Three weeks before, we, Tommy Walker, Norman Shelter and I, had returned from the Lake Guerro area, in Mexico, where we had enjoyed a truly fabulous white wing dove hunt! With their twenty gauge, Browning Superposed, shotguns, Tommy and Norman had shot over two thousand birds and since their shoulders had sufficiently healed, we were now after some south Texas mourning doves. Then I was using a twenty gauge, 870.

Before sun up, ten miles northwest of Hondo, Texas, we had just pulled up and parked our Suburban in the shade of a big oak tree, next to a cut, milo field. Soon, within fifteen minutes, the doves would come piling into the field and the three of us would be in ambush positions behind a fence row.

Right on time, here came the mourners, hundreds of them, and choosing our shots, we limited out in less than thirty minutes! Fast action, hot shooting and when it is that good, it always seems to end too soon.

To clean the birds, we moved into the shade next to the truck and as we were breasting them, Tommy looked out over the field and exclaimed, “I’ll be durn, look at that cat in the middle of the field. It’s a wonder that with all of our shooting we didn’t rain some shot down on it.” We guessed the light beige, cat was about three hundred yards away and sitting on its haunches, but it was too far away for us to tell anything else about it.

Jumping up from my cleaning chores, I hurried to the truck and fumbling through my “possibles bag” came up with a small pair of binoculars. Zeroing in on the cat, to my surprise, this was not a house cat but a cougar! Just like a house cat, the cougar was bathing itself, apparently oblivious to our presence. The country around us was a mixture of cultivation and real thick stuff, but we were surprised by the cougars presence and wisely made no move toward it.

We re-estimated the distance from the cougar to us and figured that it was up to four hundred yards away. We finished cleaning the birds, drove off and the cougar was still sitting in the middle of the field, bathing itself.

Two weeks later, Tommy, who had a ranch in Devine, twenty-one miles from Hondo, heard from the Game Warden that a cougar had been trapped, tranquilized and moved to a less “people intensive” area, meaning the Big Bend country, or, other points west!

After the past Saturday’s spectacular dove hunt just outside of George West, my Dad and I decided to accept the rancher’s invitation and made arrangements with him to be there the coming Saturday.

We would be taking one more shooter with us, my ex-wife. It was almost a problem because she was eight months pregnant with our second child, soon to be Randy. But in those days the sex of the child couldn’t be determined until birth. My Dad and I thought, “Why not, one more license would let us get another limit of birds.” Come Saturday morning we packed Brad off to my Mom, and set sail for George West.

Arriving there around 2:30 PM, we met the rancher and paid him a whopping $15.00 for the three of us. An added benefit was that he was going to hunt with us again this week and he was going to take us to three new places. He said the birds were still eating him out of house and home and they were starting to cost him money.

A little after 3:30 we arrived at out first stop, a fifty-acre milo field that had just been cut, and as we walked to our hunting areas, birds were coming and going, flocking, to the field. Pop, pop, pop, pop, four guns barked and two doves fell. More shooting, more birds going down. The shooting was fun, but the retrieving was hot work. Soon, my ex-wife got too hot and took the first of her several breaks. So three of us were shooting, pop, pop, pop, and more birds falling.

We checked and we had our bag limit, forty-eight birds, in about forty-five minutes. Our bag and possession limit was ninety-six, but after last weeks hunt we still had plenty of doves!

Hot shooting, in more ways than one. Shotgun barrels were too hot to touch, the heat was staggering, and thankfully we had our limits and could go on home. But the rancher said, “We need to go try to this new stock tank and see what’s there.” “But we have our limits,” my Dad and I exclaimed! “Limits? Let’s go shoot”, grinned the rancher.

I guess we thought that this guy really wanted to shoot some doves and we sure were the right guys to help him, so, off the four of us went to this new stock tank complete with several dead mesquite trees standing around the bank. The tank was about one acre and its banks were gravelly and smooth right down to the waters edge. A perfect set up for doves.

Taking our stations behind some buck brush, pop, pop, pop, pop, and one dove fell – a little different shooting than an open field. Soon we were in the groove and the doves started falling in the water and around the tank and we had four more limits.

No afternoon swim this week so handing my wallet and watch to my Dad, I unceremoniously waded out and picked up the birds and told the rancher, “We have our bag and possession limits and really should stop shooting and head on home.” He replied, “I have one more spot, a roost, that we need to try.” Drying of as best I could, the rancher and I left for the roost. My two hunting partners decided they had had enough and would sit this one out in the shade around the rancher’s house.

Arriving at the roosting area with about thirty minutes left to shoot, birds were already coming in. The roost was a large chunk of South Texas brush country with a clearing surrounding a small rise, a miniature hill. The birds were guiding on the clearing. Mourning doves will guide on a tree, telephone pole, house or any outstanding feature in the landscape to assist them in flying the most direct route to food, water and a safe place to roost.

We were in their direct flight line, and pop, pop, pop, pop, we unloaded on them and birds started falling. By end of shooting time we had well over two more limits. A quick tally told me that we faced cleaning over one hundred and thirty doves, then driving home. We faced a terrible fine if a Game Warden caught us!

Back at the ranch house, behind his patio, the rancher turned on every outside light he had. I thought, “We may as well go to the local high school stadium, turn on those lights and clean our birds.” The four of us start cleaning them and saw headlights coming down his drive. Maybe it’s his wife? Fat chance. We could tell it was a truck, a green truck with a grayish seal on the side – A STATE GAME WARDEN!

We were in a heap of trouble. Fifty birds over the limit at $5.00 per bird is $250.00 and probably loss of our licenses and our guns. Ouch! Maybe this was all a scam, a set up to get an easy collar for the Game Warden? He walked up slowly, nodding to the rancher. The rancher stood and shook his hand. We died! The rancher said, “This is Warden so-in-so.” The Warden smiled and said, “Hidee. It looks like you folks,” we died again, “need some help cleaning these birds.” He added, “I know you all shot a lot of ‘em, but we just have too many on this place and they need thinning out.”

Alive again, before the Warden changed his mind, we hurriedly finished up on the birds, piled into the car and headed home (with all of the birds).

There were so many birds the answer was more hunters not over limit shooting! After that “near miss”, we adhered strictly to game laws. Randy was born three weeks later and remains a dedicated hunter

The late summer of 1969 the opening of Texas’ first preseason teal hunt on September 20th, coincided with Fred Walters, a close friend and neighbor of mine, and Iacquiring hunting rights on a three hundred acre rice field that included a small pond. The lease was in the middle of the Katy Prairie, four miles due north of Katy, Texas. This was our first “go” at a hunting lease and for the next two years provided both of us, and our families, with a world of enjoyment. Using the back roads, before sun up, it was a twenty-five minute drive from our home’s in Sharpstown, to the lease.

We took the opportunity the new lease and the new teal season afforded by being hunched down opening morning behind a levee in the rice field, beside our small pond. Awaiting the morning flights, with the sun coming up over our right shoulders, to entice the little ducks, we had a“spread” ofthree mallard decoys bouncing in the water. Several flights of doves buzzed by, but we held our fire since, at the time, our State’s season only allowed dovehunting after noon.

It wasn’t long before, zip, zip, two teal whizzed over us, made a wide swing, caught the wind, set their wings and plopped down beside the bouncing decoys. Up we jumped, the teal flushed wildly, our shotguns boomed and splash, splash, we claimed the first kills on our lease. As I sloshed out and picked up the little ducks, four more buzzed our “spread” and with my hands full and Fred standing up we passed on any shots.

Sitting back down, before I could get set, a lone single buzzed in and Fred splashed him. After that we took turns shooting, the teal kept piling in and before 9:00 AM we both had our limits ofblue wing teal.

During the morning we heard a good amount of shooting and it sounded like the hunters liked this new season, now, forty years later, the “special” teal season is still eagerly awaited by the “short sleeved” hunting group.

In September 1964, the hot spot for mourning doves in Texas was George West, a small town southeast of San Antonio. Grain fields abounded and there were miles and miles of the famed south Texas brush country for roosting.

To sample some of this reportedly outstanding shooting, my Dad and I had decided to go ahead and pay for a “day hunt”. We called the local C of C and they gave us the name of a rancher booking hunts. We called him and set up a hunt for the coming Saturday.

Arriving in George West, after the three and a half hour drive from my home in southwest Houston, we greeted the rancher and paid him a whopping $10.00 for the two of us. An added benefit was that he wanted to hunt with us, three limits now, and then he took us a to a special place to shoot. He said the birds were eating him out of house and home and were a nuisance. We said, “Fine with us. Lead on!”

This particular late September in South Texas was unusually hot and by 3:30 PM, no daylight savings time, everything was either wilted or too hot to touch. The only wind was hot and every footstep would stir up tiny dust devils. Some may say, “Too hot to hunt”, but both of us, being tight, had paid our money and would take our chances.

We crammed into the ranchers pick up, this was before king cabs, and he drove us to a half acre stock tank. The tank was surrounded by light brush, just enough for some cover with smooth banks down to the waters edge. At one end was a dead mesquite tree and the tank was right beside a fresh cut milo field. Perfect!

Taking our stations in the brush, and this brush didn’t provide much shade at all, we didn’t have to wait long for the doves to come to the water – pop, pop, pop, pop, pop and three birds fell, two into the brush and were quickly retrieved, the third fell into the water. The rancher said, “Don’t worry about that one, there will be a lot more fall in and we’ll get ‘em later!”

The birds continued to pile in on us and the shooting was fun, but the retrieving was hot, hot work. We quickly learned to shoot a bird, mark him in the brush and go pick him up before taking the next shot. Those that fell into the water, we just let them float.

As the doves continued zipping in, we took a quick count and had forty-two birds in hand and twenty-one in the water. Bag and possession limit was seventy-two for the three of us. We picked our next shots carefully and made sure the retrieve was an easy one. Soon we had our limit, with twenty-three still in the water.

Unloading my gun, I started looking around for loose rocks or cow chips to chunk at the birds in the water. The rancher stopped me with, “Jon, how about a swim” as he kicked off his boots and peeled down to his shorts? My Dad and I followed his lead and soon there were three grown men splashing around in the cool water and chunking the doves back on to the bank! Not a bad ending to a great hunt!

As we dressed the rancher said, “This sure beats working up a big sweat chunkin’ those birds out!” As we were driving back to our car he said, “Why don’t you two come back next week?”

My wife, Layla, and I had arrived at our lease in McCulloch County, Texas in mid afternoon, after the four, plus, hour drive from Houston, and found that we were the first ones there for the weekend.
We changed from our “business executive” clothes and slipped into jeans and camo shirts and quickly headed out to our “secret” stock tank with Gus, our Brittany Spaniel, happily trotting beside us. I had found a spring fed stock tank tucked behind a butte, or small mesa, and it was way off the beaten path.

The “secret” tank is hidden 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 oak trees at the other end. We used the live ones 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, great shooting and a lot of fun watching Gus as he retrieved the birds that fell into the water.
Pictured is Gus in one of his dryer moments.
Finally he rebelled. After seven or eight retrieves, he walked over beside me and shook himself vigorously, liberally dousing me, and plopped down at my side as I knocked another one down into the water. “Fetch him up, Gus”” I commanded, and he didn’t move. “Gus, fetch the bird” more forcefully as he looked up at me and rolled over on his back! Gus was “done” for the day!
I tried to get Layla to retrieve the last dove for me, but she declined also. It was left for me to chunk rocks and cow patties at the bird to “wash” it close to the shore, where I unceremoniously waded out and picked it up.
So much for delegating!

Dove season in Texas’ central and north zones opens this morning and I thought it appropriate to post this dove hunting story from the past that took place “South Of The Border, Down Mexico Way” near Lake Guerro. Our excessive shooting can’t be condoned, but for excuses, there were so many birds, so few hunters and a “waiver” or “pay off” had been delivered to the local Game Warden, that my friend’s and I reluctantly went aheadfed a lot of poor Mexicans.

Mid-September found us, Tommy Walker, Norman Shelter and our wives,driving in northern Mexico,south of Brownsville, on the way to a fishing camp on Lake Guerro. We were hoping to sample the white wing dove hunting and some fantastic bass fishing! Our destination was almost a hundred miles south of the border towns on the Texas side of the Rio Grande and it was plenty hot, but that didn’t stop us!

Arriving at our destination, we were told that the white wing hunting bordered on stupendous, but the bass fishing had reached rock bottom since commercial netting was rampant and “dynamiting” was on the upswing. After the second morning of trying to catch some bass, we gave up and began concentrating on the birds.

That afternoon we piled into an old school bus with the windows down,for the twenty minute, hot,dusty driveand arrived, sweating, at our hunting spot at 3:00 PM.We werehunting on a five hundred, acre, uncut, milo field. White wings land on thestalks and feed directly from them, while mourning doves land and feed on the ground. The field,borderedby a plateau on itsnorth side that wasused as a roosting area by the white wings,had dense brush and trees, or jungle, on the other three sides. Our guide told us the the roost held between 250,000 and 350,000 birds and local crop depradation was high, but for us not to worry about the limits, that ithad been taken care of.

Based on the guide’s input, Tommy and Norman decided to try for one thousand birds each and I set my goal to see how many shots it would take me to bag a hundred. The birds that we didn’t eat at the camp, or take home, were given to poor families, of which there were many, so there would be no waste of the game. Tommy and Norman were assigned three “bird boys” each and since my goal was low I was only authorized one.

Our spot was between the roost and the field in a hundred yard, wideopening in the trees. The guide told us that the doves would come funneling throught this opening in droves right at 3:30 PM. Funnel in they did! The birds were everywhere and our guns kept up a constant banging and the bird boys were scrambling to pick up the kills. You always hear “them” say, “We shot until our barrels were too hot to touch.” We did and we even had to be careful loading our pump guns and not touching the receivers because they were steaming hot also!

Our guns, since we brought them in from the U.S, were plugged, three shots each and “triples” were common. It took Tommy and Norman two and a halfdays of steady shooting, A.M. and P.M. to get their thousand. Horribly bruised shoulders kept them from shooting for over three weeks! In less than two hours, my one hundred and twenty-nine shots accounted for my hundred.

As “they” say, “When you’re hot, you’re hot!”

September 1st means the opening of the 2009/2010 hunting season, also, football season has kicked of with a big Goldthwaite win over a tough team from Collinsville. (More to come on that game). Thinking back, one of the best places that I ever hunted doves was on the St. John’s Indian Reservation, south of Phoenix. In the early 70’s an individual hunting permit was a whopping $5.00 and $10.00 for a family. This allowed the hunters access to some great hunting.

The doves were feeding in a large grain field and then flying into a watering/roosting area in very thick brush. The afternoon sun was to our right and the birds flew south to north, coming out of the field and heading right over us. We usually arrived around 3:30 PM and positioned ourselves in the brush along a fence line and within two hours would generally have our limits.

Incoming, or head on, shots are easy. Track below the bird, cover it with the muzzle, fire and follow through. The bird flies right in to the shot string yielding a clean kill and falls near the shooter. This meant a lot on a hot, Arizona day!

This particular afternoon’s flight was pouring over us, heated barrels banging away, doves falling and the birds kept coming. Here came an easy head on for me, I tracked and fired, puff, a clean hit and the bird rocketed straight for my chest. Holding out my hand, I was going to be real cool and catch this one. But, at the last moment, the dove gained a little lift rising over my outstretched hand and smacked me right between the eyes!

The force of four ounces traveling at, I guessed, 35 MPH, applied right between my eyes, knocked me down. I got up and through my broken shooting glasses, my blood and the dove’s blood, I saw the bird had a broken neck.

The dove got his revenge, but $100.00 later for a new pair of shooting glasses, I was not to be deterred, and soon, the next free afternoon found me back at my favorite spot banging away.