Outdoor Odyssey

Dove season had just opened in the south zone, and having nothing special to do that Saturday, Layla and I decided we’d run down to Crystal City for a hunt.  We could be back to our home in Cypress before midnight and then, gas was only around $.60 a gallon!

Our plan was to find a shady spot around the stock tank and ambush the Doves when they came into water.  This was a great plan, but arriving at our lease and driving into the stock tank, we found it completely dry!  We were pacing around and worrying about what to do when Eldred Lawrence drove up.  He too had made identical plans as ours and couldn’t understand why, or how, the tank had dried up so fast.

Walking around and worrying, no shooting yet since it was a good hour before the Doves would water, I noticed a 2 inch hose and curiously followed it to a large pump with an electric motor.  The pump was directly wired to an incoming 220 line and beside it was a switch on a fuse box.  

Quickly adding 2+2 and getting a solution, I would see if the pump worked and if it would pump water.  Hollering for El and Layla to come over, I flipped the switch, the motor hummed the hose “bowed up” and out came water into the tank!

Saying, “Why don’t we just run this hose for and hour or so, until the birds come around, then we can turn it off?”  My fellow hunters agreed.

El walked across the tank from us and sat his stool in the dappled shade of a mesquite tree.  Layla and I spaced apart and followed suit.  The pump kept pumping and soon we had enough water in the bottom of the tank to make a difference.  As the pump pumped and the water gushed, the first flight of Doves came zipping in and tried to land in a dead mesquite next to El.

Rising up, he fired, bam, bam, bam and one Dove tumbled down.  Here came another bunch toward Layla and I and we knocked down 3.  Running over to the switch, I flipped it off as El whirled around and fired away from the tank and the bird tumbled into the brush.  He got up to go retrieve it and I returned to my vigil.

“Son of a gun!”  Boom, boom, boom, both El and his 12 gauge, autoloader barked.  I didn’t see any birds, so I thought a predator perhaps.  He called to us, “Jon, Layla, come over and see this rattler.”

Walking over to him, several pieces of a large Rattle Snake were laying 3 or 4 feet from the downed, Dove.  We figured the snake made a serious mistake and thought he had found an easy meal.

We had an excellent hunt and in a little over an hour, ended up with 3 limits and no more snakes,.  Any bird that fell outside of the tank was carefully retrieved and, during the retrieve, all eyes were firmly locked on the ground!

In late 1974 I received a nice promotion to Atlanta, Georgia, moved from The Valley Of The Sun, and my friends said that I left claw marks on the floor of my office as they drug me out.  The first year in Atlanta was spent getting acclimated to a new job, new friends, new hunting and fishing opportunities and new schools for the kids.  By the fall of 1976, I had met and hunted with several Quail hunters in Atlanta, but had hit it off especially well with one, James Walton.  James was a neighbor and not in the computer business, but Vice-President of an old, established construction company.  

James had two German Shorthair Pointers, the older, Crystal, the mother of his younger dog was an excellent hunter.  The younger, like all young dogs was wild and rambunctious, but our dogs had helped to cement our friendship.  Crystal hunted in close and Rooster, my Brittany Spaniel, would range out one hundred yards or more.  Both honored the other’s points, hunted “dead” until the bird was found or the “look-for” called off and were inexhaustible.

James and I had joined a hunting club, that had leased many acres of supposedly good Quail hunting land.  Our results were only fair, however, we did get to see a lot of the state.  This particular hunt, we had reserved for Friday and Saturday, a several hundred acre track of harvested soy bean fields with some nice wooded cover.  Brad was a sophomore in high school and his JV football season had ended, so I got him out of school on this particular Friday and we headed to South Georgia for some quailing.

We arrived near Thomasville around noon, found our hunting area and made camp. We were staying “out” Friday night, which should be fun since the weather featured warm days and cool nights.  We didn’t even think about the warm afternoons bringing out the Rattle Snakes.

Rooster, Brad and I took off to one side of the large bean field and James and Crystal went the other way.  Shortly I hear, Pop, Pop, James finds a small covey and it looks like he’s got one down.  Brad and I proceed along the edge of the field not finding any birds.  We get to the corner of the field and Rooster locks down hard on a point.  Quickly approaching, whirrrrr,  the covey breaks wild before we can get a shot.  We mark the spot where the covey flew into the woods and all three of us, Rooster, Brad and I, hurry after the birds.  We pass through where the covey was flushed and, whirr, a late riser, Bam, and he falls to my twenty gauge, pump shotgun.  

As Rooster and Brad continue chasing the covey, I see my bird on the ground and run over to pick him up. Retrieving the bird, I head back toward Brad, who is in the thick brush and not seeing him, I head in his general direction.

“Bark, growl, growl, bark,” from Rooster.  “Dad, Dad, up here quick,” from Brad!  Running to the sound of his voice and coming out of the woods, I see Brad a-straddle of a barbwire fence.  “Bark, bark,” from Rooster and he add a serious snarl, jumping around a fence post next to where Brad is hanging onto the fence and looking down under him  “Dad, there’s a big Rattler right under me,” Brad shouts!  I hurry faster and see he had laid his gun down on the ground prior to climbing the fence and the Rattlers “treed” him.  He’s right, it’s a big one, coiled and rattling, and at that moment, more interested in the dog.  Rooster knows about snakes having hunted with me for three years in Arizona. Bam, one shot and the snakes done for.

Rooster is still barking and Brad is getting down from the fence.  We stretch the Snake out and he is a good five feet long and bigger around than my forearm.  My aim was true and the shot shredded the snakes head, leaving the skin undamaged.  Brad says, “That snake could’ve bit me or Rooster.  Let’s eat him Dad.”  We both thought of an old Indian saying, “Eat your enemies and gain some strength from them.”  Why not?

We cut off the rattles and saved them, whew, it smells like uria, and the fertilizer plants in Pasadena, Texas.  We skin him and roll up the skin for now and it really stinks! We gut him and except for the smell we have a hunk of pretty, white meat.  I take a canteen and wash off the snake’s body, eliminating some of the smell.  I later learned that snakes don’t have kidneys and liquid waste is secreted out of their body through the skin.  

Most times when hunters have a close encounter with a serious predator or big Rattle Snake, the hunt is over for the day, as was our case, however, we went back to camp and set to preparing our supper, fried Rattle Snake.  Small problem, no corn meal, but we had flour in our camper, which should work just fine as long as long as the grease doesn’t get too hot.  We cut up the snake into one and one-half inch pieces and rolled it into the flour and wrapped the five plus pounds of meat up in foil and popped it into the cooler and waited for Walton to get back.  We saved the quail for back home, feeling confident we would get some more the next day.

We had heard James shoot several times and he and Crystal returned with three quail.  He said, “You all came in early.  What’s up?”  We told him our exciting story and told him we were having Rattle Snake for supper.  He blanched!  Not hesitating, we showed him the large quantity of white meat and began to fry the Snake and fries.

After supper, James said, “That Rattle Snake wasn’t bad.”  He was right.  All white meat, sweet and tender, not bad at all.

We not only ate the snake, but the rattles now grace a special display in my great room, and, we made one hat band and one belt from the skin.

On February 12, 2007, I was going through a trove of old Bryan family momentoes and opening a box of keepsakes from my Uncle, E. Jay Bryan, who served in the Army during the Mexican Border Campaign with Gen. Pershing, and died in France during WW 1, well before I was born, I came across the following handwritten poem, author unknown to me.

It is my pleasure to share it with the readers.

E. Jay’s unit was Company F, 3rd Texas Infantry Regiment, Texas National Guard, from Falls County, Texas, charged with border defense.  His Grandfather B. M. Bryan, my Great Grandfather, also defended along the Mexican border during the Mexican War of 1846/47 as part of a Texas Ranger contingent, Bell’s Rangers, also from central Texas.  Today, our southern border still remains a real problem area.  In my forefather’s times they just closed the border and ran the Mexicans back across.

Things were easier then before we became engulfed with Political Correctness and the disgusting pandering of our politicians.   But, one thing remains, our country’s freedom is more important than politics!

Just like today, most of us, and definitely our military, loves this great country and remain proud to serve her!

“TOO PROUD TO LOAF

We’re camping on the Rio Grande with nothing much to do,
But wash our shirts and darn our socks,
And darn the insects too.
We want the world to understand we’re not too proud to fight,
But draw the line at loafing here with things that sting and bite.

The Rattlers are a friendly lot and visit us by scores,
Tarantulas prefer our tents to sleeping out of doors.

In napping in our shoes and hats the scorpion persists,

We’ve learned the Horned Toad is a harmless little oaf,
We’re not a bit too proud to fight, but how we hate to loaf."