OUT FOR A DUCK





Well Bowled!

 I never really liked cricket and baseball doesn't do it for me either (sorry) So this not a story of a
whistling ball zipping past you at head height more another adventure into the unknown.

 Duck shooting in the UK was in my opinion a complete dead loss as wherever you were the ducks
were not! You could be up in the middle of the night, wade, crawl, and dam nearly drown trying to
cross frozen marshes in the pitch black only to arrive at the planned point and then find someone
else takes a shot and 20,000 mallard take to the skies never to be seen again.





Falklands? No, never heard of them.....

 Well, how about Argentina?   Might be good as long as I don't mention the War or call
"The Malvinas" the Falklands or make any mention of having been there. Argentina has about 14
different varieties of duck and in many areas they have no idea what a hunter looks like or does.
The week long expedition is planned and I take a flight to Miami and then to Buenos Aries.



Busy busy!

 Arrive in the capitol and after checking guns I am now taken on a sightseeing tour before going to
another airport for a domestic flight to the middle of the interior. Fantastic architecture and a busy
and bustling city. Can't help but notice that everyone is immaculately groomed and dressed.


 I'm met at the airport and after a one hour drive we are at the ranch and I'm in a very nice private
villa. Over to the main ranch house and the lady of the Lodge tells me I'm the only guest this week
as the other party of 8 had to cancel at the last minute. Well at least there won't be any argument
over who shot what.



DUCK!

 Up at 2 a.m. (why do hunters get up so ******* early?) maid brings breakfast and I'm struggling
with waders and all manner of foul weather kit. Off we go and some time later in the pitch black
I get the impression we are at the destination.





 Out we go and I have 4 "bird boys" with me and the host now departs in the Landrover (least
they have taste!) and now we enter the black lagoon with all the sucking mud, deeper and deeper
I go wondering when this is going to stop. Knee deep and on we plough, Senor.......senor, at last
the boy indicates this will do and starts handing me boxes of cartridges which I shove down the
front of my waders. Now the boy child produces coffee, things are looking up so there I am in the
pitch dark, in a swamp, up to my proverbial in the proverbial with a cigarette in one hand, coffee in
the other and shotgun cradled in my elbows. 



Up to your........

 About 6'ish it starts and this is quite unbelieveable as ducks just come and go in every direction.
Some are leaving the marsh to fly inland to grain fields, others are coming back to the marsh from
overnight roosts and other feeding areas and then there are others who seem to just fly round the
marsh itself. I suppose with all the varieties they have different habits unlike our dear UK Mallard
that all go together! I'm knocking them down at 17/hour and they either just keep coming or going
so there are birds in front, from behind, left to right crossers and of course right to lefts for the
easy shot. Normally in game shooting footwork is the mark of the elegant shooter but when you
are up to your nuts in water and your feet are stuck in setting concrete mud that kind of goes out
the window!

 Ten o'clock and the bird boys have had enough and start collecting the birds..... no idea why we
stopped they just keep coming and coming and I could have stayed there all day. All 50 or so are
in the bag and off we go for lunch which seems to be the Argentinean highlight of the day and is
always a bar-b-q. Then carrying on the Spanish tradition a siesta!




 In the afternoon more ducks, from dry land with pigeons coming into a copse of high trees. Some
great sport but I actually came for the ducks.




 Most days followed the same format with 0200 starts and the "maid" breakfast, waist deep in a
swamp until 1000 then lunch and then a choice of back to the marsh or some hillside shooting
for a strange Argentinean bird called the "perdiz" looks like a hen pheasant with a giraffe like
neck. It flies incredibly low and fast, a bit like a Harrier jump jet, and is about the same size as a
plump partridge. These birds hide everywhere on the hillsides and make a very strange call. The
Head bird boy brings their champion pointing dog out for the afternoon who is fairly useless and
spends most of his time rolling in cowshit! Now suitably covered and stinking to high heaven he
continually goes on point at every cow pat we come across. Now the bird boy starts making
strange noises (I hope he's not gay!) and we are set for a real fun afternoon. After a while with
bird boy whistling and dog shit rolling there comes a return on the whistles? We trudge uphill and
very soon the perdiz flush at 6 inches off the ground. A couple of these and I get the idea of how
this is going to be and after shattering some rock outcrops pick up a "left and right" at perdiz!

 On the Thursday we are in the marshes again for the afternoon and things are a little slow when
suddenly there is an eclipse of the sun as a massive ugly bird resembling a B52 Bomber glides by.
"What is that ?" I ask
"Izzz Caw Caw"........ "Izzz good to eat"......."OK"  So I swing on the monster and hit it in the left
engine and down comes a leg ..... the next shot takes out the rear gunner and then it starts
climbing and gets to about 100 feet when the other engine quits and it plunges into the marsh.
Jubilant bird boy goes in hot pursuit and retrieves this thing which is about the size of a 20lb turkey
with a 8 foot wingspan! It's feet are the same size as the ducks!




The Caw Caw

 The Monster from the skies is given to the cooks and is served at Friday's bar-b-q. It is as tough
as old boots!!


 Some of you maybe appalled at all this carnage on the duck community but believe me these
birds are there in their millions and ravage the crops throughout the country. Also all the birds
that are shot are given to local orphanages to suppliment their meagre diet of rice so another
win, win situation unless you are a duck and meet yours truly when he has his "A" game.




Now These are Big Ducks!

 Homeward at the end of the week with a nice cold as a souvenir of Argentina and now the fun
of re-entry into the good old US of A. At Miami we are told to stand still in customs as the "Super
Canine" of the fruit and veg department sniffs our luggage for illegal plants and oranges! Never
mind the Shotguns and ammunition.... what a crazy world!






TONY DOWN