In early December 1969, Fred Walters and I decided to visit his lease just outside of Lockhart to try and walk up some quail. Fred’s setter was spending the weekend at the vets, hence, we were dogless, as we pulled up and “hied” ourselves out.

We had a general idea as to where the birds would be feeding and after tromping around in the knee high, harvested, milo field, all at once, an explosion of fifteen or more quail erupted out of the stubble. Because of no dog, we had agreed on just one shot each, or two birds down on a covey rise. Bam, bam, and two birds fell, luckily, both were dead and easy to find.

The covey, minus the two birds, had flown straight into the thick cover of a wooded patch, bordering the milo and we “crashed” in after them. A hundred yards into the real thick stuff, some prickly pear on the ground, on my side, up came a single and my shot plowed into an oak tree, with the quail escaping. Fred shot at one and missed too.

Another single, a cock bird, catapulted into the air and my shot reached him before he got behind another oak. Down he dropped and flopped around next to a clump of prickly pear, an easy find and I hurried over to pick it up.

Bending over, I reached my left hand down for the bird; heard a buzzing, unmistakable sound, a rattler, coiled up under the cactus, not eighteen inches from the quail and not much more from my hand! I was in a pickle so I just froze and yelled to Fred, “Rattler!”

Slowly rising up, keeping my feet planted, I took off the safety and, from the hip, blasted the snake. My aim was true, the shot tore the snake into several pieces, as I reached down and pocketed the bird. My best guess was that the snake was loafing in the cactus and from nowhere, a shot, and down plopped supper. My noise and proximity to the bird caused the snake’s defensive/offensive reaction. Anyway, scratch one rattler!

It’s always unnerving to run into a rattler, and this was no exception, so we called a break and headed to town for an early lunch!

Tuesday morning, waking up at 5:00AM, it was raining, so I crawled back under the covers. One hour later, the same story, so back under the covers. Finally getting up at 6:40 AM and slipping into my lined, house shoes, I ventured outside to replenish the firewood.

There was still a misty, foggy drip, not rain or drizzle, just a drip as I looked out over my hay field. There, not noticing me, on the far side, two hundred yards away, loping down the fence line, was a buck, probably on the trail of a hot, doe. Cupping my hands, I issued a low grunt. As expected, the buck stopped in his tracks and turned toward the sound.
Horns were wide, probably twenty inches and tall, over twenty, a big, big, buck! This was the second time I’ve seen him along this track, the last being five days ago. The buck doesn’t know it but I have a hide right along his path and will be waiting for him next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

No, the hide isn’t on my back porch.

In 1953, the early December opening of goose and duck season, was hailed by hunters for the rain and high winds that back, to back, to back, weather systems had fostered. Blow from the southeast for two days, then blow from the northwest for a few days, the cycle repeating itself continuously. Me, and my group of hunters, using the term loosely, “sneakers” would better apply, took full advantage of the weather to try the patience of many of the rice farmers and our parents.

The area west of Highway 6, along FM 1091, all the way to Fulshear on the Brazos River was prime goose country. All of this area now is subdivisions and shopping malls and the geese have vacated it. Back then, after a driver passed Post Oak Rd. street signs changed from Westheimer to FM 1091. Now, Westheimer extends for miles, out past Highway 6 and is the center of commerce for west Houston!

Four of us were heading home around 11:00 AM from a reasonably successful goose hunt, success being measured by; a vehicle not being stuck beyond retrieval, none of the hunters injured, not being stopped by the law and, maybe, a few geese. We were coming in, heading east, on FM 1091 and wishing we could get permission to hunt on Cinco Ranch, a large ranch, twenty sections or more, laying north of 1091, all the way to Highway 6. The ranch now sports country clubs, shooting ranges and some very, large subdivisions.

Probably four hundred yards north of the road, inside the fences of Cinco Ranch, we spotted a huge gaggle of geese. Immediately, one of our group said that we should sneak ‘em. A quick uwey and we stopped on the soggy shoulder, donned our hip boots, hooded parkas and grabbed our shotguns. Going over the barbwire fence, hitting the ground, we started our sneak.

Four hundred yards is long crawl, shotguns cradled in our arms, military style. Keeping our heads down we inched along, with each inch, the noise of the geese grew louder. No alarm calls so we were doing OK. Inches turned into feet and feet into yards as we reached the hundred yard, mark, only sixty or so, more to go. Then raise up and let fly!

Hearing a strange peeping sound, I knew it wasn’t a rattler, then the whirring of twenty or more quail bursting into the air startled me so much that I leaped to my feet and shouted a few choice expletives! That’s all it took for the thousands of geese to spook and get airborne. Standing, we could only watch as they gained altitude and “honked” their way to safety.

That was our first, and last, “sneak” on Cinco Ranch!

We had been on the Brady Lease, for four years and the membership had been reduced (by choice) to four other hunters and their families. During the deer season of 1991, our rancher said that because he liked us and knew we wouldn’t abuse the property, he was throwing in another six hundred acres, at no increase in the price. The only catch was that it was on two sides of Highway 190 and bordered the city limits of Rochelle. The south side of the property had one big “L” shaped field bordered with very, thick brush and this area was the deer magnet.

The rancher and I went to visit the acreage, and to say the least, I was impressed because as we bumped along the rutted, dirt, track, the first animal I saw, less than one hundred yards away, was a massive buck, tall rack, heavy horned, with at least a twenty inch spread! The rancher said, “I’ve named that buck,’ Big Boy’. I see him all the time and I believe it’s time to shoot him.” Of course, not expecting to see any deer in the middle of the warm day, so close to the highway, I wasn’t armed, so I just looked on in awe!

There is nothing that could have prepared me and the other hunters for the great number of deer that we would see on that property, right in town, although not a big town, and bisected by 190, a busy east west highway. But one hunt stands out in my memory.

Brad and I were out to get “Big Boy” and by 3:00 PM we were in our “hides”, mine was nestled into a brush pile overlooking the short side of the “L” field and his was on one end of the long side, in a twisty, four foot, deep, dry creek bed.

Approaching 5:00 PM, we hadn’t seen anything but a few crows, and then, all of a sudden, coming out of the thick, brush, deer were everywhere. Brad was masked from my view but we both could see the far brush line, and there, looking out from behind a mesquite was “Big Boy”!

Almost dusk, the big deer moved to our right, two hundred yards away he was joined by another buck almost his twin and they moved down a fence line, passing from my view. Brad’s M1A roared. And in his words, “Dad, the two deer were side by side and I hit the one closest to me. He hopped once and took off, jumping the fence. He’s down somewhere over the fence! Let’s go find him.”

It was almost dark, our flashlights showed blood spattered on the ground where the buck was hit and climbing over the fence, more blood. One problem however, not three hundred yards east of us in a nice, ranch house, a party was just getting started. Cars driving up were casting their headlights out across the field where we were looking for the deer. Here come headlights, drop down, get back up, follow the blood trail, more headlights, drop down and finally, deer horns reflected in the headlights.

Not a hundred yards from the house, we found the deer, it was a nice one! We each grabbed a leg and ran (slowly) back to the fence. Somehow, we ‘rasseled the hundred-twenty pounder over the fence and finally, could admire the buck, not “Big Boy”, but a real trophy, a perfect eight pointer, good mass and we guessed a eighteen to nineteen inch spread! At the party no one noticed us, and they partied on without a hitch.

We loaded the deer in the Jeep and headed for the closest processor, Richland Springs, twenty miles away. Brad decided not to have the head mounted, (big mistake), told the attendant to just cut the horns off and (bigger mistake), he’d pick them up with the meat. The next week when we stopped at the processors, the fine set of horns had disappeared!

Two weeks later, the best deer hunter of our group shot “Big Boy”, knocked him down, he jumped up, ran off, the blood trail petered out, the hunter never found him and “Big Boy” was never seen again!

Notice the steep grade! Candy is pointing, Rooster is backing and Jake and Beechnut are closing in awaiting the covey of Mearns quail to explode from the deep grass. Mearns quail season in Arizona opened yesterday. Mearns quail are hard to find and hard to hunt preferring rough country, so rough, that this very secretive bird wasn’t identified until the 1850’s by a Lt. Mearns of the U. S. Cavalry.

Mearns quail, Cyrtonyx Montezumae, or fools, harlequin or more properly Montezuma quail are the largest of all the varieties – bobwhite Colinus Virgianus, blues or scaled quail Callipepla Squamata, Gambel Callipepla Gambelii, California Callipepla Californica and masked bob white Colinus Virginanus Ridgewayi. They are found in southern Arizona, New Mexico, the Guadalupe Mountains in west Texas and in northwest Mexico. Overgrazing of cattle has eliminated most of their habitat in Mexico.

The Mearns country of southern Arizona is beautiful. This area is where the “last” Chisolm Trail ended. John Chisolm, himself, moved his entire cattle heard here from Texas in the late 1800’s. The country remains much the same today, buck brush, native grass, mini mountains and rolling hills, dotted, with small oak trees, much like our post oak in Texas. This is not the Arizona of deserts and saguaro cactus, but reminds me more of north-central Texas, along the Colorado River, near Lampassas and San Saba.

Having hunted all of the species of quail, I believe Mearns are the hardest to hunt and hardest to shoot. They are a very specialized breed living at four to six thousand feet elevation and requiring good stands of grass and oak trees to be in their habitat. They “root”, or dig, acorns, tubers or grass roots, with their feet, larger than other quail’s, and they hold better for a pointing dog than any other quail. I have had a covey rise while I had been standing in the middle of it, the birds coming so close I could feel the wind from their wings.

The hunting is all walking, all “up and down” with very few flats, so the hunters and their dogs must be in good shape. On an average day Jake and I would walk behind our dogs for five to six miles, up and down the hills, carrying our shotguns, shells, two or three canteens of water and food. By the end of the day add a limit of big, fat, Mearns quail to our loads and quitting time was a welcomed event.

Candy is all smiles while Jake and Beech show off the results of a morning hunt for Mearns quail. Notice the rocks, small oak trees, steep grade and long grass that are all prerequisites for good Mearns hunting. Good bird dogs that will hold a point are also required!