Hunting condors . . .

As always, when Antonio asked a question, it wasn’t so much the question as the intent. His questions were like verbal shovels, not only designed to scrape the surface, but intended to dig deeper.

“Cris you say, is now a reporter?”

When my son Cris heard we were going to have a newspaper, he could not wait to get involved. Right away he asked me for a camera, saying he wanted to be a reporter. I saw no problem with that, in fact, I saw a lot of benefits and even liked the idea. When he wanted three of his friends to join in the effort, I got them all digital cameras, found them a desk at the office, set them up with a laptop and told them to get busy.

“Sure,” I answered. “He wants to be a famous reporter. He and his friends are taking pictures, besides writing a story every week. If it proves to be worthy, we publish it. So far we’ve published one of his stories and a few of their pictures.”

Antonio leaned back and smoked his pipe.

“I can help those kids get a story that is sure to be published,” he said eventually, “in any newspaper, in addition to getting pictures that will make it into National Geographic.”

I looked at him. Sometimes he was a kidder, but this time he sounded sincere and I wondered what he was talking about.

“I can help them trap a condor,” he said in all seriousness. Now I knew he was kidding.

“I’m not kidding,” he said, reading my mind. “The Incas used to do it in the old days, so did the Mapuches, and so did the old ones, the native Fuegians, the original inhabitants of this land. I’ve done it more than once, when I was a youngster.

Needless to say, he had my whole attention.

He looked at me and since I was paying attention, he went on.

“A Gaucho named Segundo, who worked for my grandfather here at the estancia, told us kids stories of going with the natives on a condor hunt. It was never to destroy the bird, but for the glory of the capture. The bird was always let go afterwards, and from what I could tell, was none the worse for wear, but maybe lost a feather or two. The person who captured him got to keep one as a souvenir.

“In many Andean cultures, the condor has always been the symbol of the Andes, the very image of power and health. In their mythology, the condor is associated with the sun god, the ruler of the upper world.

“Sixty years ago there used to be a lot more condors. I have been on puma hunts and looked up to see fifty condors circling, never flapping a wing, just riding the thermals. There’s still plenty of birds, but not as many as before. The sheep farmers keep thinking condors steal their sheep, so they leave poisoned carcasses for them to feast on. But I’ve never seen a condor eat anything bigger than a rabbit live, or knew of anyone who has. Condors mostly feed on carcasses: deer, guanaco, horses, dolphins, fish, whales, you name it. If it dies, they’re on it. Of course, sometimes there’s petty condors, like everything else, and they’ll steal eggs or chicks from other birds, and I saw one catch a rabbit once, but it doesn’t have powerful talons like a hawk or an owl, so it beaked the rabbit to death.

“They’re up high though, and if you want to catch one, best do it now, since we need to climb to where they are. They nest at seven thousand feet, or higher, so it has to be summer. No way would I take kids that high in winter. It can be done, but best not to.”

“You’re serious,” I said.

“Of course I am,” he said. “It beats playing video games and watching TV. And whether or not they catch one is beside the point. Either way they will never forget it. Some of my best condor hunts were ones where we only saw them but never got close.”

“And how is it you catch one,” I asked, unconvinced.

“The old fashioned way,” he answered. “Actually, the only way I know. You go up high on the mountain and dig a hole big enough to get into. Then you climb inside and get your friends to cover the hole with small branches and twigs. On top of that they put a small carcass. Can be anything really. Guanaco, rabbit, horse, sheep, whatever. In the case of the Incas, the mutilated body of an enemy. Then all you have to do is wait. When the condor lands, you reach through the branches and grab a leg. Then you slip a small rope around the leg. By that time he’s flapping, you’re screaming and your friends are running to help. When your friends arrive, they throw a net over the bird to keep him from hurting himself. Once secure, you pick a feather, pluck it, and let him go. Simple as that. I guess now you pluck a feather, take a few pictures and then let him go.” He grinned.

“Sounds easy,” I said.

He laughed. “If you come with us, you’ll never do anything harder, I promise you that: from then on, everything in your life will be small potatoes in comparison and you’ll be wishing for another condor hunt to give it meaning.”

“Where’s the hard part?” I asked.

“All of it,” he said. “The trip on horseback, the hike, the climb, the digging a hole in solid rock, the lack of oxygen, the cold, the wind, the rain, the finding a carcass, the fooling the bird, the wait, the catching and not getting beaked, everything.”

Can we take the helicopter?” I asked.

He looked at me like I hadn’t been listening.

Antonio leaned back and busied himself relighting his pipe. I, on the other hand, was hooked.

From the sequel to In the Land of Fire (unpublished).

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