Argentine Adventure

"He is a very nice stag, what we call a 'Lenga' here in Argentina," whispered guide Andrew St. Antonin as we stood at the edge of a forest clearing. We peered intently through our binoculars at the animal feeding slowly along before us. At 90 meters it looked huge in my 10x42 binocular, revealing the reddish-colored antlers, caused by rubbing. I could make out six points to a side, a very respectable count for a free-ranging red deer in this locale.

"Should I shoot him?" I queried in a hushed tone.

"It's your call, but he is a nice specimen. I think you would be happy with him," Andrew advised. Although it was only 9:30 a.m. on the second day of our seven-day hunt, that comment was enough for me. I motioned for Andrew to remain behind as I inched forward to a small-diameter tree that would serve as a rifle rest.

In my hands was a very exceptional and beautiful rifle, a Winchester Model 70 Ultimate Classic, chambered in the venerable .300 Win. Mag. Before chambering a cartridge, I paused briefly to insert my remaining earplug and confirm the scope was set at 3X. The stag hadn't noticed us, his head momentarily behind a tree. I quickly took advantage of the window of opportunity and placed the rifle against the tree's trunk. As the crosshairs steadied on the stag's chest, I squeezed the trigger and the 180-grain InterLock sped on its way.

It was late April, and we were hunting out of Los Baguales Lodge, located on Peninsula Huemul of Lake Nahuel Huapi. When we arrived, my wife, Sandy, and I were pleasantly surprised to find a lovely log lodge, nestled in a ridge-top clearing surrounded by tall trees. The setting, with spectacular views of snow-capped Andean peaks in the distance and Lake Nahuel Huapi below, was idyllic indeed. We had paused to unwind and take refreshments in front of the roaring fire in the sitting room. However, our relaxation period was short-lived, and we had soon donned our hunting clothes and set out for an evening's hunt, each hunter with his own guide. Sandy had elected to relax by the fire and read. Andrew and I had walked out, directly from the lodge. Richard and Tim had gone by horseback. When the day was far spent, we had returned empty-handed, tired, hungry and eager for what the morrow might bring.

And now, at the shot, the stag went down instantly--as though someone had suddenly pulled him into a hole. The impact of the bullet caused such hydrostatic shock the animal never moved. In my 63 years of big-game hunting, I can recall only two other instances with such a devastating effect caused by a bullet. When we recovered it later, we saw the projectile had formed a perfect mushroom. Since this was the first shot fired at game from this rifle, I was understandably overwhelmed with emotion. We stood, admiring our fallen quarry as it lay bathed in the forest-filtered rays of the sun, and I thought, "There are times in life that are just right." I silently offered a few words of appreciation, as I always do in such instances, to the Powers That Be. Andrew and I had departed on foot that morning, so we walked back to the lodge to obtain cameras, horse and assistance in packing out the meat, cape and antlers. When we returned to the site, we brought a small entourage to care for my trophy and photograph it.