The Dove Fields of Argentina
by
Mike Ohlmann
Nestled in the foothills of the Andes Mountains,
not far from the Bolivian border, lies the
beautiful Argentinean valley province of
Salta. This fertile, semi arid, agricultural
center looses approximately one third of
its annual, sunflower, corn, wheat, soybeans
and sorghum crop to the resident, non-migratory,
year round breeding, dove population which
is estimated by the National Department of
Agriculture as over 100 million.
So it is little wonder
it is on the short
list as; the best in the
world wing shooting
destinations. The moderate
temperatures,
reasonable access, close
proximity to modern,
comfortable accommodations,
excellent dining,
and the friendly nature
of the local people
round out the region's
description that compelled
members of Kentuckiana
Chapter of SCI to
live out one of our hunting
dreams!
Seven of our party of eight
arrived in Buenos
Aries via a variety of
flights over a 24
hour period.
Most had taken advantage
of their frequent
flyer miles or other bargains
to make the
long leg of the trip, with
about half being
able to spend a relaxing
afternoon and night
in BA before the morning
rendezvous with
the rest of the party in
the lobby of our
hotel. Each group had been
met at the international
terminal by an English
speaking local tour
professional. The mother
daughter team had
both worked previously
in the Argentinean
airline industry for a
number of years so
they were very familiar
with details of clearing
customs, checking through
firearms etc. They
also knew all the interesting
facts and best
spots in BA and pointed
then out as they
shuttled us, with ease,
through the terminal
and the bustling streets
of the large old
city.
I flew in alone since my
partner; Joe Kuerzi
wisely elected to have
a major blockage removed
from his carotid artery
the day of our departure.
This lifesaving operation
did not stop him
from sneaking in a call
to me, two hours
before my departure, to
say he was; "awake
in recovery, so if I would
swing by and pick
him up he was ready!"
My feeling badly
that he was missing out
on our long talked
about adventure was somewhat
offset by hearing
his voice and knowing he
was through the
worst of it and in good
spirits. So I bid
him farewell with a promise
that the team
would do our best to shoot
his share and
toast his recovery each
night with any one
of Salta's many renowned
wines.
Those of us that arrived
in BA the evening
before honored my promise
at one of the city's
many five star bistros
where we received
our first introduction
into the huge portions
of exquisite Argentinean
beef and several
samplings of fine wine!
With the rest of our party
arriving, we assembled
over breakfast then shuttled
on to BA's older
national airport for a
short flight to Salta
and a couple hours ride
to our hunting area.
The driver announced our
accommodations ahead
1 mile but we passed the
modern motel and
went right on to a dove
field, a short 15
minutes away, since we
still had an hour
or so of daylight. The
birds were passing
in waves overhead as we
rummaged through
our bags to gather up guns,
glasses, choke
tubes etc. and spread out
into a line for
a very quick sunset shoot.
While it was barely enough
to wet our appetite
it did serve as notice
that these birds,
while much more plentiful,
lived up to the
same sporting reputation
as our home town
birds, "nature selected,
fast flying,
darting and diving experts".
The little
exercise also served to
take the edge off
of the long journey and
heavy anticipation
and allowed our other appetite
to surface.
So we headed back to the
motel to face wave
after wave of superbly
prepared appetizers,
and copious meal courses.
We once again held
up our glasses to toast
our good fortune
and our good hunting friends
both present
and home recuperating.
Joking and bravado came
easily as we, cavalierly,
faced the task of defending
the crop fields
from the reported full
frontal assaults of
the marauding doves. As
we spread out, along
an irrigation ditch, in
the pink glow of
dawn, birds could already
be seen swarming
along the thin corridor
of light it reflected
as a yellow ribbon against
the foothills.
Our cheerful adult assistants,
who are locally
known as bird boys, each
shouldered at lease
one case of shells, several
bottles of water,
swivel seated dove buckets,
our gear and
camera bags and offered
to tote our guns
as well. As we settled
in at safe distances
apart the shooters could
all be seen looking
up into the dark sky both
searching for the
sources of the sounds of
whistling wings
and conversing with the
heavens in appreciation
and astonishment.
As the glowing ribbon rose
upward toward
the silhouetted peaks and
simultaneously
poured down the hills and
across the fields,
dark clouds rose and swirled
above the tree
lines. As the first ray
of warmth touched
the back of my neck, where
hair bristled
in excitement, shots started
to pop along
the line. I was standing
and I hit my first
bird, and my second in
rapid secession and
my bird boy, Angel, sitting
beside me said
"yes"…"yes"
and then
"yes" again as
the 3rd shot connected.
I shoved in a shell and
the 20 gauge Benelli
barked twice more but a
soft "no"
came between the shots
and a happy "yes"
confirmed that I caught
up with my target
on the next shot.
Each time a bird fell Angel
clicked a small
hand held counter. From
his intonations it
seemed that he very much
enjoyed saying "yes"
and delighted in occasionally
saying "double"
which he pronounced "duble".
He
seemed almost apologetic
when he reported
"no" which seemed
quite nice compared
to loud guffaw laugh that
some of the misses
would have inspired among
my hunting buddies
stateside!
This was mostly flyway
shooting and some
of the birds were pretty
high. From time
to time the 20 ga. #8's
only sheared off
a few tails or stripped
a few breast feathers
and sharp eyed Angel would
then remark "plume"
which he seemed to prefer
over the more realistic
"no" as the less
well dressed bird
flew on and thus went uncounted.
Thanks to Angels attentiveness,
my shell
pouch never ran dry while
the flights of
dove continued steadily.
After a few hours
it was announced we were
moving to "a
better spot" which
seemed incredible
since there hadn't been
a lull in the pop,
pop, pop, up or down the
shooting line since
daylight. We gathered around
the trucks and
traded experiences as the
boys loaded up
the equipment and picked
up bag after bag
of birds.
"Bird Boys" Picked up the Harvest
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We then caravanned a short
distance to a
new area. Here we spread
down a wide tree
line that separated a grain
field that had
been turned over to livestock
and a picked
corn field. Many birds
were on the ground
feeding and others came
and went. As we moved
down the line waves rose
before us and flew
only a few yards before
sitting down again.
While settling in against
a clump of tall
brush between a dead tree
and a large low,
sprawling one, I quickly
changed to a skeet
choke. Angle dumped a box
of shells into
my belt pouch and I pushed
4 rounds up the
tube and dropped a 5th
into the receiver.
As the bolt slammed home
I found myself having
trouble keying in on a
single bird since
there were at least 50
in front and that
many more over head coming
or going. Frustration
gave way to a likely double
and I swung with
the pair. At the shot they
both tumbled from
the air and instantly a
similar scenario
availed. Angel called out
"duble"…
"duble"…and then
"duble"
again each time raising
his voice an octave
in playful delight.
I was pushing shells into
the warm Benelli
and heard a screech, screech,
screech coming
on from my right and Angel
hastily repeating
"parakeet, parakeet…shoot"
Having
been told that the South
American parakeet,
which is larger than the
pet store Australian
Budgee, we refer to by
the same name, is
also table fare and an
even more depredating
that the dove, I swung
on the tight fast
moving flock. I shot twice
as I moved through
the bunch. 3 fell at the
first shot and a
4th with the 2nd. Angle
gleefully called
out "triple!"
and then "yes,
yes, yes, yes" as
he punched the counter.
Clay Harvey was 40 yards
to the south, shooting
and hooting and having
a great time. We called
birds for each other occasionally,
not because
there was a lull or any
real need to do so,
but more to share the fun
and or I think
in Clay's case to distract
the other in hopes
of witnessing a miss! With
my Benelli getting
too warm to handle even
with the deer skin
gloves I took a minute
move close to him
to snap a photo. He said
hold on one minute
he shot 3 times and three
birds fell. He
said "Here, get a
picture of this next
one it will be my 400th".
He swung,
I swung, we both shot,
we were both on the
mark so we looked at the
captured moment
on my digital camera and
went back to "work"!
By the time lunch break
was sounded most
of us had gone through
more shells. and shot
more birds, than we would
have in an entire
season at home, even if
we had hunted and
taken limits everyday!
Lunch Break in the Field
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Lunch was a simple affair
of appetizers,
steaks, sausages, salads,
vegetables, fresh
breads, wine, and desert,
served in a well
shaded grassy area on checkered
clothed tables,
adjacent to a lake. Sleeping
mats were rolled
out as an effective digestive
aid, and I
suspect, to keep the still
eager shooters
out of the way while the
crew, who had arrived
after having picked up
around 2100 birds,
grabbed a quick bite to
eat and cleaned the
guns in preparation for
the afternoon shoot.
The afternoon alternated
between, heavy flurries
and blizzards of birds.
We called it a day
a good 45 minutes before
the sun faded, as
much because all the shooters
were worn down
as because it would take
the boys at least
that long to retrieve another
2500 + birds.
We left them to their task
and headed for
the hacienda where tables
spread full of
appetizers and cocktails
would hold us over
until the prime rib and
its full accompaniments
were served. Hot showers,
neck and shoulder
massages and comfortable
beds rounded out
day one.
Day 2 and 3 were repeats
each with several
memorable twists. We shot
one flyway where
the flights of 50 to 150
birds came in waves
from east to west. They
were strung out in
a wide row and stacked
up in a fashion that
with a little planning
allowed one to pick
a low close bird with a
2nd above and behind
in a manner that nearly
always guaranteed
a double, and a quick eye
and careful swing
could with some regularity
result in a triple
or a quad. Angel reported
a quad as a "duble-duble"
and usually intoned it
in a deep tone or
a high falsetto.
Waves of Doves
 |
Other flights within the
waves spread out
in such a way that one
could simply shoot
through a swing in timed
succession quickly
taking 5 shots and successfully
dropping
5 birds. This then left
you to fully reload
while the next flight passed
over head or
to drop in a shell or 2
and take a couple,
more carefully planned
doubles. All the while
the hand counter clicked
and fresh boxes
of shells tumbled into
the pouch.
At one point it occurred
to me that the waves
of birds resembled the
waves of the ocean
as viewed from below. I
fathomed laying in
the shallows on a beach
looking up at the
frothy crest of a wave,
poking my finger
at it, then as quickly
as it passed another
formed, and then another
and another. The
flights of birds were literally
that endless!
Even as expansive as many
of the large grain
fields were it became readily
apparent that
this many birds did indeed
carry off significant
truck loads of grain every
day.
Bounty Shared With Local Families
 |
Several times at different
fields we shot,
local families would show
up as the shooting
progressed and gather patiently
off to the
edges until the shooting
was done. Then on
some signal from our boys
they would join
in the retrieval of the
birds, with children
as young as 5 dragging
feed sacks along gleefully
picking up the tasty morsels
which they were
then allowed to keep. I
also noticed that
as our convoys headed home,
or from one field
to the next, one of the
vans carrying the
boys would stop here and
there and drop off
feed sacks full of birds
to smiling ranchers
and or residents of small
settlements.
As is generally true with
all hunting and
conservation, the benefits
are many, but
it is always satisfying
to see, first hand,
some of the benefit to
the local people especially
those with obvious need
and great appreciation.
By sundown of day three
we had collectively
shot well over 20,000 rounds
and weary bodies
were still disguised behind
huge genuine
smiles. We had added about
1 ton of protein
to the local diets, and
had a fantastic time
doing it. Less often revealed
figures include
that we also collectively
ate at least one
cow, dozens of loaves of
fresh breads, and
a truck load of tasty hourdourves,
besides
consuming "our share"
of notable
Salta wine, usually with
a toast to our good
fortune and our good friends
who would surely
join us on our next visit
to the Dove Fields
of Argentina!
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