When our State’s south zone, dove season opened in 1967 my Dad had just retired and I had received a nice promotion from the large computer company that I worked for. Because of the promotion my ex wife and I had sold our old home and bought another. Like so many times happens, our move-in date slipped a month and we had to find an apartment for our growing family; she and I and two boys, one 4 and the other, 11 months old. Storing most of our stuff we found a nice, two-bedroom one on Bellaire Blvd.

As usual, my Dad and I opened the south zone dove season south of Houston limiting out, see my post on November 17, 2008, “[Vacek’s]” and the Monday afternoon following the opener, my family and my Mom and Dad, drove out to see how the construction was progressing on our new home, progressing very slowly, of course! As we drove out Bellaire Blvd and crossed Highway 59 (the freeway was just under construction), south of Braes Bayou, my Dad and I noticed a lot of cars parked along the roadside and out in the cut, milo fields beside the road people were moving around, looked like hunters to me and one quick left turn confirmed this!

At this time, Houston had just passed a million folks and the city limits in our part of town had just been extended out past Gessner Rd. and the hunters were at least two miles out into the “country”. We watched them hammering away at the doves coming in to feed in the milo field, however one problem with this set up, the land was owned by a local oilman and real estate developer and later one of the “powers” behind construction of the Astrodome. He was also one of the benefactors of the Houston Medical Center.

My Dad and I got out of the car and talked to a hunter just going out into the field and asked him if he had permission to hunt in this spot? “No”, he replied, adding as he hurried out to get into the fun, “I was told this was an open spot since the construction would eventually eliminate most of the grain field.”

The next day, 3:30 in the afternoon found my Dad and I hunkered down with fifty or so other hunters in the milo field awaiting the doves. Our wait was a short one, we enjoyed some fine shooting and within an hour we both had our limits. We repeated this, limiting out, for the next three afternoons and after our Friday hunt and we had cleaned the birds, we hosted a tasty, dove, cook out for our apartment dwellers.

This was fine shooting while it lasted, but the road construction moved on, progress came to southwest Houston and today, the grain field is gone and the part of the area south of the bayou is taken up with a shopping center and the other part, to the north, is a nature conservancy.

The State of Texas allows hunters to “bait” or feed deer. Some states don’t allow this practice, but when in Rome etc. Real big, bucks generally will not come into feeders but they draw many doe and spikes, so we do have corn feeders near some deer blinds on our ranch. During the 2008/09 season on the ranch we shot 8 doe, 2 spikes and one 15 pointer, see my November 12, 2008 post, “[Randy’s Big ‘Un]” and last year we added 4 doe and two spikes. The feeders pay off!

The best deer hunting on our ranch is in what we call the back part and earlier this year we decided to open it up for the cattle to graze in. Besides food plots there was one corn feeder near a tree stand and corn feeders and cows just don’t mix because eventually they’ll just turn the feeder over. The solution to this is to put a fence around the feeder and yesterday Layla and I completed this project.

Here’s a pictures of the empty feeder before we put up the fence. Building it wasn’t hard but two operations of the installation require two people. One is holding up the fence posts before they’re driven into the ground and the other is holding up the 20’, hog wire, panels during attachment to the posts.

After a couple of hours work, here’s the finished product.

Being a very tight person, I finally invested in a brand new, digital, game camera and last week on the 15th, installed it in one of my corn, feeder pens. Pens, yes, because to keep the cows away from everything, we’ve built fences around them. This feeder wasn’t my first choice of locations, but will be fine for the next couple of weeks.

After installing the camera, I was careful to move away from it outside of the range finder, so no pics of me slinking away, but the first visitor that afternoon was, not the mighty buck I’d been expecting, but a cow.

Friday afternoon was hot and muggy and before cleaning up to go watch Goldthwaite’s homecoming, football game, I took a quick trip out to check on the game cam. Not thinking about the camera’s range, it captured me driving up in the Jeepster.

Sure enough on the morning of the 17th the deer had found the feeder and, because of the human scents in the fenced area, I was not expecting any “shots” of bucks. Here at 8:29 AM a doe is in the pen and her fawns are outside and at 8:39 another doe has jumped in.
     

Transferring the pics, I even got one of my PC.

At the game Friday night there was a nice rain, the ranch got .3”, but the halftime activities were halted because lightning was detected in the area. Goldthwaite came out smokin’ in the second half and won the game 25-0. This was a hollow victory because three of our starters, my Grandson, Colton included, were held out of the game with injuries. All three were All State last year: a running back that gained over 1900 yards; A middle linebacker, the leading tackler in the State with 211, and a tackle, the team’s second leading tackler!

We always need the rain, but a second bright side is that the human scent will be washed away and when I check the game cam next Friday there should be some buck pics.

In the last days of summer, 1974, Tommy Walker, my friend and former manager, and his wife, called from Houston and said they were coming out to Arizona the next weekend to hunt some doves. This was an exciting event because Tommy, this past hunting season, had been accidentally hit by a blast from another hunter’s shotgun, took several pellets, #8’s, in one of his eyes and, blessedly, was healed now and ready to go hunt some more! My, two part story, January 13, 2010, part 1 of “[Walking Wounded]” and part 2, on [January 15, 2010], describes this event. Also, Tommy assured me that they would be wearing shooting glasses too.

Three, plus, weeks into the dove season, our best bet was to drive down toward Picacho Peak, turn left off of I-10 and drive toward Florence and then follow the signs to the Lake Picacho area, find a flyway and have a go at some white wings. Before sun up, thank goodness no traffic, we left my Paradise Valley home and made the one-hour trip. During the drive down, we discussed the safest method of hunting these birds, only shoot at birds passing over and don’t shoot at low flyers, no matter how easy or great a shot it is!

We didn’t find a flyway, but found a grain field the big birds were feeding in and set up along a line of mesquites. The white wings were feeding then flying over us towards the lake to water. Good action! A lot of white wings and we were the only hunters using this field!

Tommy was to my immediate left about fifty yards away and our wives were on the other side of both of us. We were about half way from our limits and I turned and looked at a low flyer between Tommy and me, just as he turned and let go with his twenty gauge, Superposed. He was using a “hot” reload with one ounce of number 8’s and before I could turn my back to him, my shooting glasses were hit and I felt a sting below my right eye. I was shot, not bad, but thanks to the shooting glasses, my eyes were spared!

Many times I have turned my back to a shooter and been “peppered” with bird shot, but this time it was different. With Tommy’s hot loads and him being relatively close to me, one shot had nicked me, bringing blood and as I rubbed where it hit, I could feel it still embedded under the skin. Yelling over to him, “Don’t shoot the low flyers!” His reply was, “Sorry, the bird came in so fast, my only reaction was to shoot at it.”

Increasing the distance between Tommy and me, soon we had our limits. Back at the truck, cleaning the birds, Tommy looked at me and said, “You have some blood under your eye, did you run into a mesquite. Good thing you had your shooting glasses on!” Under my breath I replied, “Amen!”

In mid afternoon, after the four, plus, hour drive from Houston, Layla, and I pulled up at the house at our lease in McCulloch County, Texas. We had “snuck” away early from our jobs and, as expected, were the only ones there that day. All of our gang would be up the next day.

We changed from our business clothes, slipped into jeans and camo shirts and along with Gus, our Brittany spaniel, happily trotting beside us, quickly headed out to the “secret” stock tank. On an earlier trip up I had found a spring fed stock tank tucked behind a butte, or small mesa, and way off the beaten path.

The “secret” tank lies in the oak trees, just below the saddle in the two hills.

About an hour before sunset, the mourning doves started coming into the water. Our set up was ideal. The tank had a rocky, gravelly bank all around, a couple of dead mesquites at one end and several live mesquites at the other end that we used for shade and concealment.
The doves came in singularly and in groups and were met with our bam, bam, bamming and soon we had neared our limits. It was great sport, and a lot of fun, watching Gus retrieve the birds that fell into the water.

Gus, pictured in one of his dryer moments.

Finally he rebelled. As I knocked another one down into the water, Gus walked over beside me and shook himself vigorously, liberally dousing me, and plopped down beside my foot. “Fetch him up Gus,” I commanded with no response. “Gus, fetch the bird,” more forcefully as he looked up at me and rolled over on his back! He was “done” for the day!

Trying to get Layla to retrieve the last bird for me, she declined also. It was left for me to either jump in, or to chunk rocks and cow patties at the bird to wash it close to the shore. I chose the former and unceremoniously waded out and picked it up.

So much for delegating!

In the 1970’s, one of our favorite dove hunting spots in Arizona was south of Phoenix on the St. John’s Indian Reservation. Back then, a hunting permit was a whopping $5.00 and like $10.00 for a family and this allowed the hunters access to some great mourning dove hunting.

One of the best spots on the reservation was along an irrigated, grain field, the north edge bordering on thick brush that the doves were using as a roost and rest area. This particular Saturday afternoon, we, my family and the Schroder’s, had decided to combine a dove hunt along the edge of the brush and, after the hunt, a cook out in a clearing fifty yards in. The afternoon sun was to our right and the birds flew south to north, coming out of the field and flying right over us, providing easy head on, or quartering, shots.

Head on’s are easy. Track the bird, cover it with the muzzle, fire and follow through. The bird flies right in to the shot string, usually providing a clean kill, then falls near the shooter. Not having to walk around much in the sun means a lot on a hot September day in Arizona! Quartering shots are a little different, just be sure to get the right lead and then bang away!

The afternoon flight was just beginning, scattered shots coming from our four shooters that were strung out along the edge of the field. On my first shot, a quartering one, I knocked down a dove that was just loafing along, not flying anywhere near max speed, but soon, with all the shooting the birds picked up their pace considerably!

With the doves pouring over us, we kept banging away. Before long, with the temp over a hundred, combining this with all of our shooting, our barrels started heating up. Just load up and keep shooting, but don’t touch the hot part.
One bird away from my limit, I looked up and here came one heading right over me, an easy head on shot. Tracking the bird and firing, puff, a clean hit and the bird rocketed straight for my chest. Holding my shotgun with my right hand and holding up my left, I was going to be real cool and catch this one, one handed, but at the last moment the dove gained a little lift rising over my outstretched hand and smacked me right between the eyes, knocking me over!

The force of four ounces traveling at, I guess, 35 MPH, applied right between my eyes, was a wallop. Getting up and looking through my broken shooting glasses, covered with mine and the dove’s blood, I saw that, besides being shot, the bird had a broken neck. However, the dove got his revenge, but $100.00 later for a new pair of shooting glasses, I wasn’t to be deterred, and soon, my next free afternoon found me back on the reservation.

After cleaning the birds, we washed up, grilled the steaks and along with green chilies and onions had almost a feast. After dinner, Jake looked over at me and, with a straight face, asked, “Beech, you went down real easy, think you have a “glass” forehead?