Wings, Inc. has been extremely fortunate to have been featured in several significant sporting magazines across the country.  We have reproduced them here for your information and enjoyment.  The article from Dove Hunter was featured in the tenth issue of that magazine, which was actually included as a part of the Quail Unlimited magazine for that period.  You will note that we have been included in most of the top sporting magazines in the US, and in several different issues of some of those magazines.  We hope to continue adding to this section, as additional stories about our adventures around the world are featured.

South Africa, Wingshooter Style

The Western Uplander (Winter 2001)
By Ron Spomer

Don Terrell stood in green wheat shoots ten yards from a wall of thatch grass growing along the fence.  Behind it guinea fowl were rattling like castanets as a half-dozen field hands drove them, whacking corn stalks and singing out the Zulu equivalent of “shoo birds, git up there” the way we did in south Dakota 40 years ago.

Don waved “get ready” to David Brashear standing a hundred yards down the line.  And then thirty salt-and-pepper birds shaped like light bulbs with wings sprang into the blue African sky.  Two Beretta autoloaders sounded whump whump whumpity whump and then fell silent while both men fumbled for more red shells as big, easy targets flapped overhead.  The chunky birds glided into yellow grass under naked umbrella thorn trees, flickered their wings in the mid-morning sun, and were gone.  Rick Lemmer, our professional hunter, and George Haine, landowner and host for the day, stepped out of the corn with Rick’s German shorthair, Cocoa, at heal.  “Okay, gentlemen.  Let’s go have some fun.”


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The Argentina Experience

Wing & Shot (Dec 2000 - Jan 2001)
By Ron Spomer

You don’t often hear about Argentina’s flushing birds.  They are overshadowed by an all-you-can-shoot smorgasbord of doves, pigeons and geese, plus goodly numbers of parti-colored ducks.  These are what lure hunters to South America, me included.  The exciting perdiz, however, will lure me back again.

“Ahh, ahh, ahh.”  Segundo called my attention, pointed to his nose, then to the skinny brown-and-white pointer.  The combined sign language of man and beast lost nothing in translation.  The young dog was birdy.  It went from suspicious casting to intense trailing, cautious tip-toeing.  Point.  I stepped in front, swished the crew-cut grass and spun at the abrupt sound of short wings behind me.  It took me several beats to get the borrowed Remington 1100 settled, find and flick off the safety, look onto the little brown target and scratch it down.



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Argentina, Upland Goose Utopia

Wildfowl (Dec 2001 - Jan 2002)
By Ron Spomer

“Here comes a bunch…” Don Terrell said as he ducked into our simple blind of rebar stakes and camouflage netting.  “…from the southwest.”  I leaned forward on my five-gallon bucket, peeked over the edge of the ragged material and could just make out plump, dark forms dropping back below the four strand wire to resume their skimming flight over the muddy, harvested sunflower field,  Don whispered to alert Lee and Nick in the next blind over.  Their heads were already down.

Onward came the geese, pumping steadily: four white ganders growing brighter, three dark, cinnamon-headed females looking black in the fog.  Without circling or calling, they crossed over the wind-sock, half shell and silhouette decoy spread, passing 30 yards in front of us and so low that we had to point our barrels level.  Each time the Beretta bucked in my hands the goose trailing behind its muzzle collapsed: one, two, three.  “How many did you get?”  I immediately asked Don, certain he’s shot at the same birds.

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Wings Over Argentina

Sporting Classics (Jan-Feb 1992)
By Robert L. McKinney

Imagine the American West as it must have been 80 years ago.

Now throw in blood-thirsty piranha, 50-pound ostrick-like birds that graze like cattle, clouds of doves, and more ducks than you ever imagined possible.  Welcome to Argentina!

“Pato! Pato!” my birdboy, Yondi,whispered excitedly from just behind my right elbow.

My eyes followed his pointing finger toward a flock of silver teal at two o’clock high and speeding in our direction.

Crouched in a makeshift blind of green branches stuck into the mud of what had to be the biggest rice paddy in the world, I gave a couple of low whistles on a Lohman teal call that I’d brought with me from Virginia, on the off chance it might be able to speak Espanol del pato.

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The Rifleman’s African Heritage

Rifle Hunting (Fall 1998)
By Ron Spomer

An African safari offers the opportunity to hunt and/or photograph a variety of species for less than the price of an Alaskan brown bear hunt.

It surprises me to hear American deer hunters, keen to add pronghorn, elk, caribou and other North American game to their adventures, profess disinterest in African hunting. “Who would want to shoot an elephant?” they say, or “Sure I’d like to see those great herds of wildebeest and zebra someday, but I have absolutely no interest in hunting all those odd-looking antelopes.”

Come on.  No interest in exploring the most famous hunting destination in history?  No interest in hunting the world’s greatest diversity and abundance of horned game?  No interest in following in the footsteps of some of the greatest hunters of the past two centuries?  No interest in hearing elephants trumpet, hippos bellow, wildebeests grunt?  No desire to shiver as the lion’s roar filters through the flimsy canvas of your tent?

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Hunting Doves in Argentina

Dove Hunter (Nov-Dec 2001)
By Ron Spomer

Burning your fingers on your shotgun barrel is a pretty good indication that you are having a good shoot. I burned my fingers in Argentina. My little Ruger 28-ga. wasn’t just warm; it was dangerous.  Hot oil was oozing from its seams.  As I looked down I found myself surrounded by little red hulls and a considerably smaller pile of little gray doves.  Overhead, the soft Argentine sky was littered with birds.  Dozens.  Hundreds.   Wave after wave of palomas followed one upon the other out of the western grain fields, driving toward a woodland roost behind our line of shooters.  I set my steaming over/under aside and just watched one of the greatest avian spectacles on earth.




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