Grunting is a funny name for a story, but this past Sunday morning, for Tim Albee, it was the secret for bagging a nice buck! Tim came over from Copperas Cove to have a go at a deer. He’s a black powder shooter and has been over 3 times, with no success, choosing not to take some long shots.

A little more about Tim; he’s in the 1st Cavalry Division at Ft. Hood; served with my son, Brad, in Iraq in the 1/7 Cavalry, Custer’s old unit; was a Bradley Fighting Vehicle Platoon Sergeant; is a Senior NCO still on active duty and has survived over 40 IED blasts!

Before sun up, for today’s hunt Tim was hunting in Brad’s old, Porta Potty blind, pictured below.

Sunday morning at 7:15 I was eating breakfast, Layla came in, poured her a cup of coffee, with our dog, Spike and cat, Bo, she opened the door to go outside to enjoy the morning and we both heard a, Boom! She said, “Sounds like Tim got a shot.”

Later when I came home from Sunday School there was Tim with rubber gloves on, sleeves rolled up, with a big smile from ear to ear! Asking how he did, he replied, “I got a nice buck!” And walking behind the old, rock house, the buck, an 8 pointer, was hanging up and Tim relayed to me the story of how this nice buck ended up as cutlets.

He said, “Sitting in the blind, I hadn’t seen anything and all of a sudden in your neighbor’s field, about 200 plus, yards away, there was a buck walking along. Grunnttt, grunnttt, twice I grunted, the buck stopped in his tracks, ran over and jumped the fence into your property and to get the wind, began circling the grunting. Stopping over a hundred yards directly downwind from me, he never caught my scent. He was behind some cedar trees and I didn’t have a clear shot, so grunnttt, grunnttt, two more times and he came running in, stopped and gave me a flank shot and I let loose, knocking the buck down. As the smoke cleared, he got back up ran 15 yards and fell in the road that goes down to the tree stand.”

Currently, at Ft. Hood, Tim is a financial analyst with the Family Advocacy Program and has on occasion worked with soldiers in The Wounded Warrior Program. This fits in nicely with the Goldthwaite Eagle’s proposal being offered to our Wounded Warriors of a deer hunt during the January, 2011 special Doe and Spike season. This will be a nice, post Christmas gift to some of our Wounded Warriors and the least some of us in the County can do to show our appreciation for the sacrifices they have made!

Leave a comment and let me know what you think about our Wounded Warrior hunting project. Across the country, who else is starting, or contemplating, holding one of these?

Between high school, college, the U.S. Army, marriage and children, my business career, duck and goose hunting, fishing and church, little time was left for deer hunting and I certainly didn’t miss it! However, with the elimination of screw worms and the devastation they wrought on the cattle industry and the deer population, deer herds in our fine, State flourished, soon almost everyone had became a deer hunter. Twenty-eight years after my Dad took me to El Campo for my second try at deer hunting, my third chance came up unexpectedly and it turned out to be a doozy!

One of my computer customers, Larry Earle, controller of a large manufacturer in Houston, asked me and several other of his suppliers to accompany him to his company’s hunting lease near Sanderson, Texas. Sanderson is way out in west Texas, 80 miles west of Langtry, the home of the infamous Judge Roy Bean, see my June 13, 2007 post “The Law West Of The Pecos”. The lease offered a copious amount deer, turkey and scaled, or blue, quail, aka scalies.

To crowd in a Friday afternoon hunt, we left Houston before sun up and girded ourselves for the 9-hour, drive out to Sanderson. Late that same afternoon, with a borrowed 30.06 rifle, here I was, for the first time in my life, in a raised deer blind, overlooking a dry wash, with a corn feeder perched on a rise, two hundred yards to my front. I had been assured the rifle “shot where I held it”, later, this claim turned out to be false!

Sitting for almost an hour, a hundred yards out, on their way to the feeder, walked 7 or 8 turkeys, two being gobblers and I was in awe of the copper/bronze sheen of the sun’s reflection on their backs, these being the first wild turkeys I’d ever seen. One stopped and looked my way, centering the scope where its neck attached to the body, bam, I let fly, and I saw the bullet strike between the birds feet, human error, I thought. Cranking in another shell, bam, another shot, same low results, now the turkeys were in full speed escape mode. No more shots for me as I sat back and watched the desert for the hour of sunlight left. It turned out the riflescope had been banged on something and, as it was, was shooting 18 inches low at 100 yards!

Saturday was quail hunting day, or more like quail running day! We chased the scalies in a Jeep and on foot, from just after breakfast until sundown and four of us bagged over 30 of the runners. Two years later I would move to Arizona and find out what “runnin’ quail” really meant! We had a great hunt saw and ran over a lot of rugged, west Texas, country side with only one downside. We ran up a skunk and as the Jeep was pulling away, I ran to it, jumped up on the bumper, went to climb into the back, my foot slipped and coming down, I cracked two ribs on the sharp, little, tail gate. Ouch, this slowed me down for the rest of the hunt!

With my ribs hurting, the foreman put me in a “can’t miss” blind for a deer on Sunday mornings hunt, an elevated stand, 40 yards away from a deer feeder. A front had come in overnight, a big wind was blowing from the north and it was cold, so much for a comfortable deer hunt. My blind was a metal stand, attached to 12-foot poles and painfully climbing in, at least there was a wind break as I awaited shooting time.

Nothing happened as the sun came up, then at 8:15 AM, the feeder went off and as if on queue, here came the doe, no problem except that our fine State had a permit system for harvesting doe and I, being a greenhorn deer hunter, hadn’t asked the foreman for a permit. The rancher had to apply, a game count was taken, permits were issued, at least that was the way it was supposed to happen, but “the good ole’ boy system prevailed in south Texas! Stopping counting at 20, with my rib hurting at each breath, I decided not even to try to shoot one, worrying would he give me a permit, was the rifle’s scope aligned OK, how could I exert the force to clean one, how even, could I get up and over the blind to climb down? Now years, and many deer later, these worries were nothing. So, all I could do then was to sit and wait for the foreman to come and pick me up.

One last chance at hunting was a sweep to be made down a brushy draw, said to be a morning feeding spot for turkeys. Volunteering for this one, it dawned on me that I only had #8 shot, no 4’s or 5’s, which are best for turkey. Pampering my rib, the other hunters said they would walk slowly and we creeped down the wash. Not a hundred yards into our slow walk, in front of me, glimpsing its beard as it took off, up jumped a gobbler, I aimed for the head like leading a mourning dove and let fly, boom, the big bird wavered in flight, crumpled up and fell to the ground, a lucky shot!

Having enough of this fun for the morning, I picked up the turkey and headed back to the Jeep to wait for the hunters to finish their sweep of the wash. Thinking all the way back, something always gets in the way of deer hunting, maybe I’ll stick to birds, ducks and geese?

My Dad really tried to determine if I would like to take up deer hunting; first try was on the Goree State Prison Farm, see my November 5, 2010 post, “[My First Deer Hunt]”. My second hunt was easy to remember because I got so, so cold! Three weeks after my first hunt, in the rain, on a Friday afternoon my Dad and I drove down outside of El Campo, Texas to visit with one of his friends and then hunt with him on Saturday morning.

We visited Friday evening and were up way before sunrise on Saturday and his friend prepared us a hearty breakfast. During the meal my Dad’s friend told us to go ahead and shoot a buck or doe, hmmm I thought, I knew doe were protected and no bag limits existed. “Doe are OK”, I asked? My Dad’s friend only reply was, “Camp meat”! Being 12 years old I didn’t continue this line of questioning and went back to my pancakes.

The rain had stopped during the night, but it was cold and drippy wet as we went out the back door, unusually cool weather this close to the Texas coast, but all 3 of us slogged the one, mile plus to our spots beside a wooded, flooded, boggy creek. We were all armed with 20 gauge shotguns loaded with #1 buckshot. My Dad got the first spot, a makeshift tree stand, six-feet off the ground and I was placed on a stump 75 yards up the creek. My Dad’s friend went on farther up the creek and not hearing him sloshing around, I figured he had found a good place.

Light was breaking and I noticed my feet were getting cold, everything else was OK; full sun up, my feet were now real cold even though I had on wool socks and rubber hip boots, back then I had no idea that the rubber boots were champions at conducting the cold right to my feet. My hands were getting cold too, my wool lined, leather gloves not doing the job.

Two hours in, my hands and feet were too cold to worry about deer hunting when, plop, plop, a pair of beautiful, wood ducks dropped into the creek not 20 yards to my right. They swam in tight circles, the male with his colorful plumage, the female almost drab next to him. Since they were to my right, to try for a shot, even with bucks, I had to swivel 90 degrees and as I swiveled, with a splash, off they took!

Murmuring to myself as I walked back toward my Dad, “Enough of this fun” and passing him, I called out, “I’m going back to the house and get warm!” Soon my Dad and his friend came in, neither having seen a deer and after a couple of sandwiches, we headed back to our house in West University.

Having sufficiently warmed up, as we drove back toward Houston, I said to my Dad, “Daddy, this deer hunting isn’t too much fun. I believe I’ll stick to quail and doves” and I did for the next 28 years!

Finally, after somewhat overcoming my bad case of cedar fever, on the 11th, I gutted up and hunted both in the morning and afternoon. There’s a cool snap coming this weekend and the high winds, 20-25, are playing hob with the deer movement. The only “shot” I got was of a real, dark deer walking under my tree stand, maybe my melanistic?

Thursday morning there was a lot of doe movement and I only saw one spike that I’m trying to save for the grandsons. Thursday afternoon I moved to another spot and one six pointer walked right under my tripod. This is next year’s deer and not wanting to spook it, I refrained from taking a “shot”.

More on cedar fever, a seasonal allergy that occurs usually in late October and early November and effects most folks in central Texas! It is caused by our copius amount of cedar trees that bloom or pollinate during this time. It starts with a scratchy throat, soon followed by a post-nasal drip, then eyes, ears and nose start running. If home remedies such as Echinacea, honey and cinnamon, saline spray and saline gargle don’t work, you’re a candidate for antihistamines. The last resort, that generally cures it, is a steroid shot.

However, ignoring my cedar fever, bright and early Friday morning I was in the tripod stand that Layla and I built, see my October11, 2010 post “[A New Tower Blind]” for more details. The wind was howling, my attempts at quietness being broken by sniffles and hacks, I was sure I wouldn’t see a deer, so I gave myself 10 more minutes, then I’d go on in. Two minutes into my time limit, out walked my melanistic, yearling, only 6 or 7 months old. Picking up the camera to get a “shot” of her, out walked a buck, a nice one and certainly a shooter.

As they “introduced” themselves, not 20 feet from my tripod, it ran through my mind that these would make some great pictures, but this was quickly overridden by my predatory instincts and shouldering my .270, quietly taking it off Safe and centering it just below the shoulder, I let fly, boom!

Down went the deer for keeps, so I gathered up my rifle, camera and binocs, climbed out of the tripod and headed in to get Layla and Spike the wonder daschund. Spike likes to “find” the deer for me and with his great nose there’ll be one time he’ll really be needed. This time it was just for his practice. He was so possessive of this buck that I had to take him back to the jeep and didn’t get any pics of him and the deer.

The opening of our State’s firearms, deer season was Saturday, November 6, 2010 and for us at the Bryan Ranch, there was a lot of huntin’ and not much gettin’.  To start it off, the folks that Mickey Donahoo and I were going to get a deer for were sick and didn’t want to commit to one at this time.

Tim Albee, aka, SFC Tim Albee, had 2 shots at a big doe, at 80 yards, one shot was between her legs and the other was just over her back, both clean misses!  At lunch time we checked his rifle and, lo and behold, the scope was loose!  In the afternoon he used Layla’s .270, but, seeing a lot of deer, didn’t get a clear shot at anything.

Saturday morning, 20 minutes before shooting time, I got out my binocs to see, one, if this early I could see through them and two, if anything was moving.  Right out in the open was a beautiful buck, big rack, stately, just looking around.  If he would only stay there for 20 more minutes, he would be mine.  I looked and looked, but finally he turned and walked back into the thick stuff.  Old bucks become nocturnal I mused as he disappeared into the brush.  Hoping the big one would come back, I passed on a spike and so many does, I lost track of counting them.  At least I had an excuse.

My afternoon was different.  Climbing up into the new, tripod stand around 4:15, nothing showed except this mockingbird.  The mockingbird is our State bird and I snapped this “shot” of it.

Later, two does came by and then a nice, 8 pointer.  This buck was a year away from shooting, so watching it and trying to get a clean, “shot”, while barely clearing the stand railing, the only pics taken were of the brush.

Then, a little later, noticing movement on one of the game trails, here came two, gray foxes.  Gray foxes are “cute”, but, around here, they are the leading carriers of rabies, so crosshairing one, I let fly, bam, jacked in a new shell, acquired the other, bam. Thinking to myself, Now I’m down to one shell, so I sat in the stand for 15 more minutes, climbed down, took this “shot” of one of the foxes, and came in early.

My alterior motive was to watch the Texas A&M, Oklahoma, football game, that surprisingly, the Ags won!