The day has arrived – it’s time for you to learn about “gaucho turbo.”
The pre-dawn hours of day 4 of our hunt began the way our previous hunts had – brisk air and the [not so] distant roar of big bull red stag spiking our adrenaline as we headed to our hunting grounds for the morning. Except today, Dad and I would be traveling on horseback. It was… comical, to say the least. It’s not that we don’t have plenty of experience on horseback (I rode for about 8 years when I was younger) – it was more the horses themselves. Bless their hearts.
Affectionately nicknamed “Chubby Belly” (dad’s) and “Square Wheel” (mine), our steeds proved to be an entertainment of their own. After a few missteps, one or two almost falls, and a brief instant of Square Wheel back on two legs before I had to let him know who’s boss, we made it to our “blind” for the hunt. Settled in among the rocks and bushes on top of a hill (mountain?), we were ready. Christian was perched on the top of the rocks, ensuring he had the best view of the pastures below, and Dad and I were just below him with a tall ridge to our left. It looked pretty stag-y to me, to say the least.
Sure enough, we heard the first roar just a few minutes after we got set up. I caught one stag galloping across the top of the ridge, but he was gone before I could really comprehend what I was seeing. The roaring fellow? He was close, and closing in. It didn’t take long for the bull to meander up the hill and into view – a 5 x 5 that I was certain Christian would tell Dad to take. Instead, he informed us (me – secret sign language, remember?) that the bull was too young. Pish! His rack was certainly larger than my guy‘s… But, Christian was the boss, so we sat back to watch. A few minutes later, another bull appeared on top of the ridge and decided to join the party, much to the dislike of our current entertainment. It was pretty cool watching these two stag try and assert their dominance, locking horns and butting heads just like we see whitetail do around here. Ultimately, the first bull proved to be more manly, and he chased the newcomer away after a 20 minute spectacle. And by chased, I mean pretended (?) to try to mount him until he got fed up and took off. I about fell over laughing at the whole spectacle!
Things quieted down for the next half hour, so I took off my backpack and set it aside, getting comfortable and ready to wait for a shot to present itself to Dad. Or, at the very least, spot a stag we could safely go after without being spotted ourselves. I’d come to regret this action very shortly.
Christian motioned for Dad and I to edge up to the top side of the rocks where he’d been watching, so we silently scooted our way over and got set up again. I could tell he had something good in his binocs if he was telling us to move, so I watched him with wide eyes, awaiting a sign as to what was coming as he lowered one arm to tell me.
Three. He held up 3 fingers in a way that said “if you make a noise and spook these things, I will punch you 3 times in the face,” so I relayed this information to Otis – “Dad, there are 3 stag coming our way. If you must communicate with me, do not do so verbally and don’t move at all. It must be telepathic!” I needed to calm down, to say the least.
Four. Christian now held up 4 fingers, and waggled two to let me know the stag were definitely walking our way.
Five.
Wait what? FIVE?!
[Inner monologue] Five stag? Coming our way? Surely he can’t expect me to sit here and not look, right? I’m dying. I must see them. Maybe I’ll just ease up over the rocks? Wait. No. Don’t move. Don’t even think about moving. Don’t even think about thinking about moving. Stop breathing so hard. Geeze, can you not blink so loudly please? There are five stag RIGHT THERE! They can hear your thoughts – be quiet!
Things were intense, guys. And the excitement was just starting! Two of the bulls quickly appeared, covered in mud from their hooves to mid-torso, on their way back from a waller. it became evident that they were young and small, and my excitement began to ebb. And then… The third bull made his way casually over the ridge and OH MY HEAVENS DAD PLEASE TELL ME YOU HAVE YOUR GUN READY. This 5 x 6 stud was given an immediate thumbs-up by Christian, and we were in business… Or… So we thought. Just moments later, the bull meandered back over the edge of the ridge and out of sight. The brief view we got of him was enough.
GAUCHO TURBO: ENGAGE
Before I knew what was happening, Christian was tugging on the shoulder of my jacket, motioning for Dad to grab his gun and follow him, and simultaneously reaching the speed of light as he took off down the hill, across the pasture, and up the ridge. I thought he was fast before – I was wrong. He had engaged the little known speed of gaucho turbo, and if he didn’t break the sound barrier, he came damn close. It’s like Usain Bolt and an antelope had a baby, and that baby is a 26 year old Argentinian gaucho. By the time I’d gotten up and tried to grab my backpack, he was 100 yards ahead of me, frantically telling me to just leave my stuff and hurry the you-know-what up. So, that’s what I did. And it’s why I have ZERO documentation of the events that were about to unfold.
So, here’s a picture of a monster stag rub, just to break up the story. Yes, it’s an entire bush/tree – I’m holding the camera at arm’s length above my head.
In a matter of 45 seconds, Christian was over the top of the ridge and signalling to us that he had the stag in view. Dad was ahead of me (epic shape for a 66 year old – put me wayyyy to shame), and caught up to him a few seconds later. Dad immediately dropped to the ground, getting his rifle up to take a shot. [Slow and out of breath Hollis caught up shortly thereafter].
We were just on the other side of a little hill and flat on the ground, so I actually couldn’t see the stag. What I could see, though, was that Dad was about to have to take an incredibly difficult shot. Have you ever sprinted 500 yards and then tried to take a 100 yard, free-handed shot at a trophy red stag? I’ll wait while you think back and try to remember.
No? Didn’t think so.
I get buck fever & shake when I’m about to shoot a doe because we need venison. This? Can’t. Even. But, that’s the shot he was presented with, and it was do or die shoot or go home empty handed… BOOM.
And nothing happened. For a fraction of a second, the stag just stood there. Dad whispered over his shoulder, “Did you see my shot? Did I miss?” I still couldn’t see anything so I had no insight to offer, but knew shot placement would have been incredibly difficult in the situation. Then, just like that, the stag took off over the ridge and out of sight. Wounded. Like, real wounded. I’m thinking the stag took a step right when Dad pulled the trigger, because the entrance wound was the right elevation but in his back haunch, and and exit was clearly somewhere in the back underbelly. Hey man – that’s how hunting goes. Not all shots are perfectly placed and drop the animal immediately. Especially an animal that big. That’s hunting! Plus, when a stag is startled, spooked, or shot, it will take off running – much like a whitetail. The exception? A stag won’t stop after a few hundred yards and look back to see what happened. Oh no. It might be 2 miles before it stops (unless it’s wounded, of course). So, what happened next?
Round 2 – Gaucho Turbo: Engage.
Christian was off and running (galloping? antelope-ing?) again before the two of us could gather our thoughts. True to form, within 100 yards of our sprint I took a real hard fall thanks to a hidden fox hole, and I went down face first to the ground. Neat. By the time I clambered back up and regained my composure / balance, they were 300 yards ahead of me. Dad stopped for a second when he turned around and saw me on the ground, and I just threw my arm up waving them away from me in a “Just leave me! Go! Find the stag!” moment. I was slowing the team down and there were much more pressing issues at hand! Dad was doing a crackerjack job of keeping up with gaucho turbo, and they caught up to the stag twice before I caught up with them. Both times, though, the stag was off again before they could make a shot. By the third time we jumped the stag more than a mile later (I’d caught up by this point), it went down a steep hill and into an enormous thicket.
Winded, sweating, and now a mile and a half from the horses and my gear, we decided not to push anymore and just let the stag bed down – we’d come back that afternoon to retrieve him. As I mentioned, the exit wound was clearly in the underbelly, and we’d seen more than a few “insides” coming out as he took off into the thicket. We hated to leave a wounded animal, but knew pushing him farther was a bad idea. Surely he’d be dead when we came back, right? We hiked back to Chubby Belly & Square Wheel and headed back to the lodge.
Around 2 that afternoon, we headed back out with Christian and a few other gauchos, knowing right where the stag would be but unsure of his state. It was a cloudy, misty afternoon and we had high hopes for our search. The plan was for Dad and Christian to go down into the thicket from the right with one rifle, while I climbed up a little ridge above with another so I could take a shot if the stag ran out and tried to cut up the mountain or down to the river. I got set up and waited.
Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, I heard muffled voices and branches breaking – the stag came tearing out of the left side thicket (no longer dragging any parts) and cut back in front of it, presenting me with a perfect shot if I acted fast. The only problem with that “perfect shot” was that I’d be shooting directly into the thicket. Even if I made a clean shot on the stag, a .30-06 bullet could easily exit and make it through the brush. Ain’t no way I’m shooting towards other hunters, especially Otis! I had to wait until it completely crossed the thicket, leaving me with approximately .4 seconds to take a shot before cresting a hill and disappearing. Needless to say, I couldn’t get him in the cross-hairs fast enough – he was gone. Never to be seen again.
We hunted and searched until dark, but never found any more blood or tracks. Like I said, if a stag has a chance to run, it will be miles before he stops again.
While every hunter hates to wound an animal, it’s sometimes unavoidable. If you think about it, my stag was hit at nearly point-blank range in the chest – taking out heart and lung – with the same .03-06 and still had enough power to charge me and run 100 yards or so before going down. They’re incredibly strong animals, and that Patagonia terrain is very unforgiving when it comes to tracking. The search for the stag certainly isn’t over – the gauchos said that even if we didn’t find it while we were in town, they’d likely come across him later on. Dad could get his European mount after all!
It was certainly a hunt for the books, and good ol’ gaucho turbo has me rethinking what “in shape” means. I am so glad I got to hunt with Dad that day, and applaud him for his huntsmanship. It’s probably safe to say that I would not have been able to keep up with Christian and have the composure to take a shot after such a sprint. But, that’s my dad! We may not have come out of the woods with a stag, but we’ve got an amazing story to tell.
Congrats, Otis!
The last Patagonia post is coming your way – 13 stag in one hunt!
UPDATE 5/2: The stag has been found! It’s in the process of becoming a European mount, and will join my stag on the trek back to the USA and South Carolina! Woohoo, Otis!