RadioProfile | lost in the mountains

Text by Carlos Rebella

We had reached the end of the path, beyond 1,500 meters, using four-wheel drive and a lot of skill to climb the slope, covered with rocks and stones. There our host left us, along with our camping gear, on the banks of a stream of crystalline waters. As soon as we had finished setting up the tent, we were surprised by the distant bellowing of a deer that began its nocturnal forays very early. Despite the fact that I did not know the field well enough, and that in a couple of days we would have a baqueano, we could not with the temper and get closer to try a set.

In a few minutes we loaded up with what we needed –weapons included- and started the march, turning our heads from time to time so as not to lose sight of the camp. Useless precaution, since, after a while, we lost it, but confident that it would not be difficult to find it when we returned.

However, the deer, which had come very close to us, turned out to be farther and farther away, as the afternoon fell rapidly. The enthusiasm and excitement of the hunt -bad advisers- prompted us to go ahead without measuring the consequences. With the bellow attracting us like an enchanted magnet, we crossed several canyons until we reached a slope covered with lengas and ñires, from where the hoarse bellow arose more and more frequently. At times, when the position of the animal or the direction of the wind were not favourable, or we should clearly have its labored breathing. More and more hopeful we continued the silent approach, until we reached a point where I would have to wait for him to appear in some clearing. With luck on our side, we finally saw him, silhouetted against the trees, motionless, long enough for me to shoot him. The impact knocked him down instantly, and after a few minutes of watching him, we got closer. From barely a meter I could see its beautiful fourteen-pointed antlers. In that, my partner arrived, a little late, shouting his joy. After the cry (or perhaps, because of it) the deer suddenly jumped as a resource and ran into the bush. I picked up the rifle and searched for him in the scope as he quickly faded into the gloom. I fired, more out of a reaction of rage and impotence than because of the safety of the shot, without being able to stop it at all.

The silence that enveloped us was only surpassed by the astonishment and the feeling of misery that we experienced. We look for traces of blood, tripping, or signs that it could be in the vicinity, but everything was in vain. With the last hope placed in the baqueano to try to find him, he had to start the return. I never saw “my” deer again, and the circumstances of that shot were the subject of long discussions between hunters about what had happened: that a shot called “needles” hit close to the withers and grazed the column producing a kind of from shock or fainting; that a belly shot that does not interest vital organs; or a rock on the head that blinds him for a moment. The truth is that although we later searched for it for a whole day, we could never find it.

With night approaching and completely disoriented, the first shadows surprised us without having any certainty of the course to follow. Several times we climbed to the top of a hill in the hope of spotting the camp or some guiding reference; until, before dark night fell, I proposed gathering wood to spend the night by the fire and, in the morning, try to get our bearings again. To my surprise, I found myself with a hitherto unknown friend, on the brink of hysteria and accusing me of being to blame for the whole situation. In fact, I didn’t even want to hear about the possibility of spending the night outdoors and I imagined all kinds of dangers.

Faced with his growing aggressiveness, I agreed to continue, hoping that the fatigue would calm him down. We walked for several hours, stumbling and bumping into branches, until we came across a stream that was impossible to ford because of its exuberant banks. I proposed to follow its course downstream, hoping to find some lake where it ended or some well-trodden path that would be useful to us. As time went by, the growing state of excitement and obfuscation of my partner alarmed me, who, extremely excited, confessed to being sure of his next ending, without forgetting to blame me.

Almost at midnight, and with a tiny moon that gave us its light, we rested, for a period, in a clean. We already had not enough strength to argue, or to raise our legs, when I thought the time had come to propose camping again, even at the cost of an unpredictable reaction.

That was when the miracle happened. In the semi-darkness that surrounded us I saw an orange spot that seemed like a mirage, but it wasn’t. We had just skirted the neighboring stream and God wanted us to stop a few meters from the bivouac. There our camp was located. If we had stopped a few meters back or ahead, we would never have seen it and I can’t imagine what could have happened to us.

The adventure, then, was due to expose an aspect of the personality so unknown to me and to my friend, who never found comfort in remembering and analyzing his reactions. And I learned that you should never challenge the mountains without the essential help of a baqueano.