By Hank Collins

The high wing, twin engine, Czechoslovakian built Let Aircraft, landed three hours behind schedule at Las Palomas Lodge Air Strip, Bolivia. The eighteen-hundred foot dirt landing strip had to be allowed to dry sufficiently from the torrential rainfall of the previous day before it would be safe for us to land the nineteen passenger plane.

Now it was hard to imagine rain with the clear blue skies without even a suggestion of a cloud, and temperatures in the mid--seventies. The strip landing brought back fond memories of my days as a pilot as the aircraft gently touched down on the narrow strip and taxied to the waiting SUV’s to take us Los Palomas Lodge where we would, as the sign read, begin our Bolivian Adventure.

Jorge Molina, whose dark eyes and charismatic smile made him immediately likeable, drove us to the lodge which was less than one-half mile from the landing strip. We were quickly assigned rooms, and only given time to change into our hunting clothes. Leaving the lodge we were standing in the field within thirty minutes. My bird boy, Martin (pronounced Marteen) ,spoke at least ten more words in English than I did in Spanish.

“Palomas, Sir, Palomas” was quickly translated by me to mean “Get ready for an air show like you’ve never seen before.” “More cartridges, Sir” translated, “maybe you’ll do better with this box.” And “good one, sir” translated “that’s more like it.” The first hour and one-half in the field I had killed one-hundred-fifty-five dove. This would have never happened if Jorge had not seen me shooting and told me that I was shooting in front of the bird.

The shells were seven-eighths of an ounce load, with a speed of fourteen-hundred and forty feet per second. Less shot and a lot more speed than the shells I’m accustomed too. I cut my lead and heard my first ‘Good One, Sir’. Still, I was far from being the high man. What I was, was stunned by the number of birds, their speed, and their maneuverability. Too many times I was sure I would screw myself into the ground trying to track one of these high flying masters of evasion.

There was some comfort in hearing some of the veteran hunters describing the same thing happening to them. On the ride back to the lodge I sat with a blank stare as Jorge Jr, the owner’s son, piloted the SUV with the grace of a gazelle around mud holes and wash outs. Once when he turned completely sideways in the deep mud he turned to me and said with a smile “Bolivian Adventures, Sir.”

Jorge Molina and his beautiful wife Karin, came to Bolivia from Colombia about ten years ago for the agriculture opportunities offered here. Jorge had seen Bolivia in 1992 when he was a member of the Colombian Olympic International Skeet Shooting Team and recognized the potential in soil that was so rich it needed no fertilizer.

Once here, however, Jorge found that being in the heart of the Bolivian Chaco and surrounded by five-hundred-thousand hectares (one million two-hundred-thirty-five thousand acres) of cultivated cropland, another opportunity offered itself. It was a Mecca for high volume dove shooting. And it was a perfect match for Jorge who is a legendary world champion in International Skeet, Trap and Sporting Clays; successfully competing in two Olympic Games, fourteen World Championships, and numerous competitions in South America. Bolivia gave him the perfect venue to share his expertise and love for wing shooting with his guests.

Las Palomas Hunting Lodge opened in 2001 to offer wing shooting enthusiast the awesome sight of a fifteen million bird migration between April and November. The lodge is completely built with material located in the surrounding area; from the red roof tiles, to the white stucco walls, to the hand painted floor tiles.

The timber is a special wood that is extremely heavy and whose grain is very dense. Word of warning, when pulling a chair out from the table, use two hands—it’s heavy. The rooms are all spacious with twin queen size beds, and space built to accommodate clothes and hunting gear.

The center piece of the lodge is the meeting and dining room. It’s open, and adorned by bright multicolored hammocks attached to uncut natural wood support columns that surround the small pool in the center of the room. The pool is highlighted with festive colored inlaid hand painted tiles. A fireplace and bar separate this area from the kitchen. It provides a warm and friendly area to meet and dine.

Our party consisted of thirteen hunters ranging in age from nine to sixty-nine. Billy brought his son Cameron, son-in-law Tripp, and grandson Dent, on the trip. Nat brought his son, Taylor. Dent, the youngest, acquitted himself quite well with the group, and was pleased to find that he was the youngest guest ever to be registered at Las Palomas. He did have a problem one evening at dinner remembering whether he shot seventy-five or three-hundred dove that day.

We all assured him we thought it must have been three-hundred. At the end of the hunt he took particular pride in his badge of courage—a fireball red recoil bruise on his right cheek just under his eye. “At least we know that he kept his head on his stock when he shot, that’s more than I can say for myself,” his grandfather commented with pride.

The majority of our party had started hunting dove in Mexico years ago, and then migrated to Argentina, and have now settled on Bolivia. The difference that they noticed is that at Las Palomas Lodge there are more trees found here than in the other two areas. The extra cover combined with an abundance of food and water sets in place an ideal combination that draws millions of dove.

Bird boys are like bank tellers; they are the lowest paid and the hardest workers. However, they can easily make the difference as to whether a customer will keep coming back or not. I spent all my time in the field with Martin. Oh, I would have contact with my buddies, and occasional visits from Jorge to insure that everything was all right, but mostly it was just me and Martin. And, I found with Martin that sometimes I was communicating with him when I didn’t realize it.

When I would make a shot that was a clear kill on a close bird, Martin would call “Muerta” and click the counter he wore around his neck. With these birds flying with the wind, and with the shot coming close, it was hard sometimes to tell if the bird was ‘Muerta’, or if the bird exercising its God given talent to make maneuvers that until I got to Bolivia, I thought were aerodynamically impossible. I missed a gimme double, and in my frustration I said, “Damnit!” Reloading as fast as I could, I quickly locked my eyes on another speed merchant and squeezed the trigger.

Again, another unclassifiable maneuver. “Martin… Muerta?” I asked. “No Muerta…Damnit, Sir” was his smiling reply. So for the rest of the hunt Martin would call Muerta’ or Damnit as the situation dictated—sometimes, “Good One Sir,”--but mostly Martin was learning to swear with ease in English.

Jorge, has the shooting set where a variety of shots are presented in the morning and afternoon hunts. In the morning in the sunflower fields, with sunflowers taller than I was, I had more time to plan my shots. In the afternoon, the trees produced long passing shots and high overheads.

The Roost, however, gave me no time to do anything but to look and shoot. This was the most severe test of my form and technique. To hold up under this quick loading, quick shooting, quick loading, quick shooting scenario, combined with the varied target presentations, all of my shooting flaws became readily apparent.

But, I learned to concentrate on my target, and filter out other birds and take it early. I learned to stay on the target until it drops, and only then quickly move to the next target. I learned to load quickly but never look at the birds as I loaded—it’s distracting. And, I found that I could shoot better than I ever thought I could. It is a wing shooters paradise.

There are many ways to measure how you’re shooting. Nat had one incredible shoot with an eighty percent kill rate on three-hundred-eighty birds. Taylor, a Master Class shooter like his dad, concentrated only on long shots and had a seventy percent kill rate. Some counted only the birds killed. Phillip, Robert, and Jack counted only the boxes of shells they shot and were disappointed at anything under thirty boxes per shoot.

Doug strictly measured his by the amount of fun he was having. I think Doug had the best measurement. Everyone had a good shoot. Even Harry, who had to quit shooting after the second day, due to his hand swelling because of recent surgery, had a great time. Now Harry could devote his full attention to being a shooting coach for his friend Chris; much to Chris’s chagrin

All of us are seekers of the Holy Grail of Dove Hunting. Where the dove fly forever, the weather is always perfect, the food and accommodations are better than anything before, shooting tips are from an Olympic Champion, and all you hear is “Good One, Sir.” Again, with the exception of the frequency of ‘Good one, Sir’, this trip to Las Palomas was about as close as I think I will ever be to finding the Holy Grail.

As we were about to leave, I found Martin and gave him a tip for taking such great care of me for the last four days. As I gave him the tip, I smiled and said, “Damnit.” Martin put the tip in his pocket and replied “No Damnit…Good One, Sir! The time at Las Palomas was indeed a Good One… a very good one Martin.

More information about Las Polomas Lodge can be found at their web site: www.bolivianadventures.com.