We had been on the Brady lease, for 5 years and the membership had been reduced, by choice, to 4 other hunters, along with their families.  During the deer season of 1992, our rancher said that because he liked us and knew we wouldn’t abuse the property, he was throwing in another 600 acres, at no increase in the price.  The only catch was that it was bisected by Highway 190 and, on the west, 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 thAe 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 a minimum of a 20 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.

Shortly after receiving the bonanza, 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, 4 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, probably a hundred or more.  Brad was masked from my view but we both could see the north brush line, and there, looking out from behind a mesquite was “Big Boy”! What a majestic sight!

Almost dusk, the big deer moved to our right, 200 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 2 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.”  One problem however, the property over the fence, wasn’t on our lease.

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, shining on us, while we were looking for the buck.  Here came some headlights, we dropped down, got back up, followed the blood trail, more headlights, dropped back down and finally, deer horns reflected in the headlights.

We found the buck, not a hundred yards from the house and it was a nice one!  We each grabbed a leg and slowly pulled the buck back to the fence.  Somehow, we ‘rasseled’ the 140 pounder over the fence and finally, could admire the buck, not “Big Boy”, but a real trophy, a perfect eight pointer with good mass and we guessed an 18 to 19 inch spread!  At the party no one noticed us, they partied on without a hitch, unbeknownst of the drama that took place in their host’s field!

We loaded the deer in the Jeep and headed for the closest processor, Richland Springs, 20 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, the fine set of horns had disappeared given to one of the processor’s friends we were sure!

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

In late 1974 we moved from The Valley Of The Sun, to Atlanta and my friends in Phoenix 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 and had hit it off especially well with one, James Walton, a neighbor and not in the computer business, but VP of an old, established, construction company.

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

James and I had joined a hunting club that provided many acres of supposedly good quail hunting land. Our results were only fair, however, we did get to see a lot of the state. On this particular hunt, we had reserved a spot for Friday and Saturday, a several hundred acre track of harvested soybean fields along with some nice wooded cover. At the time, 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.

Arriving near Thomasville around noon, we 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 rattlers.

Rooster, Brad and I took off to one side of the large bean field and James and Crystal went the other way. Shortly we heard, Pop, Pop, James had found a small covey and it looked like he’s got one or two. Brad and I proceed along the edge of the field not finding any birds, but toward the corner of the field, Rooster locked down hard on a point. Quickly approaching, whirrrrr, the covey, probably a dozen birds, broke wild before we could get off a shot. Marking the spot where the covey flew into the woods, all three of us Rooster, Brad and yours truly hurried after the birds, passing through where the covey was flushed, whirr, a late riser, Bam, and he fell to my 20 gauge, pump.

As Rooster and Brad continued chasing the covey, I saw my bird on the ground and ran over to pick him up. Retrieving the bird, I headed back toward Brad who was in the thick brush and not being able to see him, I headed in his general direction.

“Bark, growl, growl, bark,” from Rooster. “Dad, Dad, up here quick,” from Brad! Coming out of the woods and running towards the sound of his voice, I saw Brad straddle of a barbwire fence. Rooster was snarling and then he added a bark, bark, as I jumped around the fence, then looking down under him a big rattler was coiled and rattling! “Dad, there’s a big rattler right under me,” Brad shouted! Hurrying faster, I saw that he had laid his gun down on the ground prior to climbing the fence and the rattlers had treed him. He was right, it was a big one, coiled and making a lot of noise and at that moment, more interested in the dog. Rooster knew about snakes having hunted with me for 3 years in Arizona and bam, one shot from my 20 and the snake was done for!

Rooster was still barking as Brad was getting down from the fence. We stretched the snake out and he was a good 5 feet long and bigger around than my forearm. My aim was true and the shot shredded the snake’s head, leaving the skin undamaged. Brad said, “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 smelled like urea, and the fertilizer plants in Pasadena, Texas. We skinned him, rolled up the skin for now and it really stunk! We gutted him and except for the smell we had a hunk of pretty, white meat. To eliminate some of the smell, I took a canteen of water and washed off the snake’s body. Later, I learned that snakes don’t have kidneys and liquid waste is secreted out of their body through the skin, no wonder the smell!

Most times when hunters have a close encounter with a serious predator or big rattle snake, the hunt’s over for the day, as was our case, however, we went back to camp and set out to preparing our supper, fried rattlesnake. Small problem, no corn meal, but we had flour in the camper, which should work just fine as long as long as the grease doesn’t get too hot. We cut up the snake into 1-1/2 inch pieces, then rolled it in the flour and wrapped up the 5, plus pounds of meat in foil, popped it into the cooler and waited for Walton to get back. Feeling confident we would get some more birds the next day, we saved the quail for back home.

Having heard James shoot several times, 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 rattlesnake for supper. He blanched and said, “I’m not eating any snake!” Not hesitating, we showed him the large quantity of white meat and began to fry the it and fries, the aroma turning him, he added, “It does smell pretty good!”.

After supper, James said, “That rattlesnake 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 hatband and one belt from the skin.

Real winter, 2 weeks early, has finally arrived in central Texas! It all started this past Saturday with heavy winds from the southeast, then the wind came roaring back from the northwest, not the 100 milers they had in California, but good strong wind and, praise the Lord, rain, almost 3 inches!

Friday afternoon, sitting in the Porta-Potty Blind I had a hot doe come by, soon a young 6 pointer, probably 1-1/2 to 2 years old, came by and he showed absolutely no interest in the doe. He wasn’t a shooter so I passed on him. Then, in the dark when I was walking back to my truck, I heard her bawling, the sound just like my “doe in heat” call.

Ignoring the impending storm lurking in the northwest, Colton and I went out Saturday afternoon, and seeing nothing except one small doe, we came in after dark and I settled down to watch the Oklahoma, Oklahoma State football game. By the way State killed and buried Oklahoma, too much offense! During the game, here came the storm with fog, thunder, lightning and a light rain that carried on through Sunday afternoon, but it also brought the cold weather.

Monday, the fog lifted, the temp outside was 27, cold feet weather, and I thought this would be a good time to get my truck serviced. On our gravel road, driving back from town, we saw 7 deer, one an 8 pointer, but he wasn’t chasing a doe. This made up my mind that if the deer were moving, I was going hunting! Shielded form the wind, sitting in the Porta-Potty Blind, despite my mohair socks, the cold was seeping into my work boots and not seeing anything, finally I called Layla and asked her to come out and pick me up.

Having wet and cold boots, I thought the first thing would be to clean them with some KIWI Saddle Soap and then put on a liberal dose of KIWI Heavy Duty Water Repellent. This won’t make them any warmer, but it sure will deflect the moisture! If you want any more info on their products visit KIWI at www.kiwicare.com. You can also become a fan of their Facebook page at www.Facebook.com/KIWIShoeCare. I’ve used their products for ages!

The skies are clearing and now the really cold stuff will follow, forecast for Tuesday night is 25, this will keep me in bed Wednesday morning, maybe I’ll go out Wednesday afternoon?

This unnamed backup off of the Trinity River was a natural spot for wood ducks, really thick with assorted varieties of trees, mostly cypress, knees and all.  Phil, still in college, had accepted an offer to go and “shoot some woodies” from Howie, a friend of a friend. Most of this was because Howie had a nice looking daughter and she had shown a little interest in him this past week when they’d discussed the hunt.

They met at the entrance to the road leading down to the slough, the 15, minute drive in was bumpy and sloppy, but the Jeep’s 4-wheel drive, along with big tires, insured they hadn’t gotten stuck.  They donned their waders and walked in around 5:00 PM (before daylight saving), the weather was sloppy, a foggy mist and both hunters hoped that woodies and some big ducks would choose this particular slough to roost up in.  Howie was using a 12, gauge auto with an improved cylinder barrel and Phil had his old 12 pump with its modified barrel.  Howie told Phil that the modified would be OK, but that he’d better use 7-1/2 shot, like he was, because the shooting would be fast with the ducks in close, the longest shots being at tree top height.

Both hunters waded out in the knee-deep water, Howie going about a hundred yards farther in, they had no decoys, just leaned against a tree and waited.  Within 10 minutes here came two big ducks zipping in, yellow feet meant mallards, at tree top height.  Phil’s 12 boomed twice and one tumbled into the water.  Earlier, Howie mentioned, don’t worry about retrieving because the action would be too fast, so backing up against the tree Phil waited for the next ones.  Howie’s auto boomed 3 times, a short time later boomed 3 more, as a woodie came slamming down through the tree branches, Phil’s 12 boomed, splashing the duck, all the time wondering why the high speed crash into the limbs hadn’t broken the ducks neck!

Having only a little over an hours shooting time, both hunters settled in, their guns booming.  The duck limit then was one wood duck or 5 drake mallards, not over 5 in possession, Phil stopped shooting having his 4 big ones and the woodie and sloshed out towards Howie’s spot, he was still grinding away, and that late in the afternoon, flame was coming out of his barrel!

Howie said that he had shot a lot of ducks and not seeming to be concerned about a game wardens presence, kept pounding away, the area around him covered with floating, paper hull shells.  While Phil was standing beside him, he calmly knocked down 2 more, then saying, they’d better pick up the ducks, left his spot and began gathering them up.

Phil had his 5, but was afraid Howie had way over the limit, which he did, as the count up on the shore showed 41 ducks, mostly woodies!  Howie said don’t worry about cleaning them now, that his wife and daughter would help, so they began the drive out, then Phil followed him for the 1, hour drive to the cleaning session.

Phil had never cleaned so many ducks, he and the daughter did the picking, Howie doing the gutting and his wife the singeing, he was particular with the cleaning, saying his customers wouldn’t buy them if sloppily done.  So that was it, a market hunter and later Phil learned that Howie also had 2 other spots on Galveston Island, one just outside the city limits that he’d driven past many times on fishing trips, plus the slough on the Trinity.

Phil never went duck hunting with him again, besides he found out the daughter, over pickin’ of the ducks, was engaged to a paratrooper.