Monthly Archives: July 2007

Fishing

An Unusual Pet

My first trip to go Speckled Trout fishing out of Suwannee, Florida, provided me with a most unusual sight! At the time, mid 1970’s, Suwannee and the one bait camp and motel reminded me of Port O’Conner, Texas in the 1950’s when I went there several times with my Dad. Not many creature comforts, but marvelous Trout fishing. Suwannee had one up on Port O’Conner, the Suwannee bait camp has a pet Bass! Yes, Bass will live and do well in salt/fresh, brackish water.

On my first trip to Suwannee, walking out of the bait camp along a rickety pier to the guide’s boat, the proprietor said, “Sir, watch this and look down into the water right below us.” He picked up an old oar that was leaning against the side of the building and banged it three times on to the pier. Looking down I saw a big fish come floating to the surface, a huge Bass.

The proprietor then took a coffee can of dead shrimp and fish cleanings and dropped them beside the Bass, who promptly inhaled them. The Bass continued swimming around and he continued, saying, “We scooped her up in a long handled net this past spring and she weighed a little over 14 pounds. Ha, Ha, I think we’ll just grow us a new record here.”

I had kept my boat down there for the fall and winter fishing and in early March of 1979, prior to my move back to Texas, came down to Suwannee for one last fishing trip and to take my boat back to Atlanta. Walking in to the bait camp I exclaimed, “How’s everybody?” The proprietor smiled and said, “We’re all fine, but I got some bad news.”

Thoughts of a fish kill or a fishing ban flashed through my brain as he continued, “Some bastard snuck up the canal here Monday night two weeks ago and caught our Bass. I hope he chokes on the bones!”

Fishing

A Quick Trip

About three weeks after my first trip to Suwannee, Florida, I get a call on Thursday night from the guide letting me know that the weather forecast is excellent for the coming weekend and, if I could, I should bring my boat down Saturday and plan on fishing in the afternoon since the tide was coming in then. Having nothing planned but “honey dos”, I told him that I would see him then.

Both kids, Randy, 12, and Suzanne, 8, loved to fish and my ex wife informed me she was going too, so a trip was on and we arrived in Suwannee at the only bait camp, showed the kids the “pet” Bass, bought some shrimp and checked with the proprietor about the status of the Manatees. No Manatees, so off we speed down the Suwannee River into the Gulf of Mexico.

We started fishing in 6 feet of beautiful, clear, green water and for the first 20 minutes didn’t have a hit, so I moved into 4 foot of water, but with much more grass on the bottom and, bingo, our first casts produced 2 nice Specks!

Kids are fun to fish with, wanting to closely check out each fish, touching the one or two big teeth in the Trout’s upper lip, and of course getting their fingers caught in the fish’s mouth, jerking back and finding the fish’s teeth firmly hold their fingers. Randy could bait up, cast and net fish. Suzanne was learning and now almost 30 years later both are accomplished “fisherpersons”.

Everyone caught fish and soon we had 30 nice Specks in the cooler. Since we were going to eat at the only restaurant in town, fresh caught Speckled Trout tonight on their menu, we headed in, cleaned and iced the fish down, cleaned the boat and made arrangements to store it in the very secure boat storage facility.

After cleaning up in our room in the only motel in town, we headed for the restaurant, which was extremely crowded. A 5 minute wait and in we go to be seated, and I see someone stand up, waving in our direction, the only fishing guide in town.

He is eating fish with his clients of the day and introduces me, as “This is the Texas guy I was telling you all about.” Continuing, “How did you do this afternoon?” And I replied, “We caught about 30 in 2 hours.” “See,” the Guide looks at his clients, “He ought to be guiding down here too! This fella’ can catch Specs!”

Sometimes a good day job can really interfere with your avocation

Fishing

Way Down Upon the Suwannee River

While in Atlanta, the Florida coast beckoned to me and after several good “Kingfishing” trips to Destin, my Barber directed me to a spot, the Suwannee River, where I could fish for Speckled Trout, my first fishing love. Suwannee, Florida was a five hour plus, trip from Atlanta, considering our Government’s stupid, 55 MPH, speed limit on I-85.

Having grown up on the Texas Gulf Coast, the Suwannee was much like our bay fishing, except this was fishing directly in the Gulf of Mexico. The bottom dropped off at a leisurely pace of about a foot per mile, there was abundant grass, just like our miles of grass flats in the bays and all of the trips I made there, I never had a trip “blown” by high winds.

The first time out, leaving my boat in Atlanta, we, my ex wife and I, hired the only fishing guide, recommended highly by my Barber, and met him at the only bait camp, where he had his boat, a 24 foot, semi vee bottom, Pro Line with a 150 HP, Evinrude, gassed, loaded, the bait shrimp in his live well and ready to go. I had discussed our trip with him and had decided to furnish my own tackle.

A highlight of the bait camp was the 14-pound Bass, that was their “pet”. But that is another story.

We wound our way down the Suwannee River and once we entered the Gulf, made a hard right up the coast. We made good time down the river because our guide said at this time of the year, early fall, the Manatee, Sea Cows, weren’t an obstacle.

Reaching the desired spot, the guide cut the engines, baited our lines and said “Cast out behind the boat and we’ll trail our baits, drifting along with the wind and current. It won’t be necessary to reel them in until a fish hits, and most times, they hook themselves.”

We, and the guide, looped short casts against the wind, sat back in his lawn chairs and waited, and waited, and waited and nothing happened. He remarked, “The bite won’t start for a while, so we’ll just wait for it.”

Patience is not one of my strengths, so I told the guide, “I’m going to try it like we do on the Texas coast,” and moving to the bow, looped a long cast, with the wind, in front of the boat, started working my popping cork back towards the boat, never letting my line go slack; reel, reel, gently pop the cork; reel, reel, gently pop the cork and Whamo!

The cork goes under, setting the hook, the rod bows, the fish strips line off of the Black, Ambassadeur, 5500C, reel and takes off for Cuba! Soon, the guide nets a very nice, 3 pound Spec, re baits my hook (for the last time) and out flies another cast. Reel, reel, gently pop the cork and Whamo, another solid hit! My ex moves to my side of the boat and repeats my reel, reel and gently pop the cork and proceeds to tie into a nice Speck.

The guide sits back in his lawn chair and says, “I want to watch this performance.” A performance it was! Within one hour the two of us had boated 45 nice Specs and then told the guide we had enough fish to feed the neighborhood, so we head back to the bait camp where the guide begins his bragging about how the Texas people, we were no longer a well to do couple from north Atlanta, had shown him a thing or two about catching Specs. He and I filleted the Specs in no time and iced the fillets down.

As we were leaving the guide told me, “I will call you when the conditions are right. Bring your boat down and leave it here, you don’t need me to show you how to catch fish!”

Hunting

Buck Feever

At the opening of Deer hunting season each year, the Georgia Game and Fish Department hosts a special Deer hunt for twelve to fourteen year olds on Sappelo Island which lies several miles off of the Georgia coast, between Savannah and the Florida state line. The state supplies the food and the deer, which have over run this small island. Drawings are held in August and the winners get to participate in a two day hunt in early November. Randy, my youngest son, and I had applied in August 1977, but weren’t drawn.

Randy, age 12, and his Sappelo Island Deer.

Applying in August, 1978, we were notified that we had been drawn and for us to report to the Game and Fish Department, Sappelo Island Ferry by 12:00 PM, on Friday, November 11, to be ferried to the island. We were told to bring our sleeping gear, tents were OK and for Randy to be ready to hunt by 2:30 PM, of that day.

Excitement reined in our house the weeks before the hunt. Randy didn’t have a rifle so we went to Oshman’s and bought him a Remington 660 bolt action, carbine, in .243 caliber. This wouldn’t “kick” him too much and with a Weaver 3X9 scope he would be able to score a hit at over two hundred yards. We added two boxes of Remington, 100 grain, .243 bullets and the entire bill came to less than $250. We sighted it in at the River Bend Gun Club and the rifle and scope shot right on the “money”. At that time this little rifle was Remington’s “loss leader” and today, 30 years later it is a much sought after item by collectors.

The week before the big hunt on Sappelo Island, excitement continued to rein at our house. I had returned home from a quail hunt with a hair raising story of a hand to hand struggle with a wounded deer, making Randy doubly excited!

Driving to Savannah and on to the ferry landing, we were both excited. We had been told that cars weren’t allowed on the island and all transportation was mule pulled wagons. When I was a young boy, mules and wagons were the main means of transportation in rural Falls County, Texas and having made many trips in one, I was glad Randy was going to get to experience this also.

The ferry ride was a pleasing two to three mile trip across a small bay to the island. The ferry was full of excited boys and girls and equally excited Dads, at the time no Moms were allowed. We were met by the mule drawn wagons and the smell of leather harnesses and mule sweat brought back to me memories of a long ago, happy time.

Taken to our camping spots, we were told to “make camp” and report back to the check in station in thirty minutes to get our individual hunting area assignments and rules for the hunt. The tent was up in record time and we hurried to the meeting area.

We would hunt in Area 4, the fourth father/son team to be unloaded off of the first wagon. There were five wagons all told, 25 hunters in total. The Game Warden in charge told us, “Shooting time would begin at 4:00 PM and pick up would be made whenever the teams were able to get back to the roads. All hunting was to be from blinds, which each hunting party will have to build for themselves. No, absolutely no, stalking of deer. When you shoot your deer, don’t gut it but carry it out to the road and await pick up. Examination and gutting of the deer will be handled by the State. Get your guns. Don’t load up until you get in your blind. Good luck and good hunting.”

As we got off of the wagon, the kids were quiet in anticipation of the hunt. Our spot was about one-half mile square, with a creek, with only a trickle of water in the bottom, running west toward the small bay. There was a rough, wood bridge over the creek and we found plenty of Deer tracks on either side of it. About sixty yards out from the bridge we made our blind out of long marsh grass and dead limbs, and our area of opportunity for a shot was, clockwise, from 9:00 to 3:00 o’clock.

Pulling two bigger logs into our blind for seats, I pull out a Tom Clancy book, “The Hunt For Red October”, and begin to read, when Randy almost yells, “I see a Deer.” I try to give him some last minute instruction, “Aim a little high and take a deep breath and”, Bam! His .243 shatters the stillness. “Dad, I don’t know if I hit him or not, but he had horns,” Randy exclaimed through his ragged breathing.

“Let’s go find him Son.” We searched for over and hour, until dark, and no deer, no blood, it looked like a clean miss. Randy was deflated.

Waiting for the pick up, we got the last wagon and it had four deer on it, the lucky hunters telling of their accomplishments, just as hunters have since the beginning. “See any deer?” a boy asked. “Yeah, I missed one,” said Randy dejectedly. Then the young boy surprised me by saying, “Hey, don’t worry, you’ll get one tomorrow.” The deer were deposited and the biologists went to work, making quick work gutting them and getting the organs out for study.

The steaks were excellent and we went to bed with full tummies. Laying in the tent, one more time, I went over the basics of rifle shooting with Randy, finishing what I had been interrupted in saying, “Aim a little high, take a deep breath and let out half of it and your scope’s cross hairs should settle on your target and then squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it! You should never know when it fires. Sleepily, “OK, Dad.”

Up the next morning, we eat breakfast in the dark and get on the wagon for the trip to the hunting area. The sun is peeking over the eastern horizon as we get into our blind. Reassuring Randy, I tell him that we should have no problem getting his deer since we saw so many tracks yesterday afternoon. Back to “Red October” and Randy whispers, “Dad, I see a spike.” “Relax and breathe deep, let half of it out and squeeze gently,” I whisper abbreviated shooting orders. Bam! I jump having been concentrating on Randy’s trigger finger.

“Dad, he’s down,” comes raggedly out of Randy. I get up and get out of the blind and say, “Let’s go get him, Son.” “I’m right behind you,” Randy says, takes two steps out of the blind and falls to the ground. “Dad, I’m so nervous I can’t move.” Acute buck fever has set in. “Randy, we’ve got all day, just lay there ‘till you feel OK.” Shortly he gets up saying, “Dad, I don’t think I can breathe.” “Get to moving Son and it will go away,” I say, laughing inwardly.

Randy has shot a nice two and a half year old, spike, buck, right through the heart, perfect shot placement. Dad is proud and happy for him. We take a picture, and then, I stick my finger into the bullet hole, get some blood on it and swipe the finger across his forehead, the sign of a successful first kill! No more sulking around the camp, he can strut around and tell of his accomplishment, just as hunters have since the beginning.

Randy still uses the little .243 with the same scope and, at last count, has killed twenty-six deer with it over the years.

Hunting

Life Or Death

Quail season in Georgia opened the Saturday before the opening of Deer season and James Walton, a hunting buddy, Mitch Greenberg, a church friend and also a hunting buddy, and I had arranged a Quail hunt south of Jonesboro. Supposedly this was a good place.

We arrived at the hunting area and unloaded the dogs, Rooster, my Brittany Spaniel, and Crystal, James’ German Shorthair and began hunting around the edge of a large, cut, soy bean field. Not a hundred yards into our hunt Crystal freezes and Rooster “backs” her point. We spread out and walk in on the points and “whirrrr”, a big covey of twelve or fifteen birds comes rocketing out of the brush along the edge of the field. Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam, we unload on the birds and several fall. Both dogs begin to “hunt dead” and we collect four fat quail. Looks like this will be a good day.

We continue around the field and within three hundred yards, both dogs come down on point and we collect two more quail. Definitely looking good as we cut through some woods and brush on our way to another bean field and see Rooster on point ahead in some honeysuckle.

“Point up here,” I shout, as James comes up on my right and Mitch on my left. Crystal, seeing Rooster’s point, freezes next to James’ right leg. I am right behind Rooster, step past him into the honeysuckle awaiting the customary “whirrrr”, and, of all things, up jumps a buck Deer!

All at once, literally all “hell” breaks loose. Crystal rushes between James and the Deer; the Deer lunges at me and I unload three, number eight, shots at three feet distance, straight at the Deer’s head, obviously missing; Rooster charges the Deer; the Deer hooks Crystal and throws her to the side; James yells “Crystal,” and as he moves to his right to reach for dog, the Deer hooks James and rips his left pants leg with his horns; turns toward Mitch and tries to hook him; I’ve found the two double ought bucks I always carry and finally fumble them into my twenty gauge pump as the Deer lunges at Mitch, and Mitch, all five foot seven inches, calmly “high ports” his Browning Superposed, right into the Deer’s horns; the Deer shakes Mitch like a rag doll; James drags Crystal away; I notice Rooster is now posted strategically behind me as I finally get my shotgun loaded and up; the Deer continues shaking Mitch; and Bam, Bam, I put two double oughts into the Deer’s head and he drops in his tracks.

Whew! This battle lasted for not quite thirty seconds. The longest thirty seconds imaginable. As we load up Crystal and hurry to the nearest Vet’s office, we take stock of our situation, no hunters hurt, one dog down and seriously injured, Mitch “all shook up”, one dead Deer, and Deer season is one week off. In fifteen minutes we pull up to a Vet’s office in Jonesboro and ten minutes later we find out Crystal is dead. James is crushed!

Returning to the scene of the battle and looking closely at the Deer, we see it is a nice, seven point buck, probably a fifteen inch inside spread, that had been shot in the left hindquarter, at least three days before. The wound was festering and gangrene, or the Deer equivalent, had set in and the Deer must have been in great pain. Checking out the area, we find a large quantity of corn spread around the honeysuckle patch. At least two game laws had been broken. Shooting Deer in Georgia over bait was illegal and the Deer had been shot at least ten days before Deer season opened.

We told the local Game Warden but don’t know if any action was taken or if the perpetrator was apprehended. Three weeks later we returned for another hunt at this spot and discovered that someone had come in and cut the Deer’s horns off.

Some may not know what “high Porting” is. It is a term applied to hand to hand combat training with a rifle, expensive shotgun in this case, where the weapons weight is evenly balanced in both hands at shoulder height and using it to block and parry opponents thrusts with a bayonet or butt stock. Mitch, a Viet Nam veteran, former Air Force Officer and Navigator in a B-52, had used the technique perfectly!

Hunting

Treed By A Rattler

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.

Sports

Summer Fun

The summer of 1973 was hot and dry in Phoenix, nothing unusual, Al Gore hadn’t invented global warming and a group of fellows (all later to become corporate executives) were celebrating the end of another workday at a local watering hole on Camelback and 24th Street.

One of the group brought up the subject of water skiing, a favorite local pastime in the Salt River lake system northeast of town and Lake Pleasant, a short drive north, off of
I-17. Water in the lakes is cool, most summer days aren’t too windy and, if they aren’t too crowded, the water skiing is enjoyable.

One of the bright guys said, “Why do we have to make such a long drive to water ski?” The group answered, “Because, stupid, that’s where the water is.” He replied, “When I’m out making sales calls, I bet, I cross these irrigation canals 10 or 15 times a day and they are almost always full.” A chorus said, “You’re not talking about water skiing in an irrigation canal? You can’t launch a boat in one! How are you going to pull the skier?”

Much thought and planning ensued and it was decided that one of the group’s, small, 4 wheel drive truck could pull up the berm of a canal, and the one that crossed between Indian School and Camelback, on 40th street was chosen. It was also decided who would ski first and that the owner of the truck would “pull” the skier. Then someone said, “I’m sure it is against the law!” Followed by another chorus, “No problem if we aren’t caught and we’ll ski at night!” Then, all involved, swore a blood oath of secrecy.

A Tuesday night, 10:00 PM, was chosen. Wives were told of a late sales meeting/planning session and their spouses wouldn’t make it home until near midnight. It was still burning hot, and the traffic on 40th Street was light, as the small, 4 wheel drive truck, lights off, crept up the berm of the canal and moved 75 yards in a southeast direction, off of the street. The skier, with his life jacket on, slid down into the water, the rope was paid out, up goes his thumb, the driver turns the lights on low and pulls away and up pops the skier! A new sport was born!

The skiers weren’t caught, it didn’t make the 10:00 PM news and no one ever broke the blood oath of secrecy!