Teal. Ringed Teal, Yellow-billed Teal, Yellow-billed Pintail, Wigeon, oh, my! Yellow bills were my favorite, but I took them as they came and shot them all.
Every hunter had his own blind, rig of decoys, several hundred yards of exclusive shooting area and guide. Gaston drove each of us to our blinds. Antonio guided me every day. By the time I arrived for the hunt, the blind was set up on the edge of the water, the decoys were out, the folding chairs up, the gun and ammunition at hand. Antonio was my spotter, my loader, my retriever, my caller, my shooting coach, my support system. A mighty man was Antonio, and patient also; we all need one of him.
We settled into our chairs in the blind and waited for shooting light. I saw outlines of ducks against the skyline but lost them as they blended into the trees and brush. Fifteen minutes of glimpses and splashes in the water passed. Finally, I was able to follow the faint outline of a body and a bright yellow bill into the decoys. I shot and bagged my first yellow-bill. In the dim light their yellow bills made them shootable targets. The more sedately colored birds were still landing in the decoys –unseen and unharmed.
Five birds were dead in the decoys before full shooting light came. All had yellow bills. But at last Antonio and I were able to see the other ducks. Our rig of a dozen floating mallards and two flapping Mojo Green-wing Teal brought them into shooting range. The teal buzzed our decoys, lowered their flaps and tried to land. A shot and they were off again – at speed – with a bird belly up in the water. The big ducks, the Rosy-bills and Pintails and Wigeon circled several times and gave us a good look before decoying. The big ducks gave me a chance to double. The little teal were so fast departing that they gave me only one shot.
The author with the morning’s mixed bag.
This was intense shooting. Antonio would call left or right or ahead. The birds would be there. Shots, birds down.
“Rosy-bills left. Coming in.” I’d shoot. “Yellowbills ahead. Shoot now.” I did. “Five on the left.” Bang, bang. “Kill the cripple.” Bang. “Rosy-bills circling. Get ready. Wait, wait. Now!”
I’d miss. I’d connect. The birds kept coming. After twenty minutes Antonio showed me his clicker. As each bird had dropped he’d kept count. The number 25 was showing. A limit. I unloaded and handed him the 12-gauge autoloader. I looked at the birds floating in the decoys in front of the blind. More downed birds were on land on both sides of the blind. Live ones were landing in the dekes. A pile of red shells – Activ 5s – was around me both inside and outside the blind.
I took a breath. Both hands were shaking. I remembered. Boy, did I remember! Intense is too soft a word for what I had experienced. I stood up. I walked in a light daze. I smiled, a lot. Antonio and I picked up the birds. I remembered.