They say that ignorance is bliss, and it is, until that bliss is snatched away by the cold, icy hand of reality. In this case, that hand was wielded by a fellow hunter sitting shotgun in an approaching pickup truck. Her smile was as wide as the rack of the giant red stag protruding from the bed behind her, and for a few more wonderful minutes, my smile and the bliss coursing through my body—having two of my own beautiful animals dead on the ground by my feet—was just as prominent.
You see, I’d just accomplished the hunting equivalent of a par 3 hole in one; two of them, back-to-back, as a matter of fact. The stag by my feet was a thing of beauty; heavy, regal and with crowns and points aplenty—everything a hunter could dream of. The blackbuck tucked into the grass behind him, shadowed by the stag’s grandeur, was just as impressive, a giant in his own right. I was standing tall, and rightfully so. Two animals down and all within about 45 minutes of hunting. I was impressed with myself, I won’t lie, and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone all about it. Diana Rupp, as it happened, was primed to be the first of what I anticipated to be a captivated audience to hear the tale of my hunting prowess and the morning I’d just had. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction. But first, I had to do the proper thing and congratulate her on the superb stag she’d also killed. … I may have been about to boast, but I’m not a monster.
I didn’t want to believe it, but even with just a passing glance to the back of the truck, it was undeniable that her stag was bigger than mine. One peg knocked.
When I’d first approached my downed beast, I was sure that no stag could top him, but there it was, unmistakably wider and heavier, and glaring right at me. No matter, I’d still killed the second-biggest stag I’d ever seen, and topped it off with a mature blackbuck, so I shook it off and met Diana with a “congratulations” and an arm stretched out to deliver a hearty handshake as she climbed out of the truck.
“Wow,” I said, as I walked along the side of the truck to get a better look at her trophy and confirm there wasn’t also a big old blackbuck tucked away back there, “What a stag!” And it was, I couldn’t deny it. If my stag was huge, Diana’s stag was downright enormous.
No matter, Diana had seen my stag on the ground and reciprocated the congratulations. And then she saw the blackbuck. Her eyes wide, she said the magic words, and I was once again on cloud nine.
“And a blackbuck! Tell me what happened!”
And so I did.
“It was awesome,” I said, “We’d only been out of the truck and walking for about 15 minutes when we spotted the herd of blackbuck. They were tucked into this little draw, about 200 yards or so out, and milling around in the weeds and brush. Pretty sure they winded us, though, because they got spooky quick. So we backed off and made a wide circle to the left. We eventually hit an old two-track, and we were pretty sure the herd was up ahead somewhere, so we just tucked back into the woodline to wait them out. The wind was in our favor—if they were going to come our way, we would be okay. Well, wouldn’t you know it, about 10 minutes later we could hear them in the distance and see a cloud of dust rising just beyond the bend of the two-track. A few more minutes passed and there they were, coming down the path toward us. I was on the sticks, but I couldn’t make out a lone ram in the big group; there were just too many of them, like a herd of sheep. They were about 120, no, 150 yards out, and all bunched up. Eventually, we spotted this guy toward the front and, even though there was a language barrier between the guide and me, we eventually agreed he was one of the bigger boys in the pack. We watched for a while hoping he would separate, and when he pushed to the right side of the pack it was go-time. There were still a few other animals around him, so I just had to wait till I got a clear shot. It seemed like it was never going to happen, then all of the sudden, he separated a bit and I saw my window. He was facing toward me, so I hesitated, hoping he’d turn broadside. He didn’t. But I had a steady rest, and he was going to get swallowed by the group again at any moment, so I took the shot, front on.”
I took a breath and continued: “A blackbuck’s chest is a darn small target, but we could hear the hit. Of course, he disappeared in a cloud of dust and blackbuck as the herd took off back into the treeline. When the dust cleared the scene was empty. Felt like a good hit, though, so we went on over there, and bam, there he was, dead, just a few feet into the bush. That .300 nearly blew his entire chest out.”
“That’s awesome!” said Diana. He’s a beaut’.”
“So we dressed him out real quick, and I thought that was going to be the end of our morning hunt and we’d be heading back to the ranch house, but the guide stashed the buck in the weeds along the two-track, broke a branch in the tree above it to mark the location and motioned for me to follow him back into the woods.”
Diana was eating it up, and I was loving every minute of it.
“I swear, Diana, it wasn’t 10 minutes later, slowly stalking through this bramble and patchy brush area, and I could hear something coming our way. I tapped the guide on the shoulder to get his attention, cupped my ear and pointed toward the sound. He listened for a moment, and then bam, this huge stag along with four of his lady friends appeared about 80 yards out, heading right for us.
“I knew instantly that he was a shooter, so I motioned for the sticks. There were staggered but heavy thickets through there, and I didn’t have a clear shot, but this guy just kept coming. I swear he was only 40 yards out when he hit a little clearing, and I didn’t hesitate. I put one right in his chest. He started to spin circles, so I hit him two more times and he dropped.”
“Oh man, that’s incredible. He’s gorgeous,” she exclaimed.
“I couldn’t believe it. It all happened so fast. Two huge animals in about 45 minutes of hunting, no more than 15 minutes apart! What are the odds?”
She was happy for me, of that I was sure. And I was proud to tell the tale. But of course, she had her own giant stag story to tell, so I prodded her for it.
“Tell me about yours,” I said. “I can’t believe we both shot huge stags on the first morning of the first day! Talk about luck!”
“Well,” she said, “that’s high-fence hunting for you. ...”
“Wait, what?” I said, with a whimpering chuckle. “What do you mean, high fence?”
“This,” she said, motioning with her arms to the surrounding countryside.
“This?” I responded. “This is the high-fence area?”
And then she started to laugh. “Yes, I thought it was obvious when we drove through that big fence, Jon. What did you think the fence was for?”
The smile from my face had changed from pride to embarrassment.
“I don’t know, I thought we were leaving the high-fence area around the ranch and heading into the open range.”
“Nope. Definelty high fence.”
“Well damn,” I said, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she replied, patting me on the back.
“Well crap, so much for being the world’s greatest hunter.”
At that Diana burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but laugh right along with her. We laughed hard and long, tears streaming down both our dust-covered faces.
I’d never hunted high fence before, other than in South Africa, so the thought didn’t even cross my mind. For about an hour, though, until Diana showed up to crush my dreams, I was in ignorant bliss as the world’s greatest hunter, and it was good.
In my defense, I’d been invited on this Argentina dream hunt with GBH Safaris in the La Pampa province as a guest of Benelli USA, to put to the test the Benelli Ethos Cordoba BE.S.T. shotgun and a new version of the company’s Lupo bolt-action rifle, a beautiful walnut-stocked .300 Win. Mag., and having hunted free-range stag in Argentina a few years prior, I just assumed I’d be hunting free-range again. I suppose it was mentioned, it must have been, but I figure I was so excited about the hunt that it didn’t register completely. Oh well, it was still an incredible experience, and the laughs it provided to Diana and the rest of the group that evening were just as satisfying as the shock and awe I was originally hoping for. I am a storyteller, after all, forever seeking a captivated audience, and my blissful ignorance made for one heck of a funny story to tell. Those are always the best, anyway.
Some folks cringe at the thought of high-fence hunting. I have never been one of them. Sure, there may be a bit more pride found on a successful open-range hunt, but I can justify the hunt either way. Or rather, I’ve never felt a need to justify either way of hunting, to anyone. I’ve always taken the “when in Rome” approach to my outdoor pursuits. Whether it’s 1,000 acres in Argentina, a 100,000-acre game farm in South Africa, or an 80,000-acre ranch in Texas, hunting behind a fence has never bothered me one bit. Heck, even 90 percent of the places I hunt in Virginia can be considered “fenced” if we are being honest with ourselves, because a highway has about the same effect on white-tailed deer as a fence does.
In today’s world of concrete jungles, desk jobs, fast clocks and soaring inflation, I’ve always just considered myself lucky to hunt at all, wherever the call, whatever the method. I was certainly lucky to be hunting in Argentina, and it was about to get even better.
Tagging out on big game early has its advantages. In this case, we still had four days to hunt, so while some in the group were still chasing big-game animals, I was able to focus on the mourning doves, pigeons and parakeets. Numerous, free-range, challenging and, more importantly, devoid of the stateside bag limits that put an end to the fun when it’s just getting good, wingshooting in Argentina is just as wonderful as everyone says it is—it’s downright heavenly.
Armed with a 20-gauge Benelli Ethos Cordoba shotgun, sunglasses, shooting gloves and a case of No. 5’s, I spent the first afternoon spinning in circles and delivering a master class on how to miss birds from my hunkered position behind a bush on the side of a dirt road that seperated vast sunflower fields about 1,000 yards from the lodge. I connected on plenty and missed plenty more. But that’s what the first day of an Argentina dove shoot is all about—learning or recalling how to shoot doves. And with 100,000 birds coming at you from 360 degrees, the lessons are fast, frustrating at times and don’t stop until you’ve had enough or run out of shells. It’s a good thing the truck drove by periodically to resupply us with shells, and that I can never get enough dove shooting.
By the end of that first evening, the hits became more frequent than the misses, and I was starting to get a good feel for leads and that soft-shooting Cordoba shotgun. By the end of day two, I was picking my shots and dropping birds with confidence and joy. I even managed a triple or two. On the third day, while some of our group had opted for a bit of fishing, I again took to the dove fields, this time promoting myself to upper-level classes. I’d spend an hour mastering one shot, and then the next hour another. Left-to-right crossers, incomers, right-to-left, outbound, high overhead … they were all there, all the time. It’s a classroom with a learn-by-doing lesson plan. If you’ve got the right-to-left figured out, but the hard-angled left-to-right birds are giving you trouble, an Argentina dove hunt provides the bird numbers, shells and time to dial it in. And doing so is incredibly rewarding. As I like to tell folks, Argentina is a place where you can show up a novice dove shooter and leave a week later as a veteran, complete with the bruised shoulder to prove it. Thankfully, though, bruises heal and eventually the memory of incredible hunting fades enough to justify a return trip.
The final evening of our adventure consisted of good friends old and new, lounging in the grass underneath the late-March sun sipping hot mate (a local herbal tea served in a specialized dried gourd cup and drank through a metal straw), sharing stories of the past, present and future, the way hunting camps have ended for thousands of years. That, and one last hoorah with the doves, of course. Rather than trek out to the fields again, we waited until late in the afternoon, when the birds looked like swarms of bees as they traded from the trees to the fields and took up positions along the fence line in the back of the ranch. Along with GHB Safaris owner, Germann Brandazza (pronounced her-MAHN), and a pair of his young relatives who made sure we never ran out of shells or cold drinks over the course of the week, we laughed, we emptied half-shot boxes of shells, and we cleaned up our fair share of doves, pigeons and parakeets as the house dogs had a field day retrieving our success. We waited for the good ones, stretched our shots out for a little competition and made the most of our time before the sun finally disappeared below the horizon. It was indeed heavenly bliss.
Border-Crossing Benellis
I traveled with two firearms on this trip: Benelli’s Ethos Cordoba BE.S.T. shotgun and the BE.S.T. Lupo Walnut bolt-action rifle. Both have since become guns I plan to own.
The Lupo (Italian for wolf) is an incredible design—leave it to the Italians—and its chassis-type barreled action and supreme ergonomics promote intuitive accuracy. Yes, it has the lines of a Lamborghini Countach, which some may balk at, but like the Countach, there’s no denying its performance and the feeling you get behind the wheel. The Walnut stocks are about as pretty as they come—especially good-looking paired with the slate gray and black of the receiver and barrel—and even though the user gives up the soft-touch cheek pad of the Lupo’s camo versions, the slightly raised walnut comb snugs up tight to create an ideal sight picture, and the Progressive Comfort recoil system takes all the bite out of this wolf’s bark. MSRP: $2,299
Designed purposefully to handle days of high-volume dove shooting in Argentina, Benelli’s Ethos Cordoba BE.S.T. shotgun is arguably my favorite semi-auto shotgun of modern times, especially in 20-gauge. Having used it to hunt everything from ducks to doves, I can tell you that it’s soft-shooting, rugged, ergonomically perfect and as reliable as they come. An inertia-driven shotgun, the Ethos Cordoba will cycle any load you feed it from 2¾-inch dove loads to 3-inch duck loads, and it won’t gunk up or slow down with debris and powder residue like a gas gun. It sports a ported, 28-inch barrel to help keep the muzzle down when triples are on the menu, and it has a sliver of a window built into the fore-end to let you see how many shells you still have loaded in the magazine tube. MSRP: $2,549
Both guns wear Benelli’s proprietary BE.S.T. (Benelli Surface Treatment) metal treatment that protects these parts from wear and tear as well as weather. It’s diamond-hard and hurricane proof, literally. Upon Benelli’s invitation, I’ve taken a pocketknife to these barrels with no visible scratches. As for rust protection, I know for a fact that BE.S.T. treated components have spent months submerged in the brackish waters of the Chesapeake Bay and have come out needing only a wipe down. benelliusa.com
