Luis Brown's villa, "Las Terrazas de la Manana,"
with the beach and Atlantic Ocean in the background.

  Over one hundred birds blew by me overhead, going downwind at terrific speed, their wings whistling as they went. At two hundred yards they turned to approach the decoys, banking into the wind, cupping their wings like ducks, crossing and recrossing as they approached the decoys, setting up to offer the perfect shot. At thirty yards they hung immobile in air not ten feet over the decoys. Ever so furtively, I raised my Winchester Supreme over-under, and with minimum muzzle movement dropped two of the lead birds right in the middle of the decoys. Slate-blue feathers spun and twisted down the wind. I broke the gun, the empties leaped straight up and flashed in the morning sun, and the pungent fragrance of gunsmoke-that most exhilarating of all perfumes flooded my nostrils. I quickly popped two more rounds into the chambers.
 By this time the first flock had already dispersed but a second flock, of at least 150 birds, was working in on the decoys. This flock came in as tentative and cautious as pintails, circling and circling, looking over the setup with utmost suspicion, until at last they were convinced, and braked just short of the decoys, and then started to settle among them.

The swarm of birds gives some idea of the size of flocks that invade and ravage grain fields and dairy farms daily, No wonder farmers are eager to welcome shooters!

  Once again the soul of stealth, I elevated the muzzles of the Winchester Supreme just over the top edge of the blind and shot the biggest bird in the flock. It fell in among the decoys and lay still. The others executed the most evasive acrobatics, whirling and diving and rolling. I waited until they straightened out their flight trajectories a bit and sent a hot charge of Super Pigeon 3-1/4 to 1-1/4 copper plated No. 6s from a Winchester load at another big bird. It dropped like a stone. 
  

What astounded me was the toughness of the birds. They were fully twice the size of North American barnyard and city pigeons, very hardy, strong birds. Additionally, the size of the birds was very deceptive. It made them seem to be flying much slower than they actually were, and much closer. I shot many a bird that appeared to be 20 yards away that hit the ground 30-35 yards away.
  I was shooting out of a blind improvised out of corn stalks in a field of about 300 acres of ripe corn, Hard rains in the previous two weeks had reduced the field to mud.
  It was impossible to operate farm machinery there, so the farmer had abandoned the entire crop to the pigeons, At least 50,000, and perhaps 100,000 of them were feeding there twice a day, and at that rate they would clean out the entire field in less than two weeks, I had experienced some great pigeon shooting in Argentina, Paraguay, England, and in other parts of Uruguay, but I had never seen anything like this,
  By one o'clock I had finished off two cases of Winchester Super Pigeon loads and absorbed a lot of recoil and was ankle-deep in mud and empty shotgun shells, so I was quite happy to call it quits for the day, Outfitter Luis Brown and I headed back to his seaside villa for lunch,
  On any shoot operated by Luis Brown, lunch is la mejor hora del dia (the best hour of the day), and it was certainly so on this remarkable day, Sitting out on the verandah of Luis' luxurious villa that commands a spectacular view of the beach and the Atlantic Ocean, we feasted on an excellent tomato lemon soup with grated Parmesan cheese; then homemade gnocchi with a meat and tomato sauce and more grated cheese, then stewed pears in a fantastic chocolate sauce, and finally a special soporific tea prior to siesta, all accompanied by a very nice Uruguayan Toscanini Tannot Merlot.

  While we ate, Luis' assistants returned with the results of the morning's shoot. They had picked up approximately 570 birds, to which must be added 10 percent for lost birds. Luis encouraged me to go back out for more shooting after lunch, but I declined.
  It was with a sense of deep satisfaction that I retired for a profound siesta, for it had been a triumphant day.
  To shoot so many birds in a morning might seem like unconscionable slaughter, but I let's put this figure into context. Pigeons in Uruguay are considered the most onerous kind of pest, in fact, a virtual pharaonic plague. Their preternatural abundance has been made possible entirely by the meddling of man. Specifically, they are able to multiply to plague-like numbers entirely because of two man-made circumstances: the dairy industry and the tree plantations. In the area surrounding Punta del Este there are at least 140 dairy farms. Virtually all of them feed their cows with corn, sorghum, and soybeans.
  Pigeons come into these farms in great swarms to eat the spilled and wasted grain. They befoul the ground and the rooftops with their droppings and they spread diseases that affect man and cattle. They also ravage the fields where all that grain is grown, devouring an estimated 40 percent of the crop every year. Food is only one half of the equation, however. The other half is habitat, and man has created plenty of it by planting vast plantations of pine trees. In fact, Uruguay has the largest stands of mature pine trees in all of South America, and the pigeons just love to roost in them. They especially like to roost in trees on the lee side of hills, where they are protected from the cold winds of winter.
  The pigeons are considered a curse-a curse that the dairy farmers and grain growers are almost powerless to do anything about.
  Shooters are especially welcome, and they are encouraged to shoot as many pigeons as they can. All birds shot are put to good use. Most are given to the poor and to the staff, but many are served at the table at Luis Brown's villa. For example, at lunch the following day Luis and I dined on pate of pigeon liver; sautéed rice; candied rosemary carrots; then a fantastic shish kabob of pigeon breasts wrapped in bacon strips alternating with slices of red pepper and onions, judgmatically seasoned with garlic powder and oregano, then grilled to perfection over an open fire, and at last served with chimichurri sauce. That by itself would have made a feast but there was more to come: excellent veal parmigiana; and at last a superb chocolate walnut mousse-all served with a nice vino tinto De Lucca Tannot. To shoot pigeons in the morning and top it off with a luncheon like that makes a day that one will savor in memory the rest of his life.
  All of the foregoing action took place in and around the seaside resort city Punta del Este, Uruguay. Punta del Este is the playground of the elite of Argentina, Uruguay, and Brazil. It is a city of perfect sandy beaches; luxury hotels and
condominium complexes; gourmet restaurants and elegant shops and inviting coffee houses.
  The pigeon shooting takes place all year except for the hot midsummer months of January and February-remember, the seasons are reversed in the southern hemisphere. It's terrific any time you go. If you go during the months of May, June, and July you can enjoy excellent shooting for partridges over Luis Brown's stylish Brittanies as a bonus. It's all less than a twenty minute drive from his sumptuous villa.
  Brown 's villa sits atop a terraced cliff high above the Atlantic Ocean. It has four large bedrooms with baths, a grand social room with fireplace and a large dining room, a swimming pool, and a verandah that commands a view far out over the ocean. It has an especially beautiful name: Las Terrazas de la Manana (The Terraces of the Morning).

After a day in the pigeon fields,
this lone hunter gears down for partridge
behind one of Luis Brown's fine pointers

Luis Brown is represented by Classic Sports International
Shooters reach Punta de! Este, Uruguay, by flying on Aerolineas Argentinas from New York, Miami, or Los Angeles to Buenos Aires, and changing planes there for the short hop to Montevideo or Punta de! Este. Aerolineas Argentinas is very gun-friend!y, and welcomes traveling shooters. Luis Brown meets them on arrival! for the short drive to his villa.