Monthly Archives: January 2010

Hunting

Nose To Nose

On this hunt, our dogs, Candy, Rooster and Ned Pepper, were locked down in three picture perfect points next to a big clump of buck brush. ”A funny place for a covey of Mearns quail to be,” Jake Schroder remarked. We walked into the dogs expecting the familiar “whirrrr” of a covey rising. No birds. The dogs broke their points and began to run around the brush, then, they started to bark. Brittany spaniels generally don’t bark when they’re hunting. “What’s going on, Jake?” “Beats me, Beech,” he replied as he began to walk around the brush. I began walking around the other side, and at the same time, we both exclaimed, “Javelina!”

In 1979, the Mearns season in Arizona ran the entire month of January so in the middle of the month Rooster and I arrived in Tucson for a three day, hunt.  We were met by Jake and his dogs, Candy and Ned Pepper, and then set off for Mearns’ country, Patagonia, Arizona, twenty-five or thirty miles east of Nogales, right along the border. At that time, illegal immigrants weren’t the problem they are now!

Just after some very good shooting and dog work by Candy, Jake and Beechnut display a couple of handfuls of Mearns quail. Again, grass, oak trees, an incline and thrown in a lot of rocks and you have good Mearns country.By mid afternoon of the first day, Jake and I had reached the outer limits of our hunt and began a wide “swing” back toward our camp. We both had near limits of Mearns quail and needed one more covey to fill out. We were expecting that covey when the dogs pointed the javelina, or collard peccary. There was a special bow only, javelina season underway but we didn’t carry bows and arrows, only twenty gauge shotguns and .22 pistols, mine a magnum.

We could see the javelina, and sticking out of its right hip, with the point buried, was an arrow. “He must be hurt bad and can’t run,” I said and Jake replied, “Can you get a shot at his head or eyes and we can put out him out of his misery?” “Nope, the brush is too thick and I don’t have a clear sight,” then not thinking clearly, I said “ I can crawl into the brush pile, get close to him and then get a shot.” “Your funeral Beech,” Jake laughed.

“Hold the dogs Jake,” and into the buck brush I charged on hands and knees, two beady, black eyes watching me. “He must be hurt bad, not flushing out, with me this close to him,” I called out to Jake. No reply, he was probably laughing himself silly at this foolish, hundred and ninety pound, executive crawling on one hand and both knees, carrying a .22 magnum, pistol in the other hand, to “count coup” on the javelina.

Deep into the brush pile, I got within ten feet of the javelina, still on my hand and knees, raised the pistol to shoulder height, about two foot off of the ground, drew a bead between the javelina’s eyes and prepared to cock the hammer.  And then, very quickly, the javelina jumped to its feet, looked me right in the eyes, clashed its tusks together, and charged! The animal was only about forty pounds, but in these close quarters, the clashing of his tusks together sounded like the symbols of a philharmonic orchestra!

Here he came, tusks clanging! My left hand was on the ground, my right holding and aiming the pistol. I took aim right between his eyes, and, Bam, the .22 spit out a forty grain, hollow point to the point of aim and the javelina started down and rolled onto my left hand, dead!

Breathing heavily, I got out of the brush pile real quick and said to Jake and the dogs, “Did all you all hear his tusks clash?” Quickly I developed post-shooting, buck fever. I could stand and breathe, but I was shaking like a leaf. His tusks could have messed me up in those close quarters! “Nice shot!” said Jake.

We found one more covey and both of us got our limits. That turned out to be my last hunt for Mearns quail.

On another hunting trip, one afternoon Jake and I jumped a black bear while we were quail hunting on the Mustang Ranch, east of Tombstone. We did not offer chase, or try to “count coup” on him and the dogs also showed no inclination to give chase.

Fishing

Cabo

During the summer of 1999, I played in a “Pink Ribbon” golf tournament and during the silent bidding, was able to acquire a four day stay in Cabo San Lucas, Baja Del Sur, Mexico.  Having visited Mazatlan and its fabulous fishing and with Mazatlan being only a ferry ride across the Gulf of California to the tip of the Baja and Cabo, I was eagerly looking forward to sampling the fishing there too.  So, in January of 2000, off we went to Cabo San Lucas.

Because of the opulence of the condo, a large, two, bedroom, two bath, job, we asked a Senior Softball friend, Chuck Thompson and his Wife, Linda to go with us.  Our fancy condo was right beside a fancier club and golf course.  The package included reduced fees for golf and use of the excellent dining facilities, but the fishing still had my interest!

The first day of our visit found Chuck and I patrolling the harbor looking for just the right boat and guide.  For our guide we chose a young man, Juan, who spoke excellent English, and his twenty-two, foot, panga.  A panga is a long, slender, outboard powered, shallow draft, sea worthy craft used in Mexico for both inshore and offshore fishing.  Juan told us that yellow fin tuna were hitting regularly and towards midday we had a good chance for a striped marlin hook up.  We booked him for the next day.

The ladies opted to shop and not go out with us so at 7:00 AM, Chuck and I met our guide and we headed out of the harbor.  As soon as we cleared the “hole in the rock”, one of the main attractions of Cabo, we started fishing.  Using Juan’s gear, seven foot rods, Ambassaduer 7000 reels loaded with thirty pound line, we started free lining with six to seven inch, caballitos for bait. As we started, Juan cautioned us with. “Watch for the seals!”

Soon, both of us were rewarded with solid strikes, the fish took off heading south and our fifteen minute fights with the unknown sluggers, probably twelve to fifteen pound, yellow fins, was rewarded with the silver/green battlers thrashing around the panga.  Juan yelled, “Seal, free spool your reels!”  We did, but too late as the seals clipped off then come up for the kill.  It’s important if we see another to free spool your reels because the yellow fins can out swim the seals and escape.”

My next strike produced a twelve pound, yellow fin, pictured, but it seemed the more action we had, the more the seals gathered around us.  We kept moving in the general area of the harbor mouth and kept feeding the seals.

We moved several miles out and started drifting, no yellow fins, but no seals either.  Chuck heaved a cast out and had a monumental backlash, and as he was clearing it, wouldn’t you know it, a striped marlin hit the bait, went airborne and started his run, hit the snarl in the line and pop, broke off!  At least we saw the fish as it cleared the water.

We caught four yellow fins, twelve to fifteen pounds, gave two to Juan, and took two back to the “fancier” club for special preparation by the chef.  Our supper of fresh yellow fin, tuna with a California white wine was a highlight of our trip to Cabo!

Hunting

Progress

Leaving work after lunch; I stopped by my house, picked up my Brittany, Sonny, my shotgun, my hunting stuff, loaded it all in my Jeep Scrambler and headed out Highway 290, past Hockley to my hunting lease. The 1993/4 duck and goose season had just ended, but this one was a year round lease so quail hunting was allowed.

The lease was on the Katy Prairie, thirty-six hundred total acres with over half of it being harvested rice. But the rice fields weren’t our targets. Sonny and I were going to hunt along the edges of the woods bordering the cultivation where, during duck hunts, I had seen and marked several coveys of bobs.

Parking the Jeep, crossing over the creek and edging along between the cultivation and the woods, I knew that I would only get, at the most, two shots at the quail, since they would high tail it back along the creek banks into the real thick stuff. Single hunting would be definitely out this afternoon.

Sonny stopped dead in his tracks; nose halfway to the ground, a picture perfect point! Walking in, the twelve bird, covey blasted out toward the woods, two of my shots found the mark, but my third one pasted a tree with the bird escaping to the safety of the heavy brush. Sonny retrieved both birds and we got back down to the bird finding business.

Several hundred yards along, another point, and a ten bird, covey flushed to my left and the creek. Two shots netted me one more bird and another tree. This scenario was repeated one more time, yielding two more birds.

The sun was getting low and we found a dry place to cross over the little creek to head back down toward the Jeep. Sonny was “making birds” and slowed his pace, carefully mincing along, then he stopped, not a point, no tensing of his muscles, just stopped! He took two steps then stopped again. This really got my attention so I hurried up beside him, he took two more steps and up into the air, cackling, rose a cock pheasant!

It was an easy shot because when the big bird leveled off his flight, I leveled him with a load of eights to the head! This was my second pheasant, the first being on a preserve in Arizona. Then it dawned on me, is there a season around here for pheasants? In the past I had heard that the State had tried to start a pheasant program on the Katy Prairie, but it failed because of too many winged and fanged predators. With the nearest hunting preserve being several miles away maybe this was the last of the State planted birds?

We ate the bird that night, Houston continued its sprawl, and now, this once prime hunting area is a golf course! At least it’s not a shopping center!

Pictures

More Outdoors Pictures, January 5, 2010

Randy Pfaff lives, hunts and guides in southern Colorado and recently sent me these pictures of some really nice mule deer. The first two are from hunts that he successfully guided.

This is a nice one.

 

This one is nicer!

 

But this one takes the cake! It was almost 250 Boone And Crocket points and was a Governor’s Tag deer, very special! I’ve been told that a Governor’s Tag allows the hunter to hunt mule deer anywhere in Colorado where there is an open season, but there’s a catch. Usually the tags are raffled or auctioned off and can be great fund raisers for outdoor associations or charities. This hunter either paid a handsome price for the tag or was very lucky!

Hunting

Wesley Breaks The Ice

Wesley and his family arrived in Goldthwaite last Wednesday, the 30th, in time for an afternoon hunt. Wesley hadn’t gotten a deer this season and he was primed for success on this one. His Cousin, Sean had nailed a spike during this years youth season.

We headed out, Wesley and his Dad, Paul, went to Ma-Maw’s blind and I chose a hide where two, well used deer trails crossed. Three deer came to the feeder shortly after Wesley and Paul had settled down, but he couldn’t get a shot because the biggest doe kept bobbing her head feeding, so he waited impatiently.

Not long after I had settled into my hide I saw movement crossing one of the trails. It was a cat, a big cat, quartering toward me. My first thought was, Why am I sitting here curled into a big cedar tree when what may be a mountain lion coming toward me? Then I saw the cat’s short tail. Picking out an opening in the thick brush, I centered my cross hairs on where I hoped the cat would cross. He did. I fired and it dropped like a rock.

Stepping out of my hide, I took two steps and heard, craak, from the direction of Ma-Maw’s blind. Sounded like a .223, Wesley had shot and I hoped he had scored. He told me, “Poppy, the deer kept bobbing its head, but when you shot, it raised its head and held it up for several seconds. My Dad told me to take her and I fired, a perfect head shot and down she went!”

 

Here are both of us with our kills. Notice that Wesley, with the big smile, has followed a family tradition and daubed some of the deer’s blood under his eyes.
A good ending to two good hunts!

Fishing

New Year Eve Party

New Year’s Eve of 1981 was a memorable event because we, the three couples that collectively owned the bay house in Bayou Vista; Jim and Shellie Masters, my brother-in-law and his wife, Jim and Pat Buck and my ex-wife and I, decided to jointly put on a big New Year’s Eve party at our beach house.

The party was a success and rolling along, but by 10:00 PM I had lost interest in all of the small talk and went down stairs to sneak me a dip. Sitting on the boat dock, I heard the unmistakable “pop” of a trout hitting the surface of the canal right out from me. “Pop”, another one hit. Up in a flash I ran into the ground floor of the house, grabbed the closest rod and reel, this one with silver spoon and a yellow, bucktail.

The only light was from a full moon overhead as I whipped a cast almost across the canal, began a rapid retrieve, “Whamo” a good trout nailed the spoon and the fight was on! Standing on the dock, at least three feet above the water level, it finally dawned on me, how, without a long handled landing net, was I going to land this fish? In my haste I had forgotten to bring out a net! Swinging and flopping the trout out of the water up on to the yard, I ran over to it, got the hook out, carried it inside and put it into a forty-eight quart cooler, sans ice.

Back outside, this time with a long handled net, casting out again, another “Whamo”, another solid trout, which I subdued, netted and added to the cooler, just as Jim Buck came downstairs asking, “Brother-In-Law, are you OK? I thought you may have fallen in,” as he saw me putting the fish into the cooler.

He rushed inside, grabbed another rod and reel, this one with a M-52 Mirror Lure attached and made a cast. We caught four more specs before the school moved on, all nice fish, two to two and one-half pounds. We got some ice out of the downstairs fridge, covered the fish with it, washed our hands and went back upstairs to the small talk.

Nobody else missed me but Jim.