Random Thoughts

Sometimes

Trying to keep up with some of the best “lines” that I have posted, I’ve researched them and come up with, not the best, or the funniest, but different categories that very from profound to confounded.

Sometimes I write profound statements:

The most important thing is thanking God every day for his blessings; His Grace, our family, our jobs our health, our friends and our wonderful Country!

One thing remains a constant, our country’s freedom is more important than politics or political correctness!
I believe every star in our hemisphere was out too!

Today, our country is on a very, slippery slope! When are all of us going to wake up, or is it too late?

Nothings better than a Son getting a deer on his first hunt!

Sometimes it’s about the weather:

Four degrees wind chill, along with snow, was almost too much for me!

About this snow, this is central Texas, not Iowa. Am I going to have to get me a snow shovel?

Sometimes I try to be funny:

“That makes 4 deer and one buzzard you’ve hit. This Suburban qualifies for ‘Ace’!

We ate the pheasant 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!

Laughing, we told Jake, “That rearing horse looked like Roy Rogers and Trigger! Ride ‘em cowboy!” And, off he galloped into the darkness back towards Scottsdale Road.

A thankless job was cleaning out the outhouse! I don’t remember ever doing that chore.

Sometimes it’s about sports or exercise:

At least walking works up a good sweat!

It would be something if each mornings walk would be this exciting!

Who knows what will happen when you play with a round ball and a round bat on a square field?

Our next tournament will be in Pensacola on May 15, if it rains we can still load up on the fried mullet!

Sometimes it’s indecision:
Once, we jumped a black bear, did not offer chase, or try to “count coup” on him and the dogs also showed no inclination to give chase.

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!

Someone once said, “The best deer blind is your back porch!”

Sometimes I just get confounded:

I never thought about taking a picture of the calf in the hog trap!

The boys and I “snuck” back in once but we felt very awkward carrying our shotguns through our neighbor’s backyards.

Having put all of this together, now I can go back to the football game!

Fishing

Getting A Book Published

When I retired my kids asked me to record some of the wild adventures that I have taken part in. Little did I know that this would lead me to blogging, get me very involved in genealogy and best, get me a book published!

Over the past nine months I have been involved in one of the most rewarding projects that I have ever tackled – having a book published! It became a full time job. Where do you find the time to be active in your church? Where do you find the time to take part in your Grandchildren’s sports? Where do you find time to hunt and fish? Where do you find time to play Senior Softball? Where do you find the time to do all the chores around the ranch?

When I was working, I had assistants that took care of my calendar management. I handled my time management and it never crossed my mind that these things would be so important after I retired. Somehow it all worked out and today, on my blog, Randy, my Son, and I put up all of the “about” information, the necessary links to [Rosedog Books], the publisher and set me up on Twitter and Facebook. On the left side of the page, click on the book, “The End Of The Line”, to find out a little about the book, the author and how to acquire it.

It has been a fun thing! Managing and balancing everything was a challenge. But now, seeing my name on the cover, re-reading some of the stories and holding the book in my hands, it was all worth it!

I’ve got more in the works; an unnamed book about my family’s history from way back to the present; another unnamed one about the storms, tornadoes and miscellaneous violent weather that I have encountered over the years, and one that is almost ready for publishing, “Why It Is Called Hunting”.

How enjoyable this has been and I don’t have a job to get into the way!

Hunting

Deer Season Ends

Last Sunday, one of our friends, SFC Tim Albee, put an end to the 2009/10 deer season. This past season’s total was four does and one spike.

Summarizing, Sean, a Grandson, kicked it off with his first deer, a spike, bagged during the youth season.

Mickey Donahoo then shot two does that we gave to a friend. One is pictured here.

Then Wesley, another Grandson, scored his first kill with this doe.

Not to be outdone, I chipped in with this big, bobcat.

Overall, no big bucks, but wait ‘till next year! Next up is varmint hunting, then around April 1st, it’s turkey time!

Ancestry

Recognition For Buck Barry

Buck Barry, my 2G Uncle, came to Texas in 1845 and this past Saturday, in Walnut Springs, Texas, I attended a presentation, “Character In Action” about Col. Buck Barry and Capt. Jack Cureton. Cureton, like Buck, was also a Texas Ranger and fought Indians, rustlers and thieves with him. Both men made their homes in Bosque County, in what later became Walnut Springs. Much more had been written about Buck so most of the presentation was about him.

Bryan Sowell, author of ‘TEXAS CENTRAL HEADQUARTERS, Walnut Springs”, gave the talk and spoke about what it is that makes one man’s life endure and another forgotten? What makes us cherish Buck’s memory; his courage, character, compassion, rugged individualism, the common good or his love of democracy?

This picture, a Daguerroetype, was made in Corsicana in 1853. It’s probably not the first of this type made in Texas, but it may be the oldest surviving one.

He cited quotes that highlighted these characteristics. A few of these quotes follow.

From the Meridian Tribune on April 9, 1909, a Walnut Springs pioneer, R.W. Aycock described Buck as “One of the best men that ever lived when treated right, but if a man didn’t want to do the right thing, or wanted to pick a scrap, he could get it out of Buck any time!”

According to Dr. James Greer, his biographer and long time family friend, “As a Ranger with Hays, he met the Mexicans; as a sheriff, he encountered outlaws; as a frontiersman, he fought Indians; as a ranchman in Bosque County, he was the nemesis of horse thieves and experienced the annoyance of fence cutting; as a Texan and Southerner during the Civil War, he saw four years of the most grueling and the most undesirable type of military service protecting the Texas frontier from Indians.”

According to Buck, in an article he wrote titled, “Why Do Christians Believe and Atheists Disbelieve In The Bible”? He writes, “God being a spirit without body or form, yet possessing the greatest power known to man; possessing the power of all the elements that are necessary to create; possessing all the power of an infinite and perfect being.”

His biographer sums up Buck Barry very well, “No writer of western stories has created better fiction of adventure that this quite, early settler lived.”

Enough said!

Ancestry

A Position Of Trust

“Webster’s Dictionary” says a trustee is, “A person, usually one of a body of persons or group, appointed to administer the affairs of a company, administration, etc.” In Texas, a Prison Trustee is an inmate that performs certain functions outside of the inmates normal prison duties. A definite position of trust!

In January 1951, my Dad, John H. Bryan, went on, it turned out, an unusual quail hunt, on some very private property. The property in question was owned by the State of Texas, and on it was a State Prison Farm. My Dad’s Brother-in law, and my Uncle, was Rehabilitation Director for the prison system and he had arranged for my Dad to hunt birds there.

Another unusual item was that the State’s bloodhounds would hunt quail, and wouldn’t you know it, the Warden of the prison farm assigned a “special” Trustee, along with two dogs to accompany my Dad. The Trustee in question, the Warden’s favorite, was in for robbery and would soon be paroled. His prison job was training the dogs to track escapees and, for visiting dignitaries, he had also trained them to track quail.

Returning from the hunt with a nice mess of birds, my Dad said, “We had a great time today!” I questioned him, “What’s this “we” business? You went hunting by yourself.” He grinned and said, “Me and the Trustee. His dogs did such a good job that I let him shoot a couple of birds.” My Mom was horrified. She exclaimed, “Bryan, that’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. He could have shot you and been half way to Dallas before they missed him or you!” He grinned again and said, “Aw Honey, he’s getting out in three months, was really a nice young man and I’m sure he wouldn’t want to mess up his parole.”

The incident passed, but two weeks later the hunt was brought vividly back to our minds. The headlines of the afternoon newspaper, “The Houston Chronicle”, blared, “Trustee Escapes From Prison Farm.” Wouldn’t you know it, the dog trainer Trustee was the escapee. My Dad called the Warden of the prison farm, who was just as surprised as my Dad was by the event.

The Warden told my Dad the story (which wasn’t in the paper) of how the dog trainer Trustee just walked off and when the officers sent the dogs after him, he just told them to “kennel up” and they went back to their kennels. Three times the dogs were sent out and three times they returned. By then the officers figured he was long gone and he was!
Years later I asked my Uncle whatever happened to the dog trainer Trustee. He laughed and said that he was never found.

Maybe the State of Texas didn’t look for him too hard?

Hunting

Part 2 of Walking Wounded

We were miles back in the Arizona wilderness and our guest and friend, Tommy Walker, had been hit with a blast from a shotgun! Part 2 Of “Walking wounded” follows.

Scrambling up the thirty yards I saw him down on his knees, holding his eyes. Oh no, not his eyes, I thought! Jake came racing up, “What happened to Tommy” he exclaimed? “Looks like he got some shot in his eyes,” I answered. Tommy said, “I heard you and Jake say a few words and I got curious and walked to the edge of the canyon. I looked down just as Jake shot, and I think I’ve got some bird shot in one of my eyes!”

I checked his pulse, it was normal, his skin felt normal, one eye definitely had one or more shot in it, the other was normal. No apparent signs of shock, for now. We had him lie down and elevated his feet, while we figured out what to do. Our problem was how to get him the two plus miles back to the truck?

We figured if we bandaged his eye we could lead him out OK. The only problem, we didn’t have any bandages, some were in the first aid kit in the truck, but none with us, so we improvised. We took the back of my tee shirt and Jake’s clean hankie, tied them together, and oops, to cover his injured eye, we had to cover his good eye too. We didn’t have any tape with us. It was back in the truck, too. Covering both eyes, we tied the “bandage” off on the back oh his head.

We started back to the truck and it was hard to guide Tommy. Jake and I took turns, one carrying all three shotguns, the other guiding Tommy by having him lean on and put an arm around our neck. Our main worry was shock, but he told of being wounded in WW II and didn’t feel like he was anywhere near it.

The dogs, bless their hearts, hunted all the way back. With both eyes bandaged Tommy couldn’t see, but he could hear us talking. “Hey, Jake look, point up there.” “Beech, here’s a point.” Whirrrrrrr! A quail took to a hurried flight. as Tommy said, “Guys, set me down here and you all hunt these birds. You can come back and get me.” “Not a chance, Tommy,” we both echoed.
Tommy was a load, weighing about two hundred pounds, and carrying the shotguns for two miles sounds easy, but remember there are no handles, or slings, on them and no easy way to carry three guns at once for any distance. Our two-mile jaunt took almost two hours, but our first goal, the truck and the four wheel drive road, was reached.

We still had four, hard, four wheel drive miles, at least two hours, to cover before we got to the dirt road. Jake drove and I sat with Tommy in the back of the SUV. The dogs were packed into two kennels behind the second seat. We were all tired and as we bumped the four miles to the dirt road, Tommy’s eye was beginning to throb. Our second goal was reached. It had been over four hours since the accident, but we could make this eight-mile leg in about thirty minutes.

The sun was setting as we reached the hard top road to Payson and it had been almost five hours since the accident. Jake and I knew there was a small hospital in Payson, twenty-five miles ahead so we hurried on into town.

No cell phones then, so we stopped at the first convenience store we came across in Payson and called the hospital, alerting them of the accident and getting directions. We found the emergency room and checked Tommy in. There was a short wait for the local eye specialist. An hour later the doctor came out and told us that he had removed the shot from Tommy’s eye, but he was concerned that the vitreous fluid could leak out, causing Tommy to loose his vision in that eye.

The doctor would end up keeping Tommy in the hospital for a week. His eye healed and he returned to shooting and hunting almost as soon as he got back home. I hunted and shot skeet with Tommy for the next ten years and all of us started wearing shooting glasses!

Hunting

Walking Wounded

This is a story about a terrific Gambel quail hunt and also the story about an avoidable accident. The story took place in over fifteen hours and is a long one so I divided it into two parts. The first part follows and the second part will posted on January 15th.

In 1973 on this particular hunt, to an isolated canyon along the Salt River, Jake, my hunting buddy, and I were taking a good friend, Tommy Walker. Tommy was in Phoenix for a business meeting that ended the coming Friday, so we planned the hunt for the next day, Saturday. Tommy was excited at the prospect of some real good Gambel quail hunting!

The trip to the hunting spot was a real doozy! We took a ten-mile, dirt road, short cut, off of Bee Line Highway, to reach the main road from Payson to Roosevelt Dam and on to Globe, Arizona. Back on the paved surface, heading east, we took a dirt road south, following the west rim of the Salt River Canyon, for eight miles before it turned into a four wheel drive only road for four more harrowing miles. When the four wheel drive road ended, we were “there”. We probably made six or seven trips to this spot and never saw another soul. Gas was only $.50 per gallon then. Nixon had just begun the Arab Oil embargo that marked the beginnings of our energy problems!

We hunted along a wash that fed into the Salt River. The wash continued west up into the hills for several miles, then turned into a mini canyon almost two hundred feet deep. The little canyon had nicely terraced sides along its north rim. We, our dogs and hunters, would spread across the wash and head up it until the coveys of birds were found. At the time the coveys were enormous, a hundred to two hundred birds each, and needed to be seen, to be believed.

Back to our story, we, Tommy, Jake and I, along with two of our Brittany Spaniels, began our hunt around 8:30 AM. After the usual checking of our gear, we trekked a quarter of a mile in, spread out and began our hunt. Once the birds were found, we pursued them up the wash into the small canyon. At the same time, this split the coveys into more manageable groups with some flying up and over the canyon rim.

Then the shooting and walking really began! Up the canyon, up the terraces, back down the terraces, up the terraces, not for the faint of heart! The dog work was excellent, the shooting bordered on fantastic and the Arizona desert hills made for a perfect setting.

We hunted two dogs for two hours then circled back, took a break and got two fresh ones. Around noon we broke for a quick sandwich, sat a spell enjoying the scenery, counted our half limits of birds and headed back up the north rim of our little canyon. Earlier, several bunches of the main coveys had flow up there.

We saw the birds running on the ground ahead of us, before we saw them flush wildly over the rim back to the bottom of the canyon. These were a group of birds that flew up there earlier this morning.

Jake said, “I’ll take the dogs and go down into the canyon and try to drive them up on the terraces.” I added, “I’ll take the middle terrace,” knowing that I could come under fire from Jake if the birds flew straight up the canyon wall. It was safer for Tommy to be up on the top sixty yards or more from the bottom.

He was to walk slowly, a safe distance away from the canyon’s edge and mark the birds that flew up and out of the canyon. I had already told him that I would not shoot at a bird flying up the canyon wall toward him. Tommy wasn’t used to the rough hunting terrain, and especially to the erratic behavior of the birds when being pursued by dogs and hunters.

In the bottom of the canyon, the dogs pointed a group of twelve to fifteen birds, Jake, letting me know of the point (Tommy heard the exchange too). Jake walked in on the birds and they went everywhere, bam, bam, two shots from his over and under, that ,as I ducked down whizzed over my head and then heard Tommy yell in pain, “I’m hit!”

Continued on January 15.

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!

Bits and Pieces from Jon H Bryan…