MEXICO SPRING BREAK FOR BIRDS

           We arrived at the blind in the cool of early morning. Shortly after our arrival the sun broke over the horizon bathing the eastern sky with a crimson glow. Another hot and dusty day was ahead. Our “blind” was in the middle of a plowed field and consisted of an unaesthetic two-foot high pile of dirt clods. I viewed our cover skeptically. It would provide little concealment. My first hunt 200 south miles had yielded few shooting opportunities. I asked myself, “Would today be a repeat and doves fail to show?”

A low, gray, undulating haze formed in the distance. The dark cloud fascinated me as it steadily approached. Sunlight illuminated the mass. I became aware of individual forms moving within and darting along the its front. The rapidly approaching cloud was living and would descend upon us in waves.

“Dios mio,” I exclaimed in awe. “Palomas!”

My smiling Mexican guide handed me a loaded shotgun, “Si, muchos palomas”.

We crouched behind our “blind” to somewhat diminish our profiles. My faithful Chesapeake buddy FC AFC Rock Honeybear of the Yukon sat eagerly at my side. I lay my hand on his head steadying him, “get ready for much, much action old man.”

            As usual the winter in Alaska had been dark and cold. By late November most water was in the solid state or not far from it. All sensible ducks and geese had long since flew south. Bird hunting for all intents and purposes was over. For the hardy there was the possibility of chasing ptarmigan in 3 to 4 feet of snow. Such hunts can be interesting and rewarding but don’t provide wing shooting in the classical sense.

The idea of a winter break someplace tropical and sunny had great appeal by January.  A fellow member of the Alaska Retriever Club had mercilessly regaled us with stories of bird hunting in warm, sunny, winter Mexico. With his instigation, the idea of a Mexico expedition for retriever people and their dogs was borne. Though hunting was the primary motivating factor for the trip the promise of warm surf, beautiful beaches and good food did not make the trip any less appealing.

In late February and the trip came to fruition. Six of us accompanied by three Chesapeakes had escaped from frozen Alaska. Our quick escape was made expedited by jet aircraft.

Our itinerary required an early morning change of aircraft in San Diego. As I walked along a glassed-in corridor, towards the departure gate I noticed dog kennels sitting in a cart on the ramp. Two men of the loading crew were beating on a kennel. It was Rock’s. The kennel was vibrating as he tried to get at his antagonists. I was livid but could not gain access to the runway. The kennels were finally loaded into the aircraft. My companions managed to calm me somewhat.

The 737 made a smooth touchdown. We hurried to the baggage area. The dogs and baggage arrived OK.

We approached customs. The dogs’ rabies and health certificates were up to date. Our baggage included the legal limit of 12 gauge shotgun shells. Stories of shotguns seized and ransomed back to American owners had come to our attention; therefore we did not bring shotguns. I would not take a chance loosing a fine shotgun. We passed through customs with no problems.

Sunny skies, balmy air and warm waters greeted the winter and travel weary in Maztalan. During the next few days, we settled in and quickly got into the swim of things. Adapting to beach life and a laid back lifestyle, we were somewhat distracted from hunting plans. Daily activities might include body surfing, walking, sunning, fishing, snorkeling and absorbing the beautiful scenery. Dining and refreshment were generally excellent and prices agreeable.

Our dogs were well received by native and tourist alike. Their enthusiasm for water sports and aptitude in the surf really impressed those unfamiliar with water dogs. We made the rounds of beachfront resorts and cantinas usually accompanied by our four legged buddies. Guests of the El Sid, Holiday Inn, El Pescador and other plush beachfront hotels became accepted the dogs. Masters accompanied by dogs frequently appeared for veranda happy hours. Resort management became disgruntled on occasion when a dog hurtled into their swimming pool along with the kids.

We finally got around to our main objective hunting some palomas. We found in Mexico, as is true everywhere, for good hunting success you must be at the right place at the right time.

 After a late evening of festivities, we struggled awake for an early morning meeting with outfitter and guides. This was in particular difficult for those of us who had imbibed some local water or cocktails containing ice. Montezuma’s revenge had struck with a vengeance. Liberal doses of pepto bismol were required to function away from an outhouse for any extended period of time.

The local outfitter welcomed our dinero. He neglected to inform us that doves with local agricultural harvests completed had largely moved out of the area. We spread around the edge of a harvested cornfield. Green stalks still stood. We were concealed among them. I found most interesting my guide’s calling dove by mouth. The call he made was a whistling sound. Few birds flew. We busted fewer caps and brought down even fewer doves. The three dogs unhappily shared the few retrieves.

After lunch in a local cantina, we were dropped off at a shelter to with some refreshment to wait out the siesta hours. Here we waited in increasing frustration for a duck hunt which never materialize.  During the afternoon a troop of federalies packing assault weapons arrived. We had no clew as to their intent. I was glad that of us had firearms. 

After a few more days of beach activities, I still wished to have a go at palomas. I learned of an agricultural area some 200 miles north of Mazatlan said to be holding large numbers of birds. I established communication with an area guide and outfitter.

 After listening to my questions he urged me to hurry there, “aqui mochas paoloms.”

Preparations for the trip were hastily made. Unfortunately, most of our Alaska crew had run out of holidays and could not make the hunt. The organizer of our expedition with a lot of vacation time left had not been content with the popular beach past-time of watching senioritis go by. He had become seriously involved in the active pursuit of a particularly fetching northern migrant. Palomas were not on his current agenda. This was one of the hazards for bachelors traveling to Mexico without responsible female escort. My lady companion helped me avoid such distractions. Though not a hunter she would make the trip as co-driver to see some new country.

The local Hertz agent had a single small rental unit left. I took it. Rock was crowded into the small back seat with our gear. Somewhat reluctantly we left the beautiful beaches of Maztalan and hit the hot, dusty road north, destination Los Moches.

The terrain initially was rolling hills covered by brushy forest. There was an occasional small farm with few a scraggly palm providing shade. The air was hot and dry. There was no air conditioning. Large trucks claimed the right-of-way. Defensive driving was a must for survival. The land gradually changed to flat, uninspiring fields irrigated for intensive agriculture. Extensive fields of corn, sunflowers, and milo extended to the horizon, all were good dove food. Birds were seeking gravel along the road. Things were looking up.

      We arrived in Los Moches, settled into a comfortable motel and indulged in the good Mexican tradition of siesta. Later, I reached our guide on the phone. A shoot was arranged for the early morning. He would stop by before sunrise.

Late afternoon was passed in the nearby coastal fishing village of Topolobampo. Fishermen assured me that local waters contained many pescados. Too bad we did not have time to investigate. The deserted beaches beckoned. We donned swimsuits. Rock was ready to cool off and joined us in a prolonged dip.

Local children spied the big Chesapeake and rushed to pet him. His ninety-pound size and water antics quickly earned him the title perro grande.

A brilliant sunset reflected over the Gulf of California setting behind the rugged mountains of the Bahia Peninsula. We hastened back to the village in search of food and refreshment. Much to our delight we found a restaurant which advertised and delivered fresh and very will prepared camarones.       

 In the predawn darkness the desert-like air was very cool. A light jacket and jeans felt good. My daypack included a short sleeved shirt and short pants for late morning comfort.

The outfitter inquired, “esta dia, how many boxes of shells do you wish to shoot?”

“Cinco,” I allowed. If I had opportunities to shoot five boxes of shells I would be more than satisfied. I opted to start the shooting with a superimposed, a mistake I soon found. An over and under requires some upkeep and care in use to function properly. The one available had seen much hard use with minimal care. Luckily, a Remington 870, an almost indestructible firearm, was available as a backup gun. 

The palomas descending upon us were mostly white wing with small numbers of mourning mixed in. Over the years I had shot over good numbers of doves in the Carolinas, Florida, and Maryland, but numbers of birds in the air were nothing compared to these numbers.

 My first box of shells was quickly expended with few doves for Rock to pickup. I changed guns to the 870. By the time my second box of twenty-five shells was finished I had settled down and my shooting was quite satisfactory. Rock was hustling. Shotguns in Mexico need not be plugged to limit capacity. The challenge became to try for runs of five birds bagged without a miss. This was possible if I picked my shots. Occasionally overconfident, I would have to try for a couple of birds passing high and wide. My average would then deteriorate. The shotgun barrel became hot to the touch as the birds passed in waves.   

The hunt progressed. My retriever-guide spent much of his time plucking birds. He had never witnessed a trained dog retrieve. For all other clients he was the retriever. As Rock brought in a bird, frequently two or three more would rain down around him. Then to expedite the hunt the guide would demonstrate his marking and retrieving abilities. For a while my lady companion filmed the action. Tiring of being a spectator she wandered off to film shorebirds feeding along irrigation ditches.

As the morning warmed, so did Rock. After 20 or so retrieves, he would drop his latest bird on the growing pile of and hustle out for another. The nearby irrigation ditch was a lifesaver for him. Relieved with, “Rock, water,” he would head for the ditch on a gallop. You could almost hear him sizzle when he hit the water. Occasionally, a lightly hit bird would continue flying, falling some one to two hundred yards away. Normally guides would be no attempt to retrieve these long fliers. Such lost birds would have been food for the coyotes. With Rock in operation, these birds were retrieved almost routinely as marks or as blinds.

By mid-morning, bird numbers flying by our blind had decreased. The sun bore down mercilessly. I had expended my boxes of shells. Our take was the legal limit of 50 birds. Hunters and as well as dog were hot. Time to call the hunt and head for the beach and water sports. There was tomorrow’s morning and another hunt to rest for. Village children would clean, pluck and freeze the doves for five cents a bird. One wing would be left feathered to comply with U. S. regulations. The frozen birds I would take back north for cookouts in Alaska.

The second morning’s hunt proved to be pretty much a rerun of the first. Maybe I shot well earlier. Rock continued performing eagerly with the competence you would expect of a Field champion. In conversations my guide revealed that local fishing for largemouth bass was excellent. This was another excuse for future trips to Mexico.

We made the hot, dusty drive back to Maztalan arriving in time for a final late afternoon dip in the surf. By the time Rock was fed the cocktail hour was upon us. Cervezas muy frio went down very easily. Doves and a tip were delivered to the El Sid Hotel chef.

Later we sipped cocktails awaiting dinner on the patio. The surf boomed against the seawall. Over the Gulf a full moon climbed into a cloudless sky. Moonbeams danced on foaming whitecaps. Palm trees rustled in a balmy tropical breeze. Dinner was served. Entrees were charcoal-broiled palomas with bacon strips festooning their breasts. Tomorrow we would fly back to the frozen north with many good memories.