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.

On April 2, before turkey season opened on the 4th, dutifully doing my scouting, I called up this magnificent Rio Grande gobbler and snapped this picture when he was ten feet from me.

Saturday morning, high wind and all, I was in a good “hide”, had my decoy out, was calling and awaiting “big boy” to show up. He didn’t show and I didn’t see a bird. Same results the afternoon of the 7th.

Tuesday at 10:00 AM I was walking over to work in my garden when I saw movement in my field, about 400 yards away. Getting my binocs and camera, sure enough it was a hen, turkey, strolling and nibbling across the plowed ground. That black, dot, just below the cows, is the hen. It figures, Layla and I both had doctor appointments Tuesday afternoon in Temple, so, no hunting. I’ll be out tomorrow though!

Spring turkey season opened this morning, but I want to recount a very unusual chain of events that occurred the morning of April 2nd.
By 7:15 AM I was snugly sitting against an oak tree in some real thick stuff and 8:30 found me still sitting, and getting very uncomfortable, and thinking that I wouldn’t see or hear a bird this morning. Since I was just scouting, I didn’t have a decoy set up and had started clucking around 8:00 with no luck. Figuring that if a gobbler responded he would come in close to try and find the hen and, maybe, I could get a picture.

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble and I jumped a foot. The bird was only 70 yards to my left. He’d snuck in real close before announcing his presence. My clucks were responded with a gobble, gobble, gobble and he was bobbing his head up and down trying to locate the hen in the thick cover. Not moving much I started snapping pictures and because of the thick cover I couldn’t get a good “shot”.In he came and was masked by a cedar tree and I clucked twice, figuring that he’d come on in real close or it would scare him off.

There were two openings in the brush around me and he walked through one, not seven feet from me and I kept clicking and was rewarded with this picture. He never saw me and if I’d had my coup stick with me I could’ve counted coup on him.Still looking for the elusive hen he walked to my right and gobbled, gobbled, gobbled right in my ear.

He gobbled once more and walked passed the other opening and I got this “shot”. What a nice gobbler and he’s only ten feet from me!

Losing interest in the hidden hen, the gobbler turned and walked into an opening in the thick stuff.

See ya’ soon big guy!

My next close encounter with a woodcock was on the last day of the special doe and spike season in January, 2008.  That morning, two booms, about an hour apart, was all that we had heard and figured that one, or both of the two, grandsons had gotten one.  Sure enough, one had knocked down a spike, but it had jumped back up and ran off into the thick brush and the family all turned out to find the lost deer.

Just Passin’ Through

A neighbor across the county road had taken one of the shots and the other one was by my grandson.  There were blood sprinkles where his deer had dropped, but not major hemorrhaging and a drop every now and then only gave us a general direction in which the deer was heading.  Spike, our Dachshund, our deer tracker, was recovering from back surgery and couldn’t be used to locate the deer.

Randy, Suzanne, Layla, two grandsons and I spread out and applied ourselves to the task of finding the deer.  My track took me south, beside a seasonal creek that I slowly crept along with my head down looking for “sign”.   The woods were still damp from last night’s rain, the creek had some puddles in it and the moisture had silenced the leaves, when I heard the unmistakable tweep, tweep, flutter of a woodcock taking wing!

Astonished, I looked up, and sure enough, there he was going up through the tree, tops.  Armed only with my .357 Mag. Pistol, I was wishing for my 20 gauge so the bird could be engaged, but woodcock season ended months ago.  Continuing my search for the deer, not over a hundred yards from the first flush, tweep, tweep, flutter another one wobbled into the air.

Having owned this ranch for over 15 years, I had never seen a woodcock, now two within 10 minutes!  Texas, especially west central Texas almost known as a desert, is not a prime locale for woodcock.  These birds could have been on their way north, but spring was still two months away.  On their way south, not in the middle of the winter, but maybe, these woodcock were heading for the Texas coast.

Because of our drought, a woodcock trying to dig for worms would’ve bent his bill in our rock like, ground!  Rain, we did have a smidgen’, but a good downpour, no!  Not one showed up in 2009.

We never found the grandson’s deer, but we did find the one the neighbor across the road shot.

During the spring of 1979 we moved back to the Houston area and bought a nice home in Cypress in the Lakewood Forest Subdivision. The house was in Section 2, Section 3 was just being developed and, still to go, were Sections 4 and 5. In Section 5, as we explored the area, we found numerous ponds and the piney woods abounded with wildlife! Since it was only 5 minutes from our house, Randy, Brad and I quickly took advantage of this situation.

Lakewood Forest, Section 5

Confining our activities to Section 5, September 1 found us having “limit” dove shooting and the birds just seemed to continue to pour in. By November and quail season, my dog “training” had found several coveys that provided excellent shooting. Wood ducks and mallards frequented the ponds and sloughs near Cypress Creek and we were eagerly awaiting the December opening of duck season.

Brad scored first on a beautiful wood duck, drake that he had mounted and gave to a friend so I thought I’d try my luck on a “woodie”. Two days of rain slowed me down and finally taking off of work early, Rooster and I hit Section 5.

The first pond we “snuck” was void of ducks and we were slinking on to the next one when, just ahead, Rooster came down hard on point. Looking down, quickly checking the brush and grass for snakes, I spied the telltale holes poked by woodcock, one more step and tweep, tweep, flutter, flutter and two woodcock took to wing. My pump boomed twice ending their escape and Rooster fetched them both in. We cooked them that night and they were wonderful!

These were the only two woodcock to come out of Section 5, because by January 1, 1980, things had changed. Access was denied, posted signs were up and cables were strung across the 2 entry roads. The boys and I “snuck” back in once but we felt very awkward carrying our shotguns through the resident’s backyards in broad open daylight!

Six weeks ago I posted a story and pictures about hog depredations on my property, namely a torn up fence and significant rooting around the cattle feed lot. Two points worked against me. Hogs are nocturnal and to keep the cattle out, my deer feeders have heavy fencing around them and because of this, my hunting efforts have gone for naught.
However, a friend made me the hog trap in the picture that, I believe, will do the job. It was made out of scrap, steel pipe and excess, hog wire panels.

Another view of the trap, now set and awaiting the bait, clearly shows hog rootings to the right of the trap.
A closer look at the rootings on their trail to the feed lot.

An old hog trapper gave me the “sure fire” recipe for a no nonsense dish that hogs can’t refuse. Saturday, I filled a 5, gallon bucket half full of corn and covered it with water. Sunday afternoon, it was already smelling and I added more water. I was careful to make this mixture inside of the high fence around my garden, where nothing can get to it.

My “sour mash” and stirrer laying next to it.Corn really soaks up the water and with the winds we’re having, the hogs can smell it for a mile or more! If I were to sprinkle corn up to and into the trap, I would probably catch all kinds of varmints and the trap would spring before the hogs entered.

Late this afternoon, I’ll pour my “sour mash” over the door release and when hogs rush into the trap to enjoy this treat, they’ll step on the release, the door will slam shut and success!

At least that’s my plan.

James Walton and I returned from our Saturday hunt near Thomaston and then, the following Monday, got real lucky, being tipped off and apparently being given permission to hunt quail in the soon to be, very exclusive, Chattahoochee Plantation Subdivision, just north of The Atlanta Country Club in Cobb County.  Our luck was compounded because this spot was within a 7 minute, drive of both of our houses

Chattahoochee Plantation

Once across the Johnson Ferry Road Bridge over the slowly flowing, Chattahoochee River, during the last week of bird season in 1979, the first left turn was into the Chattahoochee Plantation Subdivision.  The Plantation, just being developed, was outside of any municipal area, the roads were in, one custom home was being finished and lots were sold by appointment only.

James had been tipped off by a friendly real estate agent that he’d better hurry out to the Plantation and get some of the birds before the building project kicked into gear.  We took this as permission to hunt there and late the next afternoon, Tuesday, found us meeting at the front gate and entering the spacious grounds.

A half-mile into the subdivision, out of sight from the main road, we stopped and let out my 2 Brittany’s.  It was different hunting along paved streets, and soon Rooster was locked down on a hard point.  Gus had, like a young dog, run off to explore the area.  James and I walked in on the point and a dozen birds came whirring up, we banged, twice and two birds fell and were quickly retrieved by Rooster.  Gus came charging up, alerted by the banging, as we marked the remaining birds down in some heavy brush ahead.

Rooster and James swung wide right, Gus and I to the left and I was moving along with my head down, an old trick I picked up in Arizona while looking for arrowheads and at the same time trying to avoid rattlers, I spotted, what had to be, the bill imprints of a woodcock and before I could alert James, whirr, tweep, tweep and up jumped one and I leveled him before he could level off.  Gus ran over, again wouldn’t pick up the bird, so I fetched it.  James yelled, “We’re changing your nickname from Beechnut” to “Woodcock!”  Not 100 feet later this scene was repeated and I folded another timberdoodle as James yelled, “That settles it!”

As dark rushed in on us, being excited over my success, I promptly banged twice at a single quail, successfully putting holes in the overcast sky.  We each picked up another quail and called it quits.

This was a good tip!  Too bad we didn’t find out about it until almost too late.  We agreed to meet here on Thursday afternoon, but when I went into work the next morning I was sent to Chicago to provide some remedial training for a couple of managers not making their numbers.  Funny thing, 4 years later I went to work for one of them!  This was the end of the 78/79 hunting season for me, but not the end of the woodcocks and me!

We never took a picture of a woodcock in the field, so this one is from wikipedia/commons.

Encountering woodcock as we trooped the wilds of south and central Georgia, James Walton and I finally scored on this wonderful, game bird. Taking our time and shooting them on the rise before they leveled off we bagged our first four woodcock!

What Have I Been Missing
The 1978/79 quail season in Georgia hadn’t been a disaster because we got some birds each time out, but it had been a wet, drippy and generally disagreeable one. The ground stayed damp and, in some places, generally mushy and these conditions led me to find out something that I’d been missing

We had been having reasonable success with quail around Thomaston, south of our homes in Sandy Springs, and this particular, drippy day, late in the season, James Walton and I were out early with my two Brittany’s, Rooster and Gus. Gus, 1-1/2 years old, was learning fast and would prove to be another great one like his Dad, Rooster!

Our first covey of the morning was “caught” between their roost and feeding grounds in fairly open cover. Rooster pointed, Gus backed and, walking in, the birds exploded in every direction. Picking one out and firing, down it went, and James bam, bammed twice and knocked one down. The covey split into two groups when they escaped, one cruising across the field into a creek bottom and the other, 200 yards into a low, wooded area on our right.

After each dog retrieved a bird, we went after the group on the right and followed them into the, we found as we entered, mushy woods. The dogs were birdy and not saying anything to James, I noticed several holes, a little bigger than a pencil lead, in the soft ground. Hmm, these were the same kind of holes I saw last year before that crazy, woodcock took flight. As I was studying this development, I heard, a “tweeping” sound and wings beating much like a quail, just as James boomed and down the woodcock tumbled.
Gus was right on it, picked it up, then spit it out and wouldn’t touch it. Rooster brought it to me and I looked down, surprised, at a woodcock! It looked like a Wilson snipe to me. The same snipe that can be hunted with a “toe sack” (ha-ha) and the same one that leaves coastal gunners shooting holes in the sky.

James who had lived in the northeast said, as he bagged his kill, “They’ll be more in here. Get ready!” Rooster figured it out and within 50 yards locked down, hard on a point and up wobbled another one that tumbled to my shot, my first woodcock! Rooster retrieved it as Gus was locked down and James walked in on the point and up buzzed a quail that he dispatched. Gus picked up the quail, brought it to me and I tossed it to James. He still wouldn’t touch the woodcock.

Out of this patch of mushy woods we collected two more quail and I knocked down my second woodcock. Our drippy morning, turned into a rainy day and before noon we called it quits and drove on home.
My story doesn’t end here. Not knowing how to prepare a woodcock, my ex-wife and I decided to cook them just like we cooked Wilson snipe. We put the quail in with the woodcock and seasoned all with salt, pepper and garlic, added some cubed potatoes, onions and little carrots, covered it all with some “fair to middlin” white wine and then cooked them real slow, until the potatoes were done. As usual, the quail were wonderful, but the family agreed that the woodcock was good beyond belief!

After supper we consulted the family encyclopedia and found out that woodcock migrate yearly from the eastern part of our country and Canada, to the wooded, coastal prairies along the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico shores. This late in our season, these birds were headed north.

There was one week left in the bird season and it certinly would be nice to get a crack some more woodcocks!

Just having finished reading “The Best Of Nash Buckingham”, by George Bird Evans, it dawned upon me that I had missed a wonderful little interlude in my past of woodcock shooting. Thinking over the potential stories, should I do one long, long one or 5 smaller? My choice was a quintet of stories, beginning with “The County Road Covey”. The time frame is the end of the1978, 1979, 1980 bird seasons and the 2006 deer hunting seasons, and the stories take place in Georgia and Texas.

The County Road Covey

We have a tendency to name all of our coveys of quail, generally after a significant landscape or man, made feature that corresponds to where, over time, we usually find the birds. However, we only found “The County Road Covey” one time.

James Walton and I were, slowly cruising the county road, heading to another likely quail spot. We were cruising in his “Quailmobile”, a, 1979, 280Z with a matching 3 dog trailer. We’d even cruised to Arizona in it! What a blast and how many funny looks did we get during the, over 3,000 mile round trip? However, this time we were looking in south Georgia for a sign that would locate our next hunt for us.

Driving slowly along, we both noticed what kinda’ looked like a sloppily, coiled snake ahead. As we got closer and stopped, it was, of all things, a covey of quail, coveyed up or roosting, in the middle of the road! For both of us; this was a new one, this was a first, this was something we’d never see again and we stopped the Z and sat there stunned!

Getting out of the car, walking within 20 feet of the covey and looking closely at the birds, they were roosting, probably a midday snooze prior to their afternoon of foraging. But here came the alarm call and they exploded off the road and flew about 200 yards and lit along a fence row behind a farm house.

Without our guns, James and I walked up and knocked on the door of the house. We explained what had happened and inquired, successfully, if we could go after the birds. The farmer thought this was one of the funniest stories he had ever heard, and followed us after them.

Good dog work helped us to bag four birds and as we, dogs, farmer and hunters, walked back towards the farmhouse, I began to notice some big, doodle bug holes in the mushy ground. Then, tweep, tweep, flutter and a strange bird got airborne in front of us. “Shoot him, that’s a woodcock,” cried the farmer as James and I fumbled with our guns and missed our first two shots. Then as the bird reached it’s best flight attitude and altitude, instead of flying away, the bird circled us once and we missed our second shots too! This event getting our attention we hunted back to the farmhouse, but with no results.

The farmer told us how to get to the land we were looking for. We scored on some more quail, but didn’t see another woodcock, until almost one year later.