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Border Mouflons
The sight of buzzards circling was nothing new to the ranch owner. After all, animals died all the time in the swath of harsh wilderness that runs along the Texas-Mexico border. What animals didn’t die of old age or sickness were often taken by predators such as cougars, bobcats, or coyotes. In addition, poachers or thrill seeking idiots, often times only armed with handguns, often took animals from the road at night using their car headlights to illuminate their illegal activities. All told there were any number of things that could leave a warm meal for a society of buzzards; the only question was, what kind of animal was out there lying dead?
Wading through a chest high wall of South Texas scrub and thorns the rancher eventually came upon a blood trail in a sparse opening. Tracking it, the rancher found the tale of a struggle written in torn earth, broken and bent vegetation, and blood. Eventually the trail led to a crumbled human body seeking refuge from the blistering sun under the shade of a small mesquite tree.
Like many land owners along the border, the rancher had always had trouble with illegal aliens crossing through his property. But the rancher had never seen one in this bad of shape. The boy was battered and covered in scratches. He was bleeding from several wounds and he clutched his ribs in pain.
“¿Qué Pasó?” The rancher asked.
Writhing in pain, the man could only utter, “El guajalote grande.”
Confused but undeterred by the man’s answer, the rancher helped the beaten form back to his truck and then to his house where he called the Border Patrol. Upon their arrival, Border Patrol agents asked the man to explain his injuries. And again, all the man could say was, “El guajalote grande.”
Concerned that the man’s incoherent and implausible answer were the result of his injuries and severe dehydration, the Border Patrol Agents put the man into their car to take him to the hospital. But before the agents could reach the front gate of the property, the future deportee pointed toward the brush and began screaming “El guajalote grande, el guajalote grande.”
The agents turned to see the source of the man’s traumatic outburts. “The big turkey” turned out to be an ostrich. A very territorial ostrich.
Welcome to the Texas-Mexico border, a stretch of harsh and unforgiving landscape over 1,200 miles in length. A place steeped in a violent history of man against man and man against nature. Despite its history and trying environment the border is home to numerous cities, the busiest land port of entry in the United States, and some of the best hunting in the world. In addition to deer, pronghorn, javelina, and wild boar the border area has some of the best exotic hunting in the state (thus the ostrich).
Located on the outskirts of Crystal City and roughly 40 miles from the Texas-Mexico border, the Las Auras Ranch offers hog, brush ram, and exotic hunts in the mesquite and scrub choked thickets of South Texas. Owned and operated by veteran Professional Hunter Paul Buitron, Las Auras (meaning turkey vulture in Spanish) was started in 1987 with the plan of offering a great hunting experience similar to those Paul had experienced during his safaris in South Africa. With that in mind Paul began a strict game management program that has lead to some exceptional trophies. As of this writing, Las Auras is home to the number four Black Hawaiian Ram and the number eleven Four Horn Sheep. A record book breaking Trans-Caspian urial from Las Auras is currently mounted and on display in the Ft. Worth Cabela’s store.
In terms of accommodations Las Auras offers private suites based on Paul’s favorite African hunting camps but with unique South Texas twists such as native stone showers, bright colors, and trophy mounts taken on the ranch. Rooms also have a kitchenette area with microwave, table, and coffee maker. During my hunt for a mouflon ram I found my suite to be a comfortable and much needed oasis from the extreme heat of September in South Texas.
My arrival on Sunday afternoon came at the end of a hectic week for Paul. In addition to having to deal with the threat of Hurricane Rita pushing harsh weather inland he was also reeling over the loss of a small herd of scimitar-horned oryx that were shot from the road.
“Yeah,” Paul began. “Whoever it was just drove by and shot about five of them. Just left them to rot. Some of them didn’t even die right off. I found them 30 or 40 yards away.”
I wondered if this recent incident had anything to do with the presence of another guest on the ranch; Joe Salinas, a retired sheriff’s deputy from the nearby city of Laredo. But as it turned out, Joe was simply a friend of Paul’s who had come in search of a trophy sized painted desert ram.
After being shown to my room and settling in I gathered my gear and joined Paul and Joe for a quick trip around the ranch. Although we all agreed we probably wouldn’t see much game moving with the temperature set at 106 degrees, we felt confident we might see something stirring around one of the many water holes on the property. As we loaded into the Kawasaki Mule 4 x 4 Paul uses to travel the ranch, he began to tell me of a pig hunt that had taken place on the property several weeks earlier.
For two days Paul tried to get his bow hunting client onto a big hog. The hunter had passed on several hogs he felt were too small because he was holding out for a tusked “monster.” At the end of the second day Paul found just what the hunter was looking for wallowing in some mud near the edge of a waterhole. The bow hunter crept to within striking distance and let his arrow fly. Unfortunately the arrow missed the hog’s vitals and instead buried itself into the huge boar’s shoulder blade with a resounding thud.
Immediately the hog spun in pain and anger in an attempt to get at the source. The hunter notched another arrow and tried again. And again he hit the boar in the shoulder. With tusks clattering in violent frustration the boar crashed into a wall of scrub brush in frantic escape but not before the hunter managed to get one more arrow into the animal’s thick hide.
“We looked for that hog all night,” Paul explained, continuing the story. “The next day I had a guy bring over some tracking dogs. He ran those dogs all day and nothing. We never could find the pig.
A week later I’m guiding a guy, rifle hunter, who wants a scimitar-horned oryx when he spots this hog wallowing in the mud with three broken arrows sticking out of him! I told the hunter to shoot him. He dropped him with one shot. That thing weighed 677 pounds! It was huge.”
Driving around the property I couldn’t help but think that the harsh environment of the border region somehow made the animals more resilient. This harshness was apparent on almost ever feature of the ranch. Driving around, it seemed as though everything on the Las Auras was either covered in thorns or briars. Even the ground itself was harsh, resembling a baked rock crust.
Despite the uninviting topography we did manage to see some game. Blackbuck antelope darted across the road in haste before catapulting themselves into the protection of thick cover. A yak, his coat thickly matted with mud, briars, and debris wadded quietly in chest deep water before exploding toward the opposite bank at the sight of us. And barely visible through the rich tapestry of intertwined vegetation a group of Corsican rams clustered together in attempts to monopolize on the slim shade of a twisted mesquite tree. With our bodies baking and the metal of the Mule turning into a fry skillet we decided to call it a day and pick up the hunt seriously the next day.
 A yak trying to cool off |
For dinner, and to escape the blazing heat, we headed into Crystal City for a meal of tacos rojos and several ice cold Dos Equis beers. As is often the case, each beer consumed only seemed to fuel our comradery and the quality of the conversation reflected as such. But with an early start planned for the next morning, we decided to pack it in around nine.
The next morning Paul came to wake me with news that Joe had left hours earlier due to a family emergency. Concerned, I asked about the emergency.
“Don’t worry about it,” Paul laughed. “With Joe’s wife, everything’s an emergency. She can’t find something, it’s an emergency. This morning it was she couldn’t find some papers for the condo they’re selling. Don’t worry about it. Let’s go get a mouflon.”
I agreed and after climbing into some clothes and grabbing my gear I was ready to go.
The rising sun found Paul and me sitting high upon a bluff scanning the pockmarked South Texas scrub below for mouflon or signs thereof. As I had been the day before, I was amazed at the number of game I saw on Las Auras. Two zebras, partially hidden by the skeletal shadows of short mesquite tree ambled forward in search of a morning meal. A small trip of goats appeared and then disappeared in a dry gully carved by floodwaters long ago. Beyond them, at the furthest distance of our sight, were the partially hidden, brown coats of mouflon running through a thick coat of bent and twisting vegetation. Maybe.
“I can’t tell,” Paul admitted. “That might be some mouflon.”
Knowing only one way to find out for sure, we climbed into the Mule and made our way to a better vantage point. Unfortunately, the better vantage point kept changing as the rams kept moving. It wasn’t until after lunch that we had gotten a good look at them.
Through a tangle of mesquite trees we finally got to see what we were after. Oblivious to the boiling heat, the group of about fifteen mouflon had been moving throughout the day, grazing and browsing as they went.
“There’re a couple good rams in there,” Paul commented, glassing through some broken huisache. “Let’s see if we can get around in front of them. I think I know where they might be headed.”
Making a wide circle around the island of brush, Paul and I situated ourselves across from a deep opening in the scrub and directly in the path of the oncoming herd. Fortunately for my already burned skin, we didn’t have to wait in the oven heat that long. Exiting the thick in single file, the herd quickly fanned out across the opening allowing us plenty of time to take our pick of rams.
“That one in the center,” Paul whispered. “That’s a good ram.”
With sweat pouring from my head like a sprinkler system I didn’t wait to hear the Paul repeat his opinion. Drawing a bead just above the ram’s front leg, I gently squeezed the trigger of my Remington .270. At the shot, the ram lurched forward, collapsing into the dry earth before regaining his footing and creeping forward another 20 yards or so. The herd disappeared in a cloud of up kicked dust and debris.
 Close-up of the ram's 8 1/2 inch base |
“Good shot,” Paul congratulated. “That’s about 125 yards.”
Not noticing the heat for a moment, Paul and I made our way to the fallen ram.
The ram was easily a Gold Medal animal according to SCI standards, with 32 inch length curl and 8 ½ inch base. Not only that, he was a time well spent.