Outdoor Odyssey

Dove season in Texas' central and north zones opens this morning and I thought it appropriate to post this dove hunting story from the past that took place "South Of The Border, Down Mexico Way" near Lake Guerro.  Our excessive shooting can't be condoned, but for excuses, there were so many birds, so few hunters and a "waiver" or "pay off" had been delivered to the local Game Warden, that my friend's and I reluctantly went ahead fed a lot of poor Mexicans. 

Mid-September found us, Tommy Walker, Norman Shelter and our wives, driving in northern Mexico, south of Brownsville, on the way to a fishing camp on Lake Guerro.  We were hoping to sample the white wing dove hunting and some fantastic bass fishing!  Our destination was almost a hundred miles south of the border towns on the Texas side of the Rio Grande and it was plenty hot, but that didn't stop us!

Arriving at our destination, we were told that the white wing hunting bordered on stupendous, but the bass fishing had reached rock bottom since commercial netting was rampant and "dynamiting" was on the upswing.  After the second morning of trying to catch some bass, we gave up and began concentrating on the birds.

That afternoon we piled into an old school bus with the windows down, for the twenty minute, hot, dusty drive and arrived, sweating, at our hunting spot at 3:00 PM.  We were hunting on a five hundred, acre, uncut, milo field.  White wings land on the stalks and feed directly from them, while mourning doves land and feed on the ground.  The field, bordered by a plateau on its north side that was used as a roosting area by the white wings, had dense brush and trees, or jungle, on the other three sides.  Our guide told us the the roost held between 250,000 and 350,000 birds and local crop depradation was high, but for us not to worry about the limits, that it had been taken care of.

Based on the guide's input, Tommy and Norman decided to try for one thousand birds each and I set my goal to see how many shots it would take me to bag a hundred.  The birds that we didn't eat at the camp, or take home, were given to poor families, of which there were many, so there would be no waste of the game.  Tommy and Norman were assigned three "bird boys" each and since my goal was low I was only authorized one.

Our spot was between the roost and the field in a hundred yard, wide opening in the trees.  The guide told us that the doves would come funneling throught this opening in droves right at 3:30 PM.  Funnel in they did!  The birds were everywhere and our guns kept up a constant banging and the bird boys were scrambling to pick up the kills. You always hear "them" say, "We shot until our barrels were too hot to touch."  We did and we even had to be careful loading our pump guns and not touching the receivers because they were steaming hot also!

Our guns, since we brought them in  from the U.S, were plugged, three shots each and "triples" were common.  It took Tommy and Norman two and a half days of steady shooting, A.M. and P.M. to get their thousand.  Horribly bruised shoulders kept them from shooting for over three weeks!  In less than two hours, my one hundred and twenty-nine shots accounted for my hundred.

As "they" say, "When you're hot, you're hot!"

On one excursion to Rocky Point, several of the locals asked me to accompany them to “The Cut”, a two hundred foot wide, cut and channel leading from El Golfo into a small bay, St John’s Bay.  Catch the conditions right, mainly the water movement, and the fishing is excellent.

The trip was ten miles down the beach, not hard packed sand like along the Texas coast, but fine volcanic sand that refused to pack. It’s a ten, mile trip from Hell, four wheel drive all the way. Tires deflated to eight, yes, eight pounds each!  We probably saw a dozen skeletons of disabled trucks littering the beach. If you broke down, chances were the truck just stayed, rusted out and sank into the sand.

Once we got to the cut and the tide started moving, I cast out a Mr. Champ spoon with a small sardinero, hooked through the mouth, and jigged it slowly along the bottom   My first cast was met by a savage strike, a long run and after a spirited fight, I landed and released an eighteen inch bonefish!  Before our wild trip back to rocky Point, we had loaded up on two to three pound, corvina, a fish resembling our Gulf Coast white trout, but this one can grow to a size of up to thirty pounds and we even released several small snook!  Hot fishing!

It is a very enjoyable, exciting experience to make a suspense filled trip to a remote fishing spot, hammer the fish and then come back out in the dark, engines roaring, sand flying and finally making it back to civilization in one piece.  I made a total of four trips to The Cut.  We even spent the night at The Cut once.  Once was enough!

The funniest thing I have ever seen fishing or around a fishing camp, occurred at Rocky Point. My first time to fish down there, early in the morning, Jim Buck and I, launched  my big tri hull off of the launch ramp just like anywhere else. The proprietor of the camp told us in broken English that in afternoon when we returned the tide would be out, but don’t worry, just be sure to call him on the ship to shore radio and let him know when we would be back.

We caught a mess of fish; pintos (small groupers), rock bass and queen triggers and returning to the camp, called the proprietor as he had instructed. In broken English, he replied, “Beeg, wide Texas boat? OK, we get jur trailer and be ready for ju.” Breaking the connection, I asked Jim, “Get our trailer. What’s going on.” “Quien Sabe?” he replied in broken Spanish.

Nearing shore, I thought I was seeing things!  In the water, there was a John Deere tractor coming our way. The closer we got to it, the more stranger it looked.  I quipped to Jim, “Looks Like a John Deere tractor to me!”  What I saw was a tractor body, diesel engine and all, built up on fifteen foot extensions, with wheels below the extensions rolling on the sandy bottom and the drive shaft pointing down to the rear wheels at a forty five degree angle.  Out came this contraption to tow us into the ramp area and since the tide was out the ramp area was all on dry land.
 
Our trailer was waiting for us two hundred yards out from the launch ramp, hooked up to another tractor/contraption, rear wheels into the water just below the bearing buddies and a Mexican boy standing on the rear of the trailer, dwarfed by the strange looking vehicles. We secured a rope to our John Deere and it chugged up to our trailer, we untied from it, threw the line to the boy on the back of the trailer, he pulled us up to our winch and hooked us to the winch and the second tractor/contraption, we never found out the brand, it didn’t have a body, just engine, chugged us back up to the launch ramp and on to our car. We hopped out of the boat, backed the car up to the trailer and hooked up.

Walking up to the proprietor, I asked him, “How much?” “Two dollar,” he replied. I would have paid ten for that show. Driving back to our campground I remarked to Jim, “I wonder how they figured those tractor contraptions out.” “Quien sabe,” he replied in broken Spanish.

There is more than one way to skin a Deere.
 

Dove season in Texas’ central and north zones opens today and I think it is appropriate to post this Dove hunting story from the past that took place “South Of The Border, Down Mexico Way”, near Lake Guerro. The excessive shooting can’t be condoned, but, for excuses, there were so many White-Winged Doves, so few hunters and a “waiver” or “pay-off” to the local Game Warden, that my friends, and I reluctantly include myself, fed a lot of hungry Mexicans.

In the Gulf of California, a “Chubasco” is a severe thunderstorm, much like our “Purple Thunderers” along the Texas Gulf Coast. I have been caught on the water in three of these monsters and until safely reaching shore, was scared to death each time. During a trip to Rocky Point, Mexico, one caught me on land.