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.