48 HUNTING CAMPS. 



Governor of the Falklands used to be called from the vast 

 colonies of those birds which inhabited his regency. But 

 that time is past, and the Falklands are now given over to 

 mild flocks of sheep. 



One of my first experiences with wild cattle occurred in 

 the neighbourhood of Lake Buenos Aires, when I and my 

 Welsh gaucho, Humphrey Jones, came in the early morn- 

 ing upon the track of a big bull. On his trail we rode hour 

 after hour, and though at one time all signs proved that we 

 were very close to him, he finally led us into a stony and 

 arid belt of country where we could no longer hold the track. 

 In spite of losing him, the experience was interesting in 

 that it showed the pace at which a bull will sometimes 

 travel, for at the start we were not above an hour behind 

 him, and we followed at a good rate. No doubt in some 

 of our wheeling and turning the bull got the wind of us, 

 which hastened him on his journey to the refuge of the 

 distant cordillera. 



I was perhaps unfortunate in that I was so often near 

 the herds without obtaining a shot, as once in the gloaming 

 I saw a herd containing some magnificent old bulls descend 

 the rugged side of Mount Buenos Aires to drink in Lake 

 Argentino. A deep rift separated me from them, and by 

 the time I had made my way round it was too dark to 

 shoot, though I could hear the great brutes moving about 

 in the water just beneath me. Of course, on occasions 

 considerable numbers of the true wild cattle have been 

 killed or captured in a single day, but this has always taken 

 place on the pampas ; in the cordillera such an occurrence 

 would not be possible. 



After a shot it was an almost hopeless task to attempt 

 to come again within range of the same herd that day, and 

 under cover of the following night they usually left the 

 mountain on which they had been disturbed. During nine- 

 teen days of hunting wild cattle near Lake Argentino, 



