Blood, Sweat, and Fears: The Unscripted Thrill of Argentinian Buffalo Hunting
A thin bead of perspiration trickled down my left temple and into my beard. It was a March afternoon in Argentina—autumn in South America—and it should have been cooler than the unseasonable 85 degrees. But the sweat on my cheek had another plausible cause aside from the sun beating down from a nearly cloudless blue sky. I was keenly aware that I was about to make a large and potentially dangerous animal very angry. The image filling my scope was an enormous water buffalo bull grazing just 60 yards away across open ground. Three more buffalo were spread out behind him.
I had zero illusions about dropping him in his tracks. There was simply too much mass to harbor any hope that a single .300 Win Mag—or any bullet for that matter—would flip off the lights on over a ton of protein on the hoof. The idyllic scene in front of me would shatter the minute I pulled the trigger, followed by sheer and wild unpredictability. The lightest of breezes cooled the line of sweat. I was feeling everything.
I had come to Argentina with a group of outdoor writers to experience the Benelli Lupo bolt-action rifle on red stag, blackbuck and wild boar. When we weren’t chasing the big stuff, we’d be doing our best to empty flats of 20 gauge shotshells on fast and erratic doves with Benelli Ethos Cordoba BE.S.T shotguns.
This trip south was long in coming. Originally booked for 2020, Covid restrictions and the possibility of becoming stranded in a foreign country for months had shut down our plans at the last minute. By the time we boarded the plane to Buenos Aires and our connector to Santa Rosa in March of 2023, it had been 3 years since that first failed attempt. We were finding it to be well worth the wait.
The first several days had been spent with half of the six-person group pursuing red stag and blackbuck in a woody, thicket-tangled section of the ranch while the other half posted up on farmland fencerows to shoot passing doves. Streams of birds made their way constantly between distant treeline roosts and the sunflower fields. Rarely was there an empty sky and it quickly became a neck workout to cover the area around each hunter. My thin leather work gloves were a welcome addition. The barrels of my shotgun became hot with fast shooting on every possible combination of birds from singles to several dozen jinking speedsters jetting through at once. Based on the shots steadily ringing out from my companions’ Cordobas, they were finding their share of targets as well.
I’d been to Argentina previously to hunt ducks and doves in the Santa Fe region near the Rio Salado River north of San Cristobal. The beauty of the land, the abundance of game, the exceptional food and the hospitality of the people had impressed me then. This trip would prove to be no exception. Germann Brandazza (pronounced her-MAHN), owner of GBH Safaris and our host for this trip, is quick to smile and knowledgeable about hunting in the La Pampa region. From the beginning, he was dedicated to making our hunt memorable and our stay at his lodge comfortable.
As we alternated between the dove fields and the overgrown thickets that hid big game, tags were filled across the board for impressive red stag and blackbuck. As a bonus, one of the writers took a nice wild boar. The group would gather for dinner and talk and laugh well into the night before getting up at 5:30 the next morning to do it all again. So many things were going well it was hard to think of what could make it better. Then Germann mentioned that the water buffalo had grown exceptionally large due to the lack of hunting in the area during the Covid shutdown. Would I be interested in going after a water buffalo? He didn’t need to ask twice.
The following afternoon, we drove to a section of the ranch with rolling grasslands bordered on one side by scrub and small trees. Four of us would make this stalk. Germann was backing me with his personal rifle chambered in .450. My red stag guide, Raul, was with us and was a machine in the field. During one partial day of chasing red stag, my phone showed that we’d logged over 16,000 steps in thick brush. Raul was also carrying a Lupo rifle as backup insurance on this hunt. Mark Sidelinger of Media Direct was along to take pictures if we were successful. Mark was unarmed to better handle the camera. Time would tell whether or not that was well-placed faith or a decision he would later regret.
We skirted the edge of the prairie-like terrain, using a treeline to break up our stalk. We’d walked nearly a mile when we spotted our first buffalo. He was several hundred yards away just over a slight roll and only his broad back was visible, appearing dark battleship gray in the sun. To get the wind right for the stalk, we walked another several hundred yards before cutting into the open. The vegetation here was a thick carpet of sturdy knee-high thistle and I quietly cursed my decision to leave my gaitors at the lodge instead of pulling them over my thin hunting pants. It felt like I was kicking porcupines with every step.
The only object in sight that broke up the pasture-like terrain was a waterhole wellhead surrounded by a small fence. About 8 feet square, the fence provided a shield between us and the buffalo that we could use to close the distance. Fast-walking at a low crouch, we made the fence and threw up the shooting sticks. Three more buffalo in this herd were now visible from our closer perspective. The buffalo we wanted was only 120 yards away but was presenting us with the south end of his sizable northbound frame. No shot. We waited several minutes for him to move, but he continued to graze. Oblivious to the hunters, the bull had a knack for never revealing a shot opportunity and eventually began to slowly graze in the opposite direction.
Raul motioned for me to crouch and follow him closely so we could improve the angle. Leaving the fence was like swimming away from a life raft in a choppy sea. We were now cleanly in the open, looping around the buffalo herd and further away from anything resembling cover. Glancing back, I realized that beating a charging buffalo back to the meager protection of that fence was not going to happen. It was now down to well-placed bullets and some luck. I was feeling the pressure.
We stopped each time a buffalo would raise its head as we crept closer. We remained undetected and Raul motioned for a stop 60 yards from the bull. I eased the rifle on the sticks and settled my cheek into the stock. Amazingly, the bull had turned during the last few yards of our stalk, and once again I was looking at his broad backside. He would have to turn for me to have a shot, and he’d have to do it before he or one of his buddies spotted us.
The next few minutes crawled by. The bull turned slightly to his right and then slightly more. Half steps each time. I felt that trickle of sweat roll down my temple as I steadied the crosshairs and clicked off the safety. A lot was riding on my first shot. He took one more half step.
The rifle boomed and sent the .300 Win Mag solid on its way. Time sped up and slowed down simultaneously. The instinctive part of me was cycling the Lupo’s bolt for a follow-up shot and watching what the buffalo would do. The slower commentary in my head was registering that the bull had shown little sign of any impact even though it looked like enough dust and dirt had jumped off his hide to fill a kid’s sandbox. Based on his immediate reaction, I might as well have hit him with a tennis ball.
He wheeled and ran left for a few yards and turned to face us. He showed no outward sign of taking the bullet that we’d later find had been a mortal hit. I had no time to concern myself with the other buffalo. I could see them out of the corner of my eye, all of which had now also turned to face us. The rifle barked again, and I saw more dust fly from the center of his chest. Again, it looked like I’d shot the backstop at the shooting range. This time he spun to his right and ran parallel to us. My third bullet hit true on his left side just before he disappeared below the roll of the hill. He stopped and we could still see his head as another bull ran in, stopped between us and angled toward our position. Seconds later, my bull tipped over like a felled tree. The other buffalo looked briefly over his shoulder when the bull went down, then brought his focus squarely back to us. Then he took a couple steps in our direction.
The new bull watched us intently for a long time with his tail swishing. I would later learn from Germann that the tail swish had him concerned. It’s a sign of aggression that can signal a charge. We had crouched down after the shots to minimize our presence, and I quickly topped off and reseated my magazine as we waited. After several minutes of standoff with the buffalo, I broke the silence. Now that my bull was down, I quietly asked Germann what he wanted us to do if this new bull charged.
“Shoot until you are out of bullets” he replied calmy. Germann’s tone, along with the serious look on his face as he watched the buffalo, made his instruction crystal clear.
After 20 agonizing minutes, the other buffalo eventually eased off and we made our way to the downed bull. If I thought the buffalo was big in the scope, it was nothing short of breath-taking when standing beside it. Germann estimated its weight at 1,000 kilograms, or 2,200 pounds. Up close, I could see that the true color of the hide and horns was a dark black. Wallowing had coated them with a layer of mud that had turned the horns tan and the hide a dark gray.
The sun was just beginning to dip into the horizon as we finished taking pictures and marveling at the sheer size of the beast. On the drive back to the lodge we watched a glorious sunset from our seats on the high rack in the truck bed. I’m not sure how the sky in Argentina creates a wash of colors at sunrise and sunset that are so vividly intense and beautifully pastel all at the same time, but she does it with regularity and it’s impressive.
We enjoyed burgers from my bull the next day for lunch and marinated backstrap steaks for dinner the following night. Each of the lodge staff took home a couple hundred pounds of meat and the rest will go to future lodge meals. (U.S. customs prohibits bringing any meat from Argentina back into the states.) In the true Argentine spirit of meat prepared skillfully—much of it over hot open coals—the meals were excellent. In my experience, Argentinos can coax more searing heat out of fewer coals than anyone I know.
The red stag and blackbuck hunts were successful and wonderful. The doves were fast and numerous. The camaraderie was exceptional. Argentina once again lived up to my high expectations for big-game hunting and intense wingshooting. Adding the unexpected and exciting thrill of being able to stalk an Argentine water buffalo made this trip of hunting in a spectacular location with great friends a cherished memory.
