The red stag roar is one of the most amazing and unforgettable sounds of nature. When three or four of the big deer are challenging each other at first light and within a hundred yards, the effect is is absolutely primeval. Rocket and I stood motionless in the predawn darkness tensely feeling the wind to determine an approach and likely path of the animals. As usual when among these magnificent animals, some ancient instinct had adrenalin coursing through every capillary of my body. Testing the breeze, Rocket pointed silently with his hand and we took off to try and get ahead of the contestants as they and their hinds drifted invisibly into it. Conditions, such as moist leaves and damp ground from recent rains, aided us in our sprint to circle them.
As we again turned toward the deer, a particularly deep roar and series of grunts announced a potentially good stag's presence perhaps fifty yards ahead where the terrain fell away into a depression. Rocket set the sticks, and I made certain the scope was set at a low power on the Ruger .300 Win Mag as I eased the rifle into firing position. The sky was getting lighter, but actual sunrise was still nearly a half hour away.
Perhaps forty yards toward that dawn sky, a hind seemingly materialized from the ground, and then several others. They stared in every direction as yet another series of deep grunts rose from just beyond the fold. We were barely into the first hour of the hunt, but as a heavy somewhat palmate 6x6 rack began to emerge, it was clear that we would have to make a tough first morning decision and do it very quickly.
I first went to Argentina in 2005 to shoot doves in Cordoba with @MG Hunting. There, under clouds of birds and over thick steaks and deep red Malbec, I first became acquainted with Rocket and the the Gil family. I also fell in love with the country. Over the ensuing two decades, Pedro, Manuel, Augustin, and Rocket have become people whom I consider real friends. With them, I have hunted waterfowl, perdiz, doves, and of course, Argentina's magnificent red stag. Three years ago, I decided it was time to schedule another stag hunt for my son and me. Soon thereafter, Ben, the son of my oldest living friend signed a contract to come along as well. I decided to add one of the huge buffalo that inhabit the area as a potential optional animal. Normally the lovely Mrs. Red Leg likes to accompany me to Argentina - Buenos Aires is a wonderful city - but this time it would just be the three of us.
Due to the TSA/DHS nonsense, travel had the potential to be problematic trying to get out of the country. Fortunately, the long lines that had greeted people at Austin-Bergstrom earlier in the week had abated, and we breezed through check-in and security. Houston was also as about as easy as Houston can be (which means slightly better than O'Hare on mutually good days). We were soon on the long ten-hour flight to Buenos Aires. There, MG had a van awaiting us to take us to the domestic airport for the short flight to Santa Rosa in La Pampa.
La Pampa is big country of slightly undulating rises and views of dozens, probably hundreds, of square miles from any slight rise. Most of the ground is covered in scrub dominated by groves of Caldén trees that play the same role there as the Acacia in the Namibian grasslands or oaks in the South Texas plains where King Ranch is located. It is cattle, buffalo, and red stag country.
Three Toyota Hilux trucks awaited us and the other hunters who would be sharing camp as we exited the small terminal. Latin hugs all around and we were soon on our way to the lodge. Over drinks and glasses of Malbec, everyone quickly became acquainted, and it was really good to catch up with now old friends. There were eight of us in camp, and no one had any difficulty getting to bed in the comfortable lodge following a typically huge Argentine meal. Wake-up would be at 0515.
Following an early predawn breakfast of bacon and eggs and very black Argentine coffee - trucks, guides and clients headed off into the darkness. As we were loading up, three or four stags could be heard roaring within long bowshot of the lodge. Several miles from camp, Rocket and I dropped my son and his guide off next to a huge section allotted for their morning hunt. Rocket and I continued on for another quarter hour and were soon attempting to close on what sounded to be a large mature stag.
I have never actually followed the old hunting advice of never pass on day one an animal you would shoot on the last day of the hunt, Most of the time, that rolling of the dice has worked out in my favor. However, this morning I was hunting free range animals and the 7x6 antlers seemingly rising from the earth as the bull joined his hinds were exceptional. He was far larger than anything Rocket and I had seen during my previous stag hunt there three years before. Locked onto the beast over the sticks, I glanced at Rocket as he looked at me. In his gravely voice he finally whispered, "Joe, we can not pass on this stag." I immediately returned to the scope, and the moment the animal paused, I launched a 180 gr AccuBond that dropped the magnificent bull in his tracks. With the animal still struggling slightly, Rocket almost gently slid his "Cuchillo Criollo" blade into the animal behind the foreleg.
Far larger animals are taken on the huge fenced estates of New Zealand, and even the high fenced ranches of Texas. But for a truly free range animal, I could not have been more pleased.
After taking a fine animal in the first thirty minutes into the first morning's hunt, the question now was what to do with all of our remaining time. Upon arriving back at the lodge, a quick discussion with Manuel achieved a very fair agreement adding a second stag to my permit list.
That afternoon, Ben also collected an excellent 6x6. That morning, he and his guide had seen several good animals, one of which that stood and stared at them for what seemed like half an hour. On the sticks, he twice he whispered to his guide if he should shoot. Both times the young Argentine smiled, shook his head and whispered back, "no grande." To quote Ben at lunch, he looked pretty "fricking grande" to him.
On day one, my son and his guide had seen several stags, but nothing that worth taking so early in the week.
An hour into the afternoon hunt, Ben and his guide took a nice 6x6. Always trust your guide.
On day two, we were off again very early. Rocket and I closed on a couple of animals in the morning, but though fine stags, they would not score nearly as well as the first morning's bull. With one in the skinning shed, we had plenty of time to be picky - or should have had.
That afternoon was warm, nearly hot, and the bulls were much quieter than in the cool early morning. At the second stop along one of those forever firebreaks that exist in wide open country in many places in the world, we heard a couple of faint deep grunts well into the surrounding scrub. With no better options, Rocket grabbed his call, 10 inches of grey conduit pipe, and we drifted into the thick stuff. After a couple of hundred yards, he judged we had gone far enough and gave two mournful calls followed by a series of grunts. We crept forward another 30 or 40 yards and he repeated the sequence.
Almost immediately, a flicker of movement caught our eyes and Rocket slowly set the sticks should they be needed. We caught a glimpse of one lovely six-point antler, before the stag turned to move off. We had no opportunity to assess the full rack. We then crept to the right perhaps twenty yards, and suddenly the flicker of movement returned headed toward us. Clearly the stag heard our movement and no doubt though we were the bull intruding on his territory that he had heard moments before. I was in thick stuff while Rocket judged the animal. Suddenly, he firmly set the sticks and stepped to the side.
Rocket and I have hunted a lot of days together, and normally do not require a lot of discussion between us. To me this was clearly the signal to shoot. I eased up onto the sticks. gently released the safety, and promptly discovered I had no clear shot. The big deer was only 35 or 40 yards away, so I quietly side stepped behind Rocket, stepped up to his right shoulder, went to standing unsupported and drilled the big bull. He was quartering toward us and collapsed on the spot.
Before going to check out our animal, I unfortunately had to wait for my PH to return from low orbit where the unexpected blast of a .300 had sent him. My interpretation of his intent and confidence in our nonverbals had been somewhat misplaced. He had been still trying to get a clear look at the offside antler. The firm stick placement was to insure that they did not move while he carefully used his binoculars. Well, we had plenty of time to study that antler now, and quickly concluded we had taken a beautiful stag with exceptionally long tines.
Ben had followed up his first day's success with a morning duck walking and crawling tryin to get into something approaching reasonable range of the large blackbuck herds populating the area. Eventually everything came together he dropped a super blackbuck by the standards of any country or continent where one might be found today. My son continued to look for a really special red stag. As for as Rocket and me - it was time to find a buffalo. Tagged out, Ben decided to come along.
It is probably worth digressing a moment to sort out Argentina's buffalo, around which there are a number of different misconceptions. Other than size, they are quite a bit different than the typical Asiatic species that is also found in Australia. One very sensible reason for this is that the South American buffalo, though a true water buffalo, is not very Asian. It is European - the Mediterranean subspecies to be precise. Just a bit of research will quickly demonstrate a lot of debate about its origin. One theory suggests that the Mediterranean species is not Asian at all but is descended from an extinct river buffalo that inhabited what is now Central Europe in the late Pleistocene. If true, they were likely first domesticated by the Romans sometime between the second and fourth centuries. This would explain the rather large number still on Italian farms today. Others believe that the species originated in India and found its way to the Mediterranean basin during the Arab conquests.
Whatever the truth, they were initially brought into Brazil from Italy in the late 19th century and Argentina in the 1940's. They did extremely well in marginal cattle country and wild populations quickly spread across much of the continent.
Having hunted a few cape buffalo, and having been around hundreds, I concluded with some confidence that the bulls are big - really big. I would guess 20-25% bigger than a cape buffalo. They are also taller at the shoulder making them look even bigger. In part perhaps because they have no lions chasing them from birth, they are not as aggressive as their African cousins. However, the President of the Mexican Hunting Federation was killed by one in Argentina during a follow-up in October of 2022. I should also note that despite perfect wind and cover, I never looked at one through the binos that wasn't also looking at me. They were very alert, and we were careful.
Our hunt began in the morning. Somewhat like Africa, we drove tracks through the brush looking for bulls and recent sign. We initially spotted a bull with a cow and her calf. A quick look and Rocket decided to list him as a maybe. In spite of our cover, it was somewhat humorous to note that the bull, cow, and even the calf were locked on our location. We eventually came upon a firebreak which had a cattle watering point at one end. Easing up to it, we spotted a number of big black animals five or six hundred yards up the cleared ground. We crept through the thick brush and carefully peered out between the branches. No longer browsing, the nine or ten animals had gathered into a tight group and all were staring directly at us. There were a couple of marginal bulls in the group, but not what we were seeking. Growing tired of the stare down, they turned and unhurriedly walked away.
By the way, the photo below was taken at 200 to 250 yards with the new iPhone 17 Pro Max. Not so long ago I carried 20 lbs of very high end Nikon SLR equipment to achieve this clarity at that distance. Simply amazing technology.
Earlier in the morning, we had glimpsed a single animal nearly a kilometer away along a cattle fence line. The fences somewhat contain a group in one of the large pastures until they are ready to move on. Then, they simply march over and through a section of fence. They are not popular with the cattlemen. We decided to see if we could regain contact with this probable bull and get a close look at him.
Driving back to the spot where we had spotted him, I was surprised to see him stoically standing in exactly the same spot. Rocket backed out and drove the truck in a large loop so that we could approach with good wind. As we stopped the truck the bull was visible only two or three hundred yards away. Rocket whispered " Muy Grande!" I should note at this point, we were at close to squad strength. Along with Ben, we also had two or three of the skinning shed team. In short we were not difficult for the old bull to spot. We Indian filed to a thick scrub of a tree that was the last cover perhaps 70 yards from the animal. Up went the sticks. It was at this point that I decided to violate my principle rule as a client.
As I have noted, even harped about on this site numerous times, we as clients have only one job during a dangerous game hunt. We must put the first bullet in exactly the right spot. Do that and the hunt ends well with toasts awaiting back at camp. My loner rifle was a perfectly balanced custom .375 built on an Argentine Mauser action. I had the scope at a lower power setting, and the chamber and magazine were stoked with 300 gr TSX bullets. What I apparently had left back in camp was patience.
As I came up on the sticks the bull started to run. Rather than wisely letting him go and regaining contact that afternoon or the next day, I was overcome with really wanting the huge old animal. Besides, he looked like a medium sized out building moving left to right across my front. I was pretty sure I could hit him. The first shot was swinging off the sticks. Through the scope, I could see him falter a little in stride. Stepping away from them, I followed him in a shallow arc and fired again at about hundred yards as quartered away headed into the brush. The recoil from an unsupported shot made it impossible to see any reaction. He had not been out of sight for more than five seconds before I was kicking myself for blatant stupidity.
We found no blood at either location where I fired. However, I was sure the first shot hit, and Rocket, Ben, and our best tracker from the skinning shed were confident about the second. So, we took up the trail. The ground was still soft from the rains, and we were able to stay with it in the fairly open brush. Rocket and the tracker even caught a glimpse of him once. But after an hour or so and four or five hundred yards, the bull entered very dense scrub combined with very thick grass cover. We had lost the trail. We decided to pull out, give him time and return in platoon strength in the afternoon. That would also provide me time to further review what an idiot I was.
We were back out with a half dozen others a mid afternoon. We had five people actively searching while Rocket and I were set up covering a miles long firebreak should the animal be pushed. After three hours or so, the only thing we had found was a set of tracks that looked like a bull with a bad leg. Every few steps, a bit of dirt was being tossed forward of the track. This spoor seemed to be headed in the general direction of the area where we had looked over the small herd. With darkness approaching, we decided to pull out and try again in the morning. As you can imagine, I was not the best dinner company.
As we prepared to head out again the next morning, I expressed my dreary conclusion that the big bull was probably well on his way to Bolivia. Rocket looked at me, and sounding like a a more earthy version of the old fellow in the old Dos Equis commercials, he growled, "We will find the bull. You will kill him. And I will hold his head in my hands." He should have been born a First Sergeant. Pedro joined us on an ATV to cover more ground.
We started out in the new territory first. We saw the bull with the cow and the calf. We then saw the small herd and no wounded animal had joined them. We saw no hint of the wounded bull. Around nine-thirty we held a council of war. We concluded that if I had missed, we would have seen him at some point. If he was lightly wounded he almost certainly would have broken cover at some point. Therefore, he must be down and somewhere in the area where I had originally shot. We gathered our crew, and headed back. After casting out our searchers, Rocket, Ben, and I took up our overwatch position overlooking the long firebreak.
Perhaps an hour elapsed when Ben heard shouting in the distance. A moment later the radio crackled. "Él está aquí, está muerto!" Assuming it wasn't one of our trackers who was muerto, I said a very heartfelt prayer of thanks. We soon all gathered at the bull. He had gone perhaps another four or five hundred yards from where we lost the track. I felt very bad for the ancient old fellow. He deserved a cleaner death.
My first shot was a worse than I had expected - nothing but an ugly gut wound. The second, landing only a few inches away, was far better. He was angled away on that one, and it almost certainly hit the liver and likely the rear of the left lung. There was blood on his nostrils. At least I did not have to try to hit him yet again, and Rocket kept his promise with the head. I was far better dinner company that evening.
Meanwhile my son and his guide continued to pile on miles and miles trying to find the right stag. A perfectly centered unseen branch foiled one attempt. Finally, on the last morning, with Rocket along to provide an assist, he connected on the largest animal taken during the week. He had earned it.
We were soon on our way back to Buenos Aires, for a bit of shopping for the girls - the leather goods are extraordinary - and more great beef and wine. I'll leave out the trip home - a cruise ship had disgorged in BA and every seat on the 777 to include the toilets were taken. @MG Hunting is one of our sponsors here. I can not more highly recommend an outfitter or destination for a foreign adventure outside Africa. If you have never heard the roar, you owe it to yourself to do so at least once.
As we again turned toward the deer, a particularly deep roar and series of grunts announced a potentially good stag's presence perhaps fifty yards ahead where the terrain fell away into a depression. Rocket set the sticks, and I made certain the scope was set at a low power on the Ruger .300 Win Mag as I eased the rifle into firing position. The sky was getting lighter, but actual sunrise was still nearly a half hour away.
Perhaps forty yards toward that dawn sky, a hind seemingly materialized from the ground, and then several others. They stared in every direction as yet another series of deep grunts rose from just beyond the fold. We were barely into the first hour of the hunt, but as a heavy somewhat palmate 6x6 rack began to emerge, it was clear that we would have to make a tough first morning decision and do it very quickly.
I first went to Argentina in 2005 to shoot doves in Cordoba with @MG Hunting. There, under clouds of birds and over thick steaks and deep red Malbec, I first became acquainted with Rocket and the the Gil family. I also fell in love with the country. Over the ensuing two decades, Pedro, Manuel, Augustin, and Rocket have become people whom I consider real friends. With them, I have hunted waterfowl, perdiz, doves, and of course, Argentina's magnificent red stag. Three years ago, I decided it was time to schedule another stag hunt for my son and me. Soon thereafter, Ben, the son of my oldest living friend signed a contract to come along as well. I decided to add one of the huge buffalo that inhabit the area as a potential optional animal. Normally the lovely Mrs. Red Leg likes to accompany me to Argentina - Buenos Aires is a wonderful city - but this time it would just be the three of us.
Due to the TSA/DHS nonsense, travel had the potential to be problematic trying to get out of the country. Fortunately, the long lines that had greeted people at Austin-Bergstrom earlier in the week had abated, and we breezed through check-in and security. Houston was also as about as easy as Houston can be (which means slightly better than O'Hare on mutually good days). We were soon on the long ten-hour flight to Buenos Aires. There, MG had a van awaiting us to take us to the domestic airport for the short flight to Santa Rosa in La Pampa.
La Pampa is big country of slightly undulating rises and views of dozens, probably hundreds, of square miles from any slight rise. Most of the ground is covered in scrub dominated by groves of Caldén trees that play the same role there as the Acacia in the Namibian grasslands or oaks in the South Texas plains where King Ranch is located. It is cattle, buffalo, and red stag country.
Three Toyota Hilux trucks awaited us and the other hunters who would be sharing camp as we exited the small terminal. Latin hugs all around and we were soon on our way to the lodge. Over drinks and glasses of Malbec, everyone quickly became acquainted, and it was really good to catch up with now old friends. There were eight of us in camp, and no one had any difficulty getting to bed in the comfortable lodge following a typically huge Argentine meal. Wake-up would be at 0515.
Following an early predawn breakfast of bacon and eggs and very black Argentine coffee - trucks, guides and clients headed off into the darkness. As we were loading up, three or four stags could be heard roaring within long bowshot of the lodge. Several miles from camp, Rocket and I dropped my son and his guide off next to a huge section allotted for their morning hunt. Rocket and I continued on for another quarter hour and were soon attempting to close on what sounded to be a large mature stag.
I have never actually followed the old hunting advice of never pass on day one an animal you would shoot on the last day of the hunt, Most of the time, that rolling of the dice has worked out in my favor. However, this morning I was hunting free range animals and the 7x6 antlers seemingly rising from the earth as the bull joined his hinds were exceptional. He was far larger than anything Rocket and I had seen during my previous stag hunt there three years before. Locked onto the beast over the sticks, I glanced at Rocket as he looked at me. In his gravely voice he finally whispered, "Joe, we can not pass on this stag." I immediately returned to the scope, and the moment the animal paused, I launched a 180 gr AccuBond that dropped the magnificent bull in his tracks. With the animal still struggling slightly, Rocket almost gently slid his "Cuchillo Criollo" blade into the animal behind the foreleg.
Far larger animals are taken on the huge fenced estates of New Zealand, and even the high fenced ranches of Texas. But for a truly free range animal, I could not have been more pleased.
After taking a fine animal in the first thirty minutes into the first morning's hunt, the question now was what to do with all of our remaining time. Upon arriving back at the lodge, a quick discussion with Manuel achieved a very fair agreement adding a second stag to my permit list.
That afternoon, Ben also collected an excellent 6x6. That morning, he and his guide had seen several good animals, one of which that stood and stared at them for what seemed like half an hour. On the sticks, he twice he whispered to his guide if he should shoot. Both times the young Argentine smiled, shook his head and whispered back, "no grande." To quote Ben at lunch, he looked pretty "fricking grande" to him.
On day one, my son and his guide had seen several stags, but nothing that worth taking so early in the week.
An hour into the afternoon hunt, Ben and his guide took a nice 6x6. Always trust your guide.
On day two, we were off again very early. Rocket and I closed on a couple of animals in the morning, but though fine stags, they would not score nearly as well as the first morning's bull. With one in the skinning shed, we had plenty of time to be picky - or should have had.
That afternoon was warm, nearly hot, and the bulls were much quieter than in the cool early morning. At the second stop along one of those forever firebreaks that exist in wide open country in many places in the world, we heard a couple of faint deep grunts well into the surrounding scrub. With no better options, Rocket grabbed his call, 10 inches of grey conduit pipe, and we drifted into the thick stuff. After a couple of hundred yards, he judged we had gone far enough and gave two mournful calls followed by a series of grunts. We crept forward another 30 or 40 yards and he repeated the sequence.
Almost immediately, a flicker of movement caught our eyes and Rocket slowly set the sticks should they be needed. We caught a glimpse of one lovely six-point antler, before the stag turned to move off. We had no opportunity to assess the full rack. We then crept to the right perhaps twenty yards, and suddenly the flicker of movement returned headed toward us. Clearly the stag heard our movement and no doubt though we were the bull intruding on his territory that he had heard moments before. I was in thick stuff while Rocket judged the animal. Suddenly, he firmly set the sticks and stepped to the side.
Rocket and I have hunted a lot of days together, and normally do not require a lot of discussion between us. To me this was clearly the signal to shoot. I eased up onto the sticks. gently released the safety, and promptly discovered I had no clear shot. The big deer was only 35 or 40 yards away, so I quietly side stepped behind Rocket, stepped up to his right shoulder, went to standing unsupported and drilled the big bull. He was quartering toward us and collapsed on the spot.
Before going to check out our animal, I unfortunately had to wait for my PH to return from low orbit where the unexpected blast of a .300 had sent him. My interpretation of his intent and confidence in our nonverbals had been somewhat misplaced. He had been still trying to get a clear look at the offside antler. The firm stick placement was to insure that they did not move while he carefully used his binoculars. Well, we had plenty of time to study that antler now, and quickly concluded we had taken a beautiful stag with exceptionally long tines.
Ben had followed up his first day's success with a morning duck walking and crawling tryin to get into something approaching reasonable range of the large blackbuck herds populating the area. Eventually everything came together he dropped a super blackbuck by the standards of any country or continent where one might be found today. My son continued to look for a really special red stag. As for as Rocket and me - it was time to find a buffalo. Tagged out, Ben decided to come along.
It is probably worth digressing a moment to sort out Argentina's buffalo, around which there are a number of different misconceptions. Other than size, they are quite a bit different than the typical Asiatic species that is also found in Australia. One very sensible reason for this is that the South American buffalo, though a true water buffalo, is not very Asian. It is European - the Mediterranean subspecies to be precise. Just a bit of research will quickly demonstrate a lot of debate about its origin. One theory suggests that the Mediterranean species is not Asian at all but is descended from an extinct river buffalo that inhabited what is now Central Europe in the late Pleistocene. If true, they were likely first domesticated by the Romans sometime between the second and fourth centuries. This would explain the rather large number still on Italian farms today. Others believe that the species originated in India and found its way to the Mediterranean basin during the Arab conquests.
Whatever the truth, they were initially brought into Brazil from Italy in the late 19th century and Argentina in the 1940's. They did extremely well in marginal cattle country and wild populations quickly spread across much of the continent.
Having hunted a few cape buffalo, and having been around hundreds, I concluded with some confidence that the bulls are big - really big. I would guess 20-25% bigger than a cape buffalo. They are also taller at the shoulder making them look even bigger. In part perhaps because they have no lions chasing them from birth, they are not as aggressive as their African cousins. However, the President of the Mexican Hunting Federation was killed by one in Argentina during a follow-up in October of 2022. I should also note that despite perfect wind and cover, I never looked at one through the binos that wasn't also looking at me. They were very alert, and we were careful.
Our hunt began in the morning. Somewhat like Africa, we drove tracks through the brush looking for bulls and recent sign. We initially spotted a bull with a cow and her calf. A quick look and Rocket decided to list him as a maybe. In spite of our cover, it was somewhat humorous to note that the bull, cow, and even the calf were locked on our location. We eventually came upon a firebreak which had a cattle watering point at one end. Easing up to it, we spotted a number of big black animals five or six hundred yards up the cleared ground. We crept through the thick brush and carefully peered out between the branches. No longer browsing, the nine or ten animals had gathered into a tight group and all were staring directly at us. There were a couple of marginal bulls in the group, but not what we were seeking. Growing tired of the stare down, they turned and unhurriedly walked away.
By the way, the photo below was taken at 200 to 250 yards with the new iPhone 17 Pro Max. Not so long ago I carried 20 lbs of very high end Nikon SLR equipment to achieve this clarity at that distance. Simply amazing technology.
Earlier in the morning, we had glimpsed a single animal nearly a kilometer away along a cattle fence line. The fences somewhat contain a group in one of the large pastures until they are ready to move on. Then, they simply march over and through a section of fence. They are not popular with the cattlemen. We decided to see if we could regain contact with this probable bull and get a close look at him.
Driving back to the spot where we had spotted him, I was surprised to see him stoically standing in exactly the same spot. Rocket backed out and drove the truck in a large loop so that we could approach with good wind. As we stopped the truck the bull was visible only two or three hundred yards away. Rocket whispered " Muy Grande!" I should note at this point, we were at close to squad strength. Along with Ben, we also had two or three of the skinning shed team. In short we were not difficult for the old bull to spot. We Indian filed to a thick scrub of a tree that was the last cover perhaps 70 yards from the animal. Up went the sticks. It was at this point that I decided to violate my principle rule as a client.
As I have noted, even harped about on this site numerous times, we as clients have only one job during a dangerous game hunt. We must put the first bullet in exactly the right spot. Do that and the hunt ends well with toasts awaiting back at camp. My loner rifle was a perfectly balanced custom .375 built on an Argentine Mauser action. I had the scope at a lower power setting, and the chamber and magazine were stoked with 300 gr TSX bullets. What I apparently had left back in camp was patience.
As I came up on the sticks the bull started to run. Rather than wisely letting him go and regaining contact that afternoon or the next day, I was overcome with really wanting the huge old animal. Besides, he looked like a medium sized out building moving left to right across my front. I was pretty sure I could hit him. The first shot was swinging off the sticks. Through the scope, I could see him falter a little in stride. Stepping away from them, I followed him in a shallow arc and fired again at about hundred yards as quartered away headed into the brush. The recoil from an unsupported shot made it impossible to see any reaction. He had not been out of sight for more than five seconds before I was kicking myself for blatant stupidity.
We found no blood at either location where I fired. However, I was sure the first shot hit, and Rocket, Ben, and our best tracker from the skinning shed were confident about the second. So, we took up the trail. The ground was still soft from the rains, and we were able to stay with it in the fairly open brush. Rocket and the tracker even caught a glimpse of him once. But after an hour or so and four or five hundred yards, the bull entered very dense scrub combined with very thick grass cover. We had lost the trail. We decided to pull out, give him time and return in platoon strength in the afternoon. That would also provide me time to further review what an idiot I was.
We were back out with a half dozen others a mid afternoon. We had five people actively searching while Rocket and I were set up covering a miles long firebreak should the animal be pushed. After three hours or so, the only thing we had found was a set of tracks that looked like a bull with a bad leg. Every few steps, a bit of dirt was being tossed forward of the track. This spoor seemed to be headed in the general direction of the area where we had looked over the small herd. With darkness approaching, we decided to pull out and try again in the morning. As you can imagine, I was not the best dinner company.
As we prepared to head out again the next morning, I expressed my dreary conclusion that the big bull was probably well on his way to Bolivia. Rocket looked at me, and sounding like a a more earthy version of the old fellow in the old Dos Equis commercials, he growled, "We will find the bull. You will kill him. And I will hold his head in my hands." He should have been born a First Sergeant. Pedro joined us on an ATV to cover more ground.
We started out in the new territory first. We saw the bull with the cow and the calf. We then saw the small herd and no wounded animal had joined them. We saw no hint of the wounded bull. Around nine-thirty we held a council of war. We concluded that if I had missed, we would have seen him at some point. If he was lightly wounded he almost certainly would have broken cover at some point. Therefore, he must be down and somewhere in the area where I had originally shot. We gathered our crew, and headed back. After casting out our searchers, Rocket, Ben, and I took up our overwatch position overlooking the long firebreak.
Perhaps an hour elapsed when Ben heard shouting in the distance. A moment later the radio crackled. "Él está aquí, está muerto!" Assuming it wasn't one of our trackers who was muerto, I said a very heartfelt prayer of thanks. We soon all gathered at the bull. He had gone perhaps another four or five hundred yards from where we lost the track. I felt very bad for the ancient old fellow. He deserved a cleaner death.
My first shot was a worse than I had expected - nothing but an ugly gut wound. The second, landing only a few inches away, was far better. He was angled away on that one, and it almost certainly hit the liver and likely the rear of the left lung. There was blood on his nostrils. At least I did not have to try to hit him yet again, and Rocket kept his promise with the head. I was far better dinner company that evening.
Meanwhile my son and his guide continued to pile on miles and miles trying to find the right stag. A perfectly centered unseen branch foiled one attempt. Finally, on the last morning, with Rocket along to provide an assist, he connected on the largest animal taken during the week. He had earned it.
We were soon on our way back to Buenos Aires, for a bit of shopping for the girls - the leather goods are extraordinary - and more great beef and wine. I'll leave out the trip home - a cruise ship had disgorged in BA and every seat on the 777 to include the toilets were taken. @MG Hunting is one of our sponsors here. I can not more highly recommend an outfitter or destination for a foreign adventure outside Africa. If you have never heard the roar, you owe it to yourself to do so at least once.
