A Pigeon, an Eagle and a Vulture
I woke up under the vast canopy of the forest, with shafts of sunlight streaming in through the leaves. Raul and I had made a makeshift camp in a
cleared area, finding the flattest spot we could to unroll our blankets. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes I saw Raul crouching by the fire in the dawn-light, blowing the embers to get the fire flaming again so as to warm up some tea. We had to head off to find some food, and Raul also wanted to show me a special viewpoint.
After a cup of capomo bark tea and a few biscuits, we grabbed our gear –
water, rifle, camera- and set off up hill, find the way in huaraches, traditional Mexican footwear.
We were deep into the forest. Raul didn’t want to use his machete to cut down plants, as it would give away our presence to nearby animals. So there was a lot of vegetation which we had to navigate.
The going was tough, weaving and ducking between the undergrowth while simultaneously trying not to make too much noise to startle away what could be our breakfast. I was surprised that even up here I didn’t see, or hear, as much wildlife as I imagined one should be able to. We could, however, hear chachalacas, a pheasant-like tree dwelling bird, making their distinct grinding call, but they were far away and higher up the mountain. After half an hour of walking up hill Raul silently beckoned me to come by him on a rock and pointed through the vegetation. He had spotted a chachalaca sitting on a higher branch about 20 yards away on an opposite slope. I was about to take aim when it flew off. My stomach grumbled, but then I noticed a fat wood pigeon perched not far from where the chachalaca had been just moments before. I crouched on the rock, getting myself in a comfortable position, and brought the butt of the .22 rifle into my shoulder. I calmly used my left arm to aim the barrel at the unaware pigeon, aware of Raul’s impatience next to me. I was sure that I was going to miss the pigeon, it was a small target and far away.
Earlier, when trying out the aim of the rifle, I noticed that the alignment of the sights was slightly to the left. Taking this into account I held my breath, took my final aim and release the air from my lungs as I squeezed the trigger. I shot with little confidence, but as much to my surprise as Raul’s, the pigeon fell off the branch, wheeling and fluttering in the air unable to fly, in shock and surprise at having suddenly been hit by a bullet.
Raul darted off to collect it, I followed and soon he was returning with the panting, terrified pigeon in his hand. The pigeon was very similar to those found in England, but with darker feathers. Almost complacently Raul picked up a stick and began to bash the bird’s head to kill it. As soon as it was dead Raul nimbly pulled out the feathers with expert skill and speed.
‘I didn’t think that you were going to hit it!’
‘Me neither!’
‘Great job Tomás!’
I put the naked carcass of the pigeon in my bag and we kept on walking uphill.
We were heading to a viewpoint that Raul assured me was rather spectacular. It was difficult finding a path, I was sweating heavily, and at times the loose forest floor made the going very slow.
After an hour of trudging up hill the tree line gave way, and I could see the desired peak that we were heading for. Up in the sky I saw a circling eagle catching the mountain air currents to soar with as little effort as possible. I admired its grace, and the contrast of the white feathers with the bright blue of the clear sky. Raul noticed the eagle too, and having been impressed with my previous shot he challenged me to shoot the eagle.
‘You see that eagle up there, have a shot at it!’
‘I don’t want to kill it, why would I? We wouldn’t eat it.’
‘Oh we’re not going to eat it, aren’t we? But it kills the other birds we do eat!’
I let the eagle be and we continued up, finally to make it to a peak of long grass, with spectacular views of the coastal towns below, and in the other direction pure mountains and forest. It was an incredible view. We sat down in the grass and spread ourselves out. Raul took out his metal dope pipe, and put in some of his fresh, forest-grown marijuana. He took a few drags and offered me the pipe and a lighter. I thought that out of all the places to have a smoke, this must be one of the best. I had a smoke and took in the magnificent view.
‘You can see the ranch down there. From here to the ranch is my kingdom’
The land owned by them is vast and right in the heart of the mountains. Raul explained to me that he comes here sometimes and sits for hours looking out. He said that is was a special place to be, because only he and jaguars come up here. He pointed up at a higher ridge top and told me that he had found jaguar tracks even up there, and I think he was somewhat in awe of the jaguars mountain walking abilities, I certainly was and rightly so.
After looking out at this view for about half an hour I asked Raul if we could head off back to the camp. It was approaching late morning and my stomach was reminding me that we hadn’t had a proper meal yet. We started heading down the peak back to our camp. The going was much easier down hill, though at times a bit hair-raising having to clutch onto trees due to the steep slope, while making sure that the trees weren’t the prickly kind likely to puncture your hand.
We got back to camp at noon, and I went off to get some more water. Raul waited for me to come back before preparing the pigeon so I could see how it was done. While I was gone he placed the river shrimp that we had caught the previous night into a pot with water to stew, and squeezed some limes picked freshly from a lime tree by our camp. Our meal had the makings of a small forest feast.
When Raul cut into the meat of the pigeon he revealed a rich dark red, almost purple meat. He cut the breast open then removed the head. When cutting through the pigeon’s neck he found four small fruits that the pigeon had been in the process of swallowing when it got hit by my bullet.
‘Look what it (the pigeon) was eating when you shot it! Now we can enjoy them.’
He cleaned the fruit with some of the fresh water I had just collected, and
handed me two. These were a tasty, slightly bittersweet fruit, and it was
quite surreal finishing off the pigeon’s last meal. After having prepared the bird, Raul skewered it on the end of a pronged and sharped stick and placed it to cook above the fire. While we waited Raul served out the shrimp stew into our mugs. This we sipped and fished the rosy pink river shrimp out with our fingers, de-shelling them to enjoy the delicious meat. When the pigeon was ready Raul took it off the fire, cut it in two and handed me half. The meat was moist, dark and extremely enjoyable to eat. I nibbled the meat down, picking between the bones making sure to eat every last scrap.
It was one of the most satisfying meals that I have ever had, made more delicious by the fact that Raul and I had collected all of the food, apart from the tortillas, from the forest around us.
We discussed what we should do after the meal. Raul explained that if we had brought more tortillas with us we could have gone further into the forest, but as it was we would have to head back to the ranch. I would have loved to have continued hiking and spend another night on the forest floor, but the soles of my feet felt like fire, so I agreed that we should head back.
However, this was easier said than done, and I remembered that we had a large ridge to go over before the downhill slope towards the ranch. After the meal we grabbed our stuff and headed off. My body was tired, and I wasn’t all too talkative on the way back. My legs were aching and I wanted nothing more that to rest them in one of the many hammocks back at the ranch. An hour or two into our return journey we were walking along a path that snaked along the contours of a hill. We were out of the trees and up above I saw a low flying vulture. This was a bird that I had seen a lot of in this area; it was commonplace to see a 20-strong wake of sinister looking vultures perched silently in a single tree. Fresh in my mind was Raul urging me to shoot the eagle. I also remembered a video game that I used to play, Red Dead Redemption, in which, as a cowboy, one would shoot circling vultures to practise the virtual aim.
‘Shall I try and shoot down that vulture?’
‘The vulture? No! You shouldn’t kill those birds; they are the cleaners of the
forest. The vultures makes sure that the forest stays
clean, and besides their meat isn’t good to eat.’
‘Fair enough.’
This was not the reply I had expected, but it made sense. I shouldered my rifle and we continued on our way. Another two and a half hours of trudging and we made it back to the main ranch, our approached met with a flurry of noise and activity from the dogs, cats, turkeys, chickens and donkeys. We put away our things and joined Bony in the collection of hammocks swinging from the beams. I chose a hammock and lay back, waiting in silent satisfaction for Raul to tell his father, Bony, how I had surprised him by being able to shoot the wood pigeon and give us a meal.
