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Wingshooting Argentina & Uruguay
Citation preview
3
by Stuar t M. Wil l iams
“Feel to the end the triumph of being alive!”
spoken by the Squire in Ingmar Bergman’s film, The Seventh Seal
“My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, —the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!”
Gerard Manley Hopkins, The Windhover, 1877
“to improve the golden moment of opportunity and catch the good
that is within our reach is the great art of life.”
Dr. Samuel Johnson, mid-18th century
6
text & PhotograPhy:
Stuart WilliaMS
ProduCtion & edition:
John John reynal & Juan PaBlo reynal
CoPyright © PiCtureS and text - Stuart WilliaMS
CoPyright © PiCtureS, PaintingS & MaPS
Patagonia PuBliShing CoMPany S.a.
TIScornIa 154 P.B. “B”, (8400) BarIlocHe, rIo neGro, arGenTIna
Queda HecHo el dePoSITo Que Marca la ley 11.723
ISBn: 987-987-21511-3-3
interior Cover Photo:
Skip “The Hawg” Hoagland gets set for the moment of truth on a foggy morning at Hasparren Lodge.
graPhiC deSign:
Patagonia PuBliShing Co.
MaP deSign:
Maria eugenia nager
Photo touCh-uPS:
Flavio de Mitri
Pre-PreSS:
arteS graFiCaS integradaS S.a.
BoB Kerr’S deCoyS:
CourteSy oF the ruSSell FinK gallery
argentine handCraFtS:
CourteSy oF arandú
7
uruguay 8
eStanCia haSParren 12
eStanCia ninette 24
argentina 36
the ProvinCe oF San luiS 40
Feather hunting argentina 42
the ProvinCe oF CordoBa 54
PiCa Zuro lodge 56
la dorMida lodge 68
eStanCia la Catalina 80
eStanCia arroyo loS leoneS 92
the ProvinCe oF BuenoS aireS 104
eStanCia San Martín 106
eStanCia la leoCadia 118
eStanCia aMeghino 130
JaCana lodge 142
eStanCia la Zita 154
the ProvinCe oF la PaMPa 166
eStanCia la Colorada 168
the ProvinCe oF ChuBut 180
toMMy WenCKheiM SaFariS & adventureS 182
BooKingS 194
travel 196
aCKnoWledgeMentS 199
PhotograPhiC CreditS 202
Index
Uruguay is the smallest country in South
America. It is tucked in between Brazil to the north
and Argentina to the south and west. It is seldom in
the news; stable, democratic countries rarely are.
Uruguay is essentially a large, fertile, grassy
plain. There is some grain-and seed-growing agri-
culture, but it is not so well developed as in
Argentina. For that reason doves are not so abun-
dant as in Argentina. The primary economic activi-
ty is cattle grazing.
There are extensive wetlands in the eastern
part of the country that offer some excellent
duck shooting.
The primary game bird of interest to visiting
shooters is, of course, the common perdiz.
Although there are perdiz in Argentina, Uruguay is a
better choice for the shooter who is really serious
about hunting perdiz. The birds are more numerous
in Uruguay, and outfitters there have cultivated the
art of perdiz shooting much more so than outfitters
in Argentina, perhaps because they have much
lower populations of doves and ducks and pigeons
and no geese at all. Moreover, the quality of dog-
work in Uruguay is much superior to that in
Argentina. Luigi Olivieri, a dog breeder and trainer
extraordinaire who specializes in setters, but who
offers other breeds as well, has some dogs that can
compete in acuity of nose, style, and discipline with
the best dogs in the United States and Europe.
Most of the top perdiz outfitters in Uruguay have
some dogs bred and trained by Luigi Olivieri. It is
pure delight to hunt over Luigi Olivieri’s dogs.
The season for perdiz runs May—July.
A shoot in Uruguay can easily be added on
to an Argentine shooting trip. There are frequent
flights from Buenos Aires to Montevideo and
Punta del Este, and frequent crossings of the
River Plate by the Buquebus (hydrofoil) to Colonia,
a very attractive tourist town which is the gateway
Uruguay
A hardworking birdboy fetches downed ducks after a great shoot on a beautiful morning.
10
to perdiz-shooting estancias in western Uruguay. A
trip on the Buquebus on a beautiful sunny day is
pure pleasure.
Gun entry is a simple formality, but it is
much more expensive than in Argentina.
In The Purple Land, W. H. Hudson’s great
novel about 19th century Uruguay, (which was
called the Banda Oriental back in those days), he
has given us a brilliant description of the land:
“I see before me one of the fairest habita-
tions God has made for man: great plains smil-
ing with everlasting spring; ancient woods; swift
beautiful rivers; ranges of blue hills stretching
away to the dim horizon. And beyond those fair
slopes, how many leagues of pleasant wilder-
ness are sleeping in the fair sunshine, where the
wild flowers waste their sweetness and no
plough turns the fruitful soil, where deer and
ostrich roam fearless of the hunter, while over
all bends a blue sky without a cloud to stain its
exquisite beauty?”
Although these words were written in the
last quarter of the 19th century, and many things
have changed since then, the description is still by
and large accurate.
A master chef grills meat at one of the many fine restaurants in El Mercado del Puerto, an old train station in Montevideo
converted to accommodate many restaurants and shops, and an indispensable stop for tourists.
Very colorful fruit and vegetable
stands like this one decorate the
highways of southern Uruguay.
Gauchos are not restricted to Argentina. This Uruguayan gaucho does his thing on a beautiful morning near a duck marsh.
Nike, an elegant English setter, trembled from tip of nose to tip of
tail, as if ten thousand volts of electricity were coursing through her body.
Then she lay down. Dabi, the doghandler/guide,
eased up behind her and tapped her on the rump,
and she got up and started to creep forward. She
snuffled up the breeze like a vacuum cleaner, get-
ting her lungs full of bird scent, and again crept
forward ever so cautiously, pointing and readjusting
her point as she went. She was the very essence of
style and discipline. Then she got a stronger current
of bird scent and moved forward more rapidly.
Gun at the ready, Sr. Hawg —otherwise
known as Skip Hogland—stayed close to the dog.
Then the dog lost the scent and doubled back and
made a complete circle in an effort to find it again.
Dabi said: “The bird’s running. Be ready for it to get up almost
anywhere!”
Finally Nike located the scent again and locked up as hard as if
her body had been deep frozen. Dabi spoke to her, and she moved for-
ward quickly, going to the left for about ten yards,
then back to the right for about ten yards. Then
she stopped. This zigzag pursuit continued for
about five minutes. The suspense built up.
Dabi urged: “Move forward! Put pressure
on the bird! Make it fly!” The Hawg took ten
quick paces forward, a small brown bird—tired of
the pressure—launched itself into air well to the
right with a startling sound, the Hawg mounted
his gun and sent out a peremptory summons to
desist from flight immediately, and the small
brown bird dropped softly on to the grass. Nike
bounded across the field to fetch.
We had not gone 50 yards when Nike once again lied down to
make game. Dabi spoke to her softly and she got up and crept forward.
Estancia
Hasparren
Braided knife (Facón)
12
Exterior view of Hasparren Lodge. Note that it is constructed entirely of stone except for the roof, which isthatch.
Then she moved forward quickly about 15 yards,
locked up, and then moved forward again quickly.
Dabi urged me to stay close behind the dog
because evidently the bird was running and could
get up at any moment. Then the bird rose quickly
about 25 yards out in front, veered sharply to the
left, staying down low where its perfect camouflage
made it diabolically difficult to see and to hit. I
overtook it and swung well ahead and hit the bird
solidly. A little cloud of brown feathers erupted
and the bird fell in a gradual slant and Nike was on
it quickly. It quickly returned to Dabi and sat and
offered him the bird.
It was one of those days when conditions
were just about perfect. A miasma of dense fog
covered the land and a thick coating of dew cov-
ered the grass. We were hunting into a breeze of
just about five miles per hour, in clover and grass
about five inches high, and a temperature of about
60 degrees. Things could not have been better.
Nike made game about every three minutes,
lying down, then rising on command, locking on to
the scent, pursuing it insistently, sometimes losing it
but always regaining it, a model of style and discipline
at all times, putting pressure on the bird at all times,
finally pushing it into air, where the guns made quick
work of it. Nike never got more than 75 yards away
at any time and never busted a single bird. It was as
fine dog work as I hope to see in this world or the
next. What’s more, the Hawg and I didn’t miss a sin-
gle bird. We had our limit in about an hour and a half.
We were hunting perdiz out of the renowned
Estancia Hasparren in Uruguay. In twenty years
Hasparren, under the able management of
Bernardo and Mercedes Barran, has established a
reputation as one of the very finest bird-shooting
resorts in Uruguay.
Then it was back to the lodge for one of those
sumptuous repasts that Hasparren is famed for. We
started with excellent nachos of dove breasts with hot
sauce wrapped in tortillas; tender and succulent bife de
lomo (tenderloin) with chimichurri sauce; and excellent
strawberry mousse for dessert, with a very good San
Juan cabernet, and cafecitos to finish up.
There was no time for a siesta. We set forth
immediately for a dove shoot. My brother, T.
Clendenning Williams IV, a prominent Wall Street
banker known hereinafter simply as Tom, joined
me on that occasion. We shot at a large roost of
big willow and thorn trees and low scrub trees
along a river. Doves swarmed all around us like
bees, coming from every point of the compass,
darting in and out among the trees, providing only
an instant in which to shoot. This was supremely
A very large, comfortable bedroom in Hasparren Lodge.
14
challenging shooting, even though most of the
shots were at a range of only 15—25 yards. Once
we accommodated ourselves to the circumstances
we shot very well. Each of us fired ten boxes of
shells in little over an hour.
It was a beautiful afternoon, with a deep
azure sky full of lacy filigree clouds. Nameless wild
flowers filled the air with an inebriating perfume.
The afternoon was full of the joy of life. It was one
of those moments—and there have been many of
them on those great shoots in Argentina and
Uruguay—when, in the words of Shakespeare, “I
scorn to change my state with kings.”
The next morning Tom and I hunted perdiz
with the Maximum Guide/Dog Trainer himself,
Bernardo Barran. Once again, conditions were
virtually ideal: a blanket of fog that covered the
landscape near and far; a heavy coating of dew on
the grass, a breeze of 8—10 miles per hour, and
temperatures of about 50 F.
Bernardo put down a setter called Dali. He
explained that most of his dogs are named after
famous painters. There is a Degas, a Van Gogh, a
Monet, and a Manet, among others. He said that
Monet and Manet were similar, and most people
could not distinguish between them. I said that
most people could not distinguish between the
painters by the same names either. I wondered
when we might get to hunt over Peter Breughel the
Elder or Hieronymus Bosch or Vassily Kandinsky.
Some of his dogs were from the kennels of
the renowned dog breeder and trainer, Luigi Olivieri.
The blaze orange clothing of Tom and
Bernardo glowed in the gloom.
Dali made game almost immediately. Tom
and I closed in for the moment of truth, he pushed
the bird hard, and it erupted into the air, where he
put it down with finality. On the next flush the bird
got up only 15 yards in front of me, flew straight
up and then back over my head. I whirled, and
addressed a bird that was rapidly departing and
descending at the same time—a very tricky shot.
My shot puffed a little cloud of brown feathers
from the bird and ended its brief tenure on earth.
Again Dali made game, Bernardo moved in
and touched her on the rump, she pressed forward,
following the vagaries of scent upon the breeze, until
once again the bird burst into air with an explosive
take-off. This bird too flew straight up and back over
my head and I whirled 180 degrees and intercepted
it just as it was about to make good its escape.
Dali made game again. She moved out on
Bernardo’s command, and as she moved ahead
she pointed and then pointed again and again,
15
Shooters love to gather around the fireplace in the social room for aperitivos and drinks during Happy Hour after a long, cold day afield.
constantly readjusting her point, keeping a low
profile so as not to alarm the bird, until at last the
bird could tolerate the pressure no more and it
would launch itself into air, and the guns would
roar and a soft brown bird would tumble lifeless-
ly unto the grass. This scenario played itself out
over and over, until at last we attained our limits.
We hunted in tall grass and weeds that quick-
ly soaked our pants up to the knees, and cover so
low that one might think it could hardly conceal a
mouse, yet it concealed those small brown birds
perfectly. Unlike pheasants and quail, the perdiz
does not rely on dense cover for protection; it
relies totally on its perfect camouflage. Being a
running bird, the perdiz prefers low, thin cover;
thick cover impedes its movement.
Then we moved to another field for one of
those al fresco culinary ceremonies that Hasparren
is known for near and far, namely, an asado. By that
time the sun had come out and it was a glorious
day. When we arrived a table was already set and a
huge grill was laden with meat: bife de lomo, bife de
chorizo, chorizo (beef sausage), and morcilla (blood
sausage)—and the air was filled with aromas that
would bring the dead to life.
Uniformed waitresses served a fine salad of
shredded carrots and purple cabbage with ranch dress-
ing; pickled beets; and grilled potatoes. They decanted a
nice cabernet. The Hawg and Tom and Don Marazzo,
a newly arrived shooter from California, and I got our
grubhooks to work and hardly spoke for the next
twenty minutes. We finished with a nice apple tart.
Then it was once more into the breech.
The Hawg and I made one party and Tom
and Don another party for a combination decoyed
pigeon/decoyed duck shoot. The Hawg and I shot
out of blinds set up about 50 yards apart along the
edge of a pond. Birdboys put out pigeon decoys on
the land and duck decoys on the water. The Hawg
set up two wind-activated duck decoys along the
shore, and we were in business. Pigeons came in fit-
fully at first, then with increasing frequency, and
occasionally a duck would come in. The pigeons
came loafing into the decoys and we laced the lead
to them and their bodies hit the ground with an
emphatic “whomp!” It was a very pleasant outing.
Back at Hasparren, we gathered around the
fireplace, the center of social activity. On an open grill
in the fireplace a chef cooked chorizo (beef sausage),
chinchulines (chitlins), and provoleta grillada (grilled pro-
volone cheese with olive oil and oregano—a food fit
for the gods!!)—and served them on big round
wooden platters. Then we moved to the dining room
for big chunks of cuadril (rump steak); morcilla (blood
sausage); baked potatoes; and a salad of lettuce,
tomatoes, and hard-boiled eggs with olive oil and bal-
samic vinegar, and for dessert, terrific panqueques con
dulce de leche, being crepes with caramel custard. This
candlelit dinner was the peak of our wonderful din-
ing experience at Hasparren. Mercedes and her staff
exceeded all their previous efforts.
Unlike the other shooting establishments in
16
This photo shows the thatch
roof of Hasparren and the
rack on which are hung the
birds killed during the day.
this book, Hasparren is not a lodge but a private
home. Bernardo likes to call it “a high-class hotel,”
and that is exactly what it is. It was built of all-
natural materials—stones taken from an old cor-
ral to make the walls, thatch to make the roof, and
logs to make the roof beams. The place just oozes
rustic atmosphere. There is a big dining/social
room with a fireplace at one end, the walls of
which are adorned with antique collectibles and
gaucho paraphernalia and paintings by forgotten
masters (no Manets or Monets) long dead and
turned to clay. There are also mounted trophy
heads on the walls and cowhides on the floors.
Five comfortable bedrooms accommodate eight
guests. Hasparren makes me think of the title of
that fascinating book by Alain de Botton, The
Architecture of Happiness.
Surrounding the house is a veritable inter-
national arboretum of glorious trees planted
long ago: cypress, Canadian pine, ash, hickory,
chinaberry, jacaranda, cedar, palm, eucalyptus, acacia,
and many others.
A big part of the appeal of Hasparren is
the fact that it is lived in every day. Thus it has a
kind of homey warmth and charm, which are
lacking in commercial shooting lodges. It’s the
kind of place that makes you want to return
again and again.
Happy days at Hasparren!
(Recently Hasparren has become an official
David Denies Wingshooting Lodge. Under the
careful supervision of David Denies and Fernando
de las Carreras standards have been raised and will
continue to be raised.)
17
Get further information and bookinGs from:
frontiers
hank inGram
toll-free: 1-800-245-1950
www.frontierstravel.com
david denies winGshootinG
main office - arGentina
santiaGo seeber
tel.: +54 (11) 4331-0444
fax: +54 (11) 4331-7397
santiaGo@daviddenies.com
us office
douG larsen
toll-free: 1-877-637-8420
tel.: (412) 741-6718
fax: (412) 741-6718
douGlas@daviddenies.com
uk office
nick Zoll
tel.: 44-0-1485-512046
fax: 44-0-1485-512131
nick@daviddenies.com
shooters reach hasparren by flyinG to
montevideo, where they are met and driven
about 3 1/2 hours to the home.
Skip "The Hawg" Hoagland in an affectionate
moment with one of Hasparrens prized setters
after a fine morning shoot.
18
Tom Williams(l.) and Bernardo Barran close in on a perdiz
behind one of Bernardo’s stately setters.
Tom Williams(l.) and Bernardo
Barran congratulate each other
after a very fulfilling day afield.
Dali, a beautifully trained setter, offers a bird up to his handler. Note: Most dogs at Hasparren are named for famous painters.
Hot›barrelled dove shooting action over the plains of Uruguay.
21
Tom Williams fetches down a high
bird with his Browning Superposed.
Tom Williams is all
ready for action on doves
on a beautiful afternoon.
22
Skip "The Hawg" Hoagland is
ready for both pigeons and ducks
in his camouflage net blind.
Note decoys for both species.
Blue-Winged Teal
A birdboy arranges pigeon decoys preparatory to an afternoon shoot.
23
This is the stuff that pigeon shooters dreams are made of; all on a magnificent day! What could be finer?
I have lost count of the number of trips I
have made to Argentina, but it is probably fifty-
seven or fifty-eight. Sometimes my liberal
friends—all two of them—who have never been
to Argentina, much less shot a bird there or any-
where else, ask me: “Don’t you ever get tired of
all that killing, of eating all that steak and drink-
ing all that red wine and going to all those tango
shows and buying all those leather jackets?” To
which I reply: “Why, no. Bird shooting in
Argentina is like Cleopatra the way Shakespeare
described her in Antony and Cleopatra: “…other
women cloy/ The appetites they feed, but she
makes hungry/ Where most she satisfies.” In
other words, the more you get of it the more you
want. Too much is never enough. It is as addic-
tive as crack cocaine. I used to make just one trip
a year to Argentina, then I stepped up to two,
and currently I make three trips a year. I just
can’t stay away very long. I’ve got to have my
three-times-a-year fix. And I’ve got plenty of
company. I have friends that go two or three
times every year, and some of them stay a month
or more each time! Argentina is the number one
wingshooting country in the world. No other
country even comes close.
What is it that is so addictive about Argentina
wingshooting? Essentially, it’s the shooting of large
numbers of very challenging wild birds under the
most posh circumstances, amid the camaraderie of
kindred souls, surrounded by attentive factotums
and pampered like a congressman, far from family
or business pressures, in a benign climate, where
everything, right down to the minutiae, is organized
for the pleasure of the visiting shooters. What’s
more, as more outfitters get into the wingshooting
business, the competition gets more intense and
outfitting standards go up. I can see definite
improvement every year.
Argentina
Lordly Magellan geese winging over a beautiful Andean valley near Trevelin, Chubut.
All birdshooting trips begin and end in Buenos
Aires. Buenos Aires is a city of broad boulevards and
endless parks, of Parisian charm and intense cultural
activity. On any given night you might be able to
enjoy a great performance of Don Giovanni or La
Boheme or Il Barbiere di Siviglia at Teatro Colon, one
of the world’s great opera houses. Afterwards you can
have dinner at one of the world’s great steakhouses,
such as Cabaña Las Lilas. Buenos Aires, of course, is
where the beef is, and it’s where the souls of steak
lovers go when they die. Walk along the River Plate at
midday, and the heavenly aroma from dozens of
open-air parrillas (grills) fills the air and makes your
salivary glands seize up in paroxysms.
For something different, how about a world-
class meal at Piegari or Sorrento or Mumbai or
Oviedo? Or how about a show at Señor Tango,
where you can hear Fernando Soler sing about
those dark themes of tango music—lost home-
lands, cruel girlfriends, and suicide?
You can walk and explore endlessly in
atmospheric little holes-in-the-wall for antique
maps or chess sets or silverware or Cuban cigars.
You can stroll along Florida pedestrian concourse
and shop for great bargains in leathers and listen to
Andean musicians playing ethereal flute music and
singing melancholy huaynos and vidalas. You can
soak up the sun like an old tomcat at a sidewalk
cafe under the vast rubber trees at Plaza Recoleta.
I have always said that sidewalk cafes are the hall-
mark of an advanced civilization, and Buenos
Aires has plenty of them. Dolce far niente.
In Shakespeare’s King Henry IV, part II,
Pistol says: “I speak of Africa and golden joys.”
As for me, I speak of Argentina and
golden joys.
The lively al fresco Cafe La Biela in Recoleta is a favorite hangout for Porteños and tourists alike. Appealing handicrafts shops like this one entice visitors in Merlo, San Luis.
38
High›shock colors of houses and buildings in La Boca district of Buenos Aires make it a must›see for all tourists.
The first time you arrive at La Dormida you will be taken com-
pletely by surprise. That is because the place has nothing rustic or
hunting-related about it. It sits there in the mid-
dle of the Cordoba brushland, totally improba-
ble, looking like something off the cover of
Architectural Digest. The location was chosen
not for aesthetic reasons but for strategic rea-
sons, i.e., to put the lodge within proximity of
many excellent shooting fields.
It is a study in contrast between rough sur-
faces and smooth surfaces: locally quarried granite,
on the one hand, which is used to make the walls of
the quadrangular courtyard and the huge fireplace,
and on the other hand, the smooth exterior and
interior walls of the lodge; the huge, polished
wooden tables; and the wooden floors and bar in the large social/dining
room. The dining room table and the bar are huge slabs of oak polished
and stained a dark rose color, and the massive table in front of the great
walk-in fireplace is made of pine.
The external walls are painted a deep
magenta and the bare interior walls are white.
At the center of the courtyard is a fire pit sur-
rounded by big wooden chairs. On cool evenings
shooters sit by the fireside and tell shameless lies
about all the great shots they made and how many
birds they killed during the day, and swill cold
drinks and gourmandize aperitivos, or appetizers.
Near the fire pit is a heated Roman bath, where
sybarites and voluptuaries may wallow to drive the
chill out of their bones after a cold day afield.
There are six heated and air-conditioned
rooms with beautiful four-poster beds, which can
sleep eight guests; a pro shop with shirts, caps, leather goods, and hand-
icrafts; and a computer room. Masseuses are available in the evenings.
68
La Dormida
Lodge Silver gourd mate
Evening at La Dormida is a very appealing time, when shooters gather around the fire fordrinks and aperitivos.
The lodge is the last word in comfort. It is
expertly managed by Veronica Vidal, a long-time
professional in the hospitality industry, who has
worked for the Hilton and Sheraton chains in
Argentina, Mexico, and the United States. The
affable Robin Benedict, who has developed many
friendships among visiting dove shooters over the
last 25 years, sometimes hosts large groups.
I will tell you about some extraordinary days
at La Dormida.
On my first morning I shot in a fence cor-
ner, with a field of ripe corn behind me, a cattle
watering pond to the left, and a pasture to the
right. It was a delightfully cool, breezy, overcast
morning, the kind of morning that makes one feel
glad to be alive.
Swarms of doves came at me from in front
and behind at the same time, going to the waterhole
and the cornfield, coming in high and descending
swiftly. They came on relentlessly for two hours.
Some birds were screaming downwind, others were
struggling against the wind. The birds presented a
great variety of shots: high overhead incomers, low
left-to-right and right-to-left crossers, with many
birds sneaking up on me from behind, and not an
easy bird in the bunch. I started out shooting cold
but by dint of fierce concentration was soon shoot-
ing hot. I ended the morning with 368 for one case
(500 shells), as counted on a punch counter by
Federico, my very helpful birdboy.
For lunch I joined two British shooters, Steve
and Chris, and Jack Dartagnan, our driver/guide/
general helper, for a grand gastronomical adventure
called an asado, or luncheon al fresco, under a canvas
dining pavilion. We started with excellent potato salad
with onion bits; then a fine lettuce/ tomato/onion
salad; then shish-ka-bob of dove breasts smothered
with chimichurri sauce; thick links of chorizo (beef
sausage); huge slabs of bife de lomo (tenderloin), juicy
and crammed with flavor; grilled chicken; plenty of
Luigi Bosca malbec Reserva to wash down the sump-
tuous viands; sliced pear in syrup; and cafecitos to finish
up. We patted our bellies and agreed that the repast
would delight gourmets as well as gourmands.
In the afternoon I returned to the hot cor-
ner. The shooting was even more difficult than in
the morning. I finished with 165 birds for 9 boxes
(225 rounds), which is below my usual average.
Nevertheless I felt that my shooting had improved
for the experience because I was forced to take
shots that I would normally not have taken, i.e, at
very high overhead birds and distant left-to-right
crossers. Improvement of one’s shooting is to a
great extent what a dove shoot in Cordoba is all
about—isn’t it?
Back to the lodge for a long, luxurious mas-
sage, then I joined Steve and Chris at the fire pit
for aperitivos: sliced air-cured ham, salami, pastrami,
big chunks of blue cheese and cheddar cheese, and
70
The simply but elegantly furnished social/dining room.
little glasses of cold gazpacho andaluz—fantastic!! A
duo of elderly gentlemen dressed in black, both
singer/guitarists, played and sang for us. They had
deep, resonant voices, and sang with great emo-
tional power. When they performed “Paisaje de
Catamarca” I was overcome with emotion. When
they performed “Pasa el Condor” I said to Steve and
Chris: “This is a little slice of paradise!” and they
said: “It surely is!”
Then we migrated to the grand dining room,
where we feasted with genial host Robin Benedict,
whose company is always a pleasure. We started
with a tasty salad of palmitos (hearts of palm) and
tomatoes with cream sauce; then a nice confection
that combined layers of short ribs with layers of
mashed potatoes; plenty of fine Humberto Canale
malbec; and for dessert, an exquisite tiramisu.
Then the elderly gentlemen came into the
dining room. They performed “Humahuaqueño” and
“Viva Jujuy” and that great Paraguayan harp tune,
“Pajaro Campana.” These songs brought back pow-
erful memories. Next they played and sang two of
those moving songs popularized by the great folk-
loric group, Los Chalchaleros: “Sonada del Viejo
Amor” and “Lopez Pereyra.” It was an unforgettable
experience, no matter how long I may live. I
thought: surely my cup runneth over.
The next morning we returned to the same
estancia where we had shot the day before. It was a
delectably cool day with gusting winds of 10—15
mph. I shot out of a blind improvised of tall grass-
es and brush near a field of ripe soybeans, where the
birds were swarming in to feed. The wind really
complicated the flight of the birds, making them
change direction or altitude in an instant, virtually
impossible to track with a shotgun. The birds were
coming in from in front downwind and from behind
upwind, providing every conceivable angle and prob-
lem of shooting, making my gun barrel scribble in
La Dormida features architectural styling that is unique among Argentine hunting lodges.
71
the sky. I punched out many and many a spectacular
high overhead shot, and little mother-of-pearl feath-
ers exploded upon the wind, which snatched them
far away in an instant. My final bird count for the
morning: 328 birds with 18 boxes (450 rounds).
The next morning was as delightful a morn-
ing of dove shooting as I have ever enjoyed. I
shot 499 birds with 26 boxes (650 shells). (The
numbers of birds I killed may seem like a lot but
I assure you that they are very modest compared
to the numbers that some shooters have compiled
at La Dormida.)
Here was the setting for all that great action:
picture a small copse of algarrobo and paraiso (chin-
aberry) trees, maybe two acres in size, that provide
merciful shade against the blowtorch sun. On one
side is a cattle feeding lot, and adjacent to it a cat-
tle watering pond. There is an old broken-down
piece of farm machinery that is rusting in peace
under the trees. A bit farther away are fields of ripe
sorghum, soybeans, and corn. All that food and
water serve as an enormous dove magnet. The
fences and gates are in a state of advanced neglect.
The whole scene has a kind of picturesque dilapi-
dation. In other words, it is a quintessentially
Argentine scene. Except for the piece of farm
machinery, it could have come straight from that
great book about life in 19th-century Argentina,
Far Away and Long Ago.
I took refuge in the shade of a paraiso tree,
over which waves and waves of doves were sailing
every 15—20 seconds. Inspired by the appreciative
audience and cheering squad of Jack and Federico,
who shouted and hallooed every time I made an
impressive shot, and assisted by Federico, who
loaded my gun, I shot red hot from the start.
Federico improvised a blind of tree branch-
es and weeds, and birds that previously had flared
away were now passing straight overhead, and the
killing began in earnest. Birds were coming from in
front and behind simultaneously. Often I would
take a bird in front, and, hearing a shout of
“Behind!” from Jack, would whirl and take one
behind, or vice versa. I developed a rhythm of
mounting and shooting and mounting and shoot-
ing and mounting and shooting, and had birds
crashing down in the trees immediately behind and
the soybeans farther back and the grassy meadow
in front. A spindrift of little white feathers eddied
idly on the breeze all morning
I used the usual black deathstick, namely, a
Benelli Super 90 20 gauge semi-auto with black
stock, loaded with Fiocchi 25 gr. #8 shotshells.
The scene changes. It is four months later
and I am back at La Dormida. This time I am
shooting in the company of Albert Johnson, a gen-
tleman from Miami who builds armored cars for
wealthy people with enemies.
It was a gray, windy morning, and doves
swept over us 35—50 yards up in flocks of 10—100
or more, riding the winds and traveling to distant
feeding fields. The shooting was very challenging
but very satisfying. My birdboy Juan Carlos and
general helper Jack built a head-high blind of
72
Typical bedroom with two
big four-poster beds and very
comfortable mattresses and
bare white walls.
thornbrush, an important requirement in places
where the birds are shot over very hard, and where
they can be very evasive.
The highlight of the morning was three con-
secutive one-shot doubles followed by three con-
secutive two-shot doubles and another one-shot
double. I decided that things could not get any bet-
ter, so I called it quits for the morning. I finished
with 321 birds for 16 boxes (400 rounds).
Albert and Jack and I retired to a large dining
tent that had been set up under big thorn trees out of
the heat of the sun. A table had been set up with a
white linen tablecloth and gleaming silverware. Boys
brought on a relay of courses: grilled dove breasts
wrapped in bacon strips, seasoned with garlic; excel-
lent multicolor salad; mighty fine grilled chicken; then
bife de lomo (tenderloin), tender and succulent and
packed with flavor; thick chunks of chorizo (beef
sausage); couscous; plenty of La Linda malbec; and
then the absolute best tiramisu I ever tasted, with cor-
tados (small cups of coffee) to finish up.
The whole experience was truly luxury in the
wilderness, as much as the finest African tented
safari. We feasted in total comfort in dense thorn
brush in land that has absolutely no utility except
for dove shooting.
There was no time for a siesta because
duty called.
The shooting was much tougher in the after-
noon. The birds were some of the highest that I ever
saw. They were still heading off to far-away feeding
fields, and virtually all of them were over 50 yards
high. Then they started flying in the reverse direc-
tion, going back to the roost, and they were lower,
but still at the outer margin of gunning range. I got
the range on them and started making many spectac-
ular shots. Jack and Juan Carlos cheered me on. I
shot and shot and shot some more, and bright yellow
empties flew through the air and coruscated in the
late afternoon sun. I finished the afternoon with 233
birds for 15 boxes (375 rounds).
Ah, those wonderful days at La Dormida,
how few and how fleeting!
La Dormida has a good inventory of over-under and
semi-automatic shotguns for shooters who do not wish to
bring their own guns.
Season: year round.
73
Get further information and bookinGs from:
frontiers
hank inGram
toll-free: 1-800-245-1950
www.frontierstravel.com
david denies winGshootinG
main office - arGentina
santiaGo seeber
tel.: +54 (11) 4331-0444
fax: +54 (11) 4331-7397
santiaGo@daviddenies.com
us office
douG larsen
toll-free: 1-877-637-8420
tel.: (412) 741-6718
fax: (412) 741-6718
douGlas@daviddenies.com
uk office
nick Zoll
tel.: 44-0-1485-512046
fax: 44-0-1485-512131
nick@daviddenies.com
Dining scene shows Robin Benedict(r.) and Jack Dartagnan, a staff
member, enjoying an excellent dining experience at La Dormida.
74
Red hot shooting action out of La Dormida.
Doves swarm like this over the brush of Cordoba every day.
This shooter is enjoying himself in spite of the rain.
77
Asado scene shows Chris(at the back) and Steve, two shooters
from England, and two La Dormida staff members.
La Dormida is justly famous for its great asados.
78
Charlie Wingardh of Sweden is obviously having a very nice day of shooting.
This is the stuff that dove shooters dreams are made of.
Recommended