Parque Rincón de Luna

Located just southwest of Córdoba, Parque Rincón de Luna is a beautiful hunting outfit covering thousands of acres of land seemingly cut right out of a Tolkien novel. They call it the Calamuchita Valley, and beyond the high hills to the west, the mountain peaks drop off into the lowlands, where hunters venture to shoot doves in an aerial spectacle that rivals none other. But here, on the east side of the mountains, where the yellow hills of grass crack and split with dark granite protruding from underneath like ancient scars, it is almost entirely void of trees, and birds of any kind seem rather absent. No, this land teams with four-legged beasts, non-native horned game that have earned a living outrunning the puma that lurk within the dark crags and cliffs. There are also beasts of such size and demeanor that they don’t need to run, as any misinformed puma need only learn once. This land was the stomping ground of water buffalo, black buck, fallow deer, mouflon, multi-horned goats with horns that would make Lucifer jealous, and my target species, red stag.

I’m going to describe to you a feeling. You’ll know the one. If you’ve never experienced it, well, it’s only a matter of time. It’s a feeling of utter relief. Blissful calm after a farm-ripping, EF-5 twister has just ravaged your life. It’s the feeling of reaching that brilliant, warming light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel of torment and agony. Pure emotion, knowing the pain is over and things are finally going to be okay. Whatever you call it, I was feeling it.

I was about in tears—tears of joy, of course—and had I not been walking down the aisle of the Latam Airways jet, finally bound for Córdoba, Argentina, strangers on all sides, I’m almost sure I’d have wiped a drop or two from my cheeks. My travel ordeal was nearing its euphoric end. No more flight delays, no more Miami nights in too-soft hotel beds and no more deli-counter airport food. In a matter of hours, I’d be hunting red stag in a setting I’d only heard about second-hand. Mindful that every movement brought me closer, I stuffed my backpack in the overhead compartment, sat down in the aisle seat, took a deep breath and started the process of erasing the last 24 hours from memory. If I could sleep—and I needed to—I’d wake as if it was all just one bad dream. If only.

“Wonatan Drapper.”

I almost didn’t notice it.

“Wonatan Drapper, plass com to the front of the plan.” The crackling voice was coming from the intercom.

Wait…that sounded like “Draper.”

I opened my eyes to see an individual in a green uniform making his way down the aisle, clipboard in hand. Is that a pistol on his belt? 

He was glancing at the paper, then seat numbers, then back to the paper.

“Jonatan Draper, please come to the front of the plane.”

I definitely heard it that time. My name, over the intercom, poorly spoken, but my name nonetheless. I locked eyes with the clipboard-wielding man, confirming the presence of a black semi-auto on his hip as I did so. Let me tell you about a different feeling now. I raised my trembling hand as every ounce of euphoria was replaced with panic, coursing through my body as if injected intravenously.

“Get your bags. Come with me.”

The stern, no-nonsense look on his face made one thing vividly clear: I was not receiving an upgrade to first class. 

■ ■ ■

“Jon.” This time my name was spoken with a mere hint of South American roll. “I’m going to make you a special gin and tonic.”

Well who doesn’t like that?

“If you don’t like it, I can make you a standard one

Continue reading the rest of the article in the following link.

.”https://www.americanhunter.org/articles/2018/7/28/munici%C3%B3n-mule-espectacular/

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