After spending 3+ years in Arizona, chasing Quail and Doves, and going Duck hunting infrequently, I was transferred to Atlanta, Georgia, a beautiful place to live, but with completely different outdoor opportunities. In Georgia I shot a lot of Quail, enjoyed the Speckled Trout fishing in Suwannee, Florida and caught some really nice Bass, including a twelve pounder, and my boys sharpened their Deer hunting skills. This stay lasted for another three years, and because of my Mother’s bad health, my company helped me to arrange a transfer back to Houston.

Besides getting on a Deer lease, a friend got me on a “special” Duck and Goose lease with fifteen other hunters, a 3600 acre lease on the Katy Prairie, less than twenty-five minutes from my new home in Cypress, Texas, a northwest Houston suburb. In 1980 the lease cost me $700 a year for Sept 1 to the end of Goose season access. Now if you could find a lease to get on it would cost $2,000.00 up, per gun and that is probably low!

The lease had over three thousand acres of cultivation, some woods, several flooded rice fields and two small lakes. I stayed on this lease for 4 years until the urban sprawl of metropolitan Houston, completely changed the hundreds or square miles of the Katy prairie.

But for now, I was back in the Duck and Goose business.

More to come on this lease.

In September 1966, the hot spot for Mourning Doves in Texas was George West, a small town in the northern part of south Texas. Grain fields abounded and there were miles and miles of the famed south Texas brush country for roosting.

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

Quail season in Georgia opened the Saturday before the opening of Deer season and James Walton, a hunting buddy, Mitch Greenberg, a church friend and also a hunting buddy, and I had arranged a Quail hunt south of Jonesboro. Supposedly this was a good place.

We arrived at the hunting area and unloaded the dogs, Rooster, my Brittany Spaniel, and Crystal, James’ German Shorthair and began hunting around the edge of a large, cut, soy bean field. Not a hundred yards into our hunt Crystal freezes and Rooster “backs” her point. We spread out and walk in on the points and “whirrrr”, a big covey of twelve or fifteen birds comes rocketing out of the brush along the edge of the field. Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam, Bam, we unload on the birds and several fall. Both dogs begin to “hunt dead” and we collect four fat quail. Looks like this will be a good day.

We continue around the field and within three hundred yards, both dogs come down on point and we collect two more quail. Definitely looking good as we cut through some woods and brush on our way to another bean field and see Rooster on point ahead in some honeysuckle.

“Point up here,” I shout, as James comes up on my right and Mitch on my left. Crystal, seeing Rooster’s point, freezes next to James’ right leg. I am right behind Rooster, step past him into the honeysuckle awaiting the customary “whirrrr”, and, of all things, up jumps a buck Deer!

All at once, literally all “hell” breaks loose. Crystal rushes between James and the Deer; the Deer lunges at me and I unload three, number eight, shots at three feet distance, straight at the Deer’s head, obviously missing; Rooster charges the Deer; the Deer hooks Crystal and throws her to the side; James yells “Crystal,” and as he moves to his right to reach for dog, the Deer hooks James and rips his left pants leg with his horns; turns toward Mitch and tries to hook him; I’ve found the two double ought bucks I always carry and finally fumble them into my twenty gauge pump as the Deer lunges at Mitch, and Mitch, all five foot seven inches, calmly “high ports” his Browning Superposed, right into the Deer’s horns; the Deer shakes Mitch like a rag doll; James drags Crystal away; I notice Rooster is now posted strategically behind me as I finally get my shotgun loaded and up; the Deer continues shaking Mitch; and Bam, Bam, I put two double oughts into the Deer’s head and he drops in his tracks.

Whew! This battle lasted for not quite thirty seconds. The longest thirty seconds imaginable. As we load up Crystal and hurry to the nearest Vet’s office, we take stock of our situation, no hunters hurt, one dog down and seriously injured, Mitch “all shook up”, one dead Deer, and Deer season is one week off. In fifteen minutes we pull up to a Vet’s office in Jonesboro and ten minutes later we find out Crystal is dead. James is crushed!

Returning to the scene of the battle and looking closely at the Deer, we see it is a nice, seven point buck, probably a fifteen inch inside spread, that had been shot in the left hindquarter, at least three days before. The wound was festering and gangrene, or the Deer equivalent, had set in and the Deer must have been in great pain. Checking out the area, we find a large quantity of corn spread around the honeysuckle patch. At least two game laws had been broken. Shooting Deer in Georgia over bait was illegal and the Deer had been shot at least ten days before Deer season opened.

We told the local Game Warden but don’t know if any action was taken or if the perpetrator was apprehended. Three weeks later we returned for another hunt at this spot and discovered that someone had come in and cut the Deer’s horns off.

Some may not know what “high Porting” is. It is a term applied to hand to hand combat training with a rifle, expensive shotgun in this case, where the weapons weight is evenly balanced in both hands at shoulder height and using it to block and parry opponents thrusts with a bayonet or butt stock. Mitch, a Viet Nam veteran, former Air Force Officer and Navigator in a B-52, had used the technique perfectly!

In late 1974 I received a nice promotion to Atlanta, Georgia, moved from The Valley Of The Sun, and my friends said that I left claw marks on the floor of my office as they drug me out. The first year in Atlanta was spent getting acclimated to a new job, new friends, new hunting and fishing opportunities and new schools for the kids. By the fall of 1976, I had met and hunted with several Quail hunters in Atlanta, but had hit it off especially well with one, James Walton. James was a neighbor and not in the computer business, but Vice-President of an old, established construction company.

James had two German Shorthair Pointers, the older, Crystal, the mother of his younger dog was an excellent hunter. The younger, like all young dogs was wild and rambunctious, but our dogs had helped to cement our friendship. Crystal hunted in close and Rooster, my Brittany Spaniel, would range out one hundred yards or more. Both honored the other’s points, hunted “dead” until the bird was found or the “look-for” called off and were inexhaustible.

James and I had joined a hunting club, that had leased many acres of supposedly good Quail hunting land. Our results were only fair, however, we did get to see a lot of the state. This particular hunt, we had reserved for Friday and Saturday, a several hundred acre track of harvested soy bean fields with some nice wooded cover. Brad was a sophomore in high school and his JV football season had ended, so I got him out of school on this particular Friday and we headed to South Georgia for some quailing.

We arrived near Thomasville around noon, found our hunting area and made camp. We were staying “out” Friday night, which should be fun since the weather featured warm days and cool nights. We didn’t even think about the warm afternoons bringing out the Rattle Snakes.

Rooster, Brad and I took off to one side of the large bean field and James and Crystal went the other way. Shortly I hear, Pop, Pop, James finds a small covey and it looks like he’s got one down. Brad and I proceed along the edge of the field not finding any birds. We get to the corner of the field and Rooster locks down hard on a point. Quickly approaching, whirrrrr, the covey breaks wild before we can get a shot. We mark the spot where the covey flew into the woods and all three of us, Rooster, Brad and I, hurry after the birds. We pass through where the covey was flushed and, whirr, a late riser, Bam, and he falls to my twenty gauge, pump shotgun.

As Rooster and Brad continue chasing the covey, I see my bird on the ground and run over to pick him up. Retrieving the bird, I head back toward Brad, who is in the thick brush and not seeing him, I head in his general direction.

“Bark, growl, growl, bark,” from Rooster. “Dad, Dad, up here quick,” from Brad! Running to the sound of his voice and coming out of the woods, I see Brad a-straddle of a barbwire fence. “Bark, bark,” from Rooster and he add a serious snarl, jumping around a fence post next to where Brad is hanging onto the fence and looking down under him “Dad, there’s a big Rattler right under me,” Brad shouts! I hurry faster and see he had laid his gun down on the ground prior to climbing the fence and the Rattlers “treed” him. He’s right, it’s a big one, coiled and rattling, and at that moment, more interested in the dog. Rooster knows about snakes having hunted with me for three years in Arizona. Bam, one shot and the snakes done for.

Rooster is still barking and Brad is getting down from the fence. We stretch the Snake out and he is a good five feet long and bigger around than my forearm. My aim was true and the shot shredded the snakes head, leaving the skin undamaged. Brad says, “That snake could’ve bit me or Rooster. Let’s eat him Dad.” We both thought of an old Indian saying, “Eat your enemies and gain some strength from them.” Why not?

We cut off the rattles and saved them, whew, it smells like uria, and the fertilizer plants in Pasadena, Texas. We skin him and roll up the skin for now and it really stinks! We gut him and except for the smell we have a hunk of pretty, white meat. I take a canteen and wash off the snake’s body, eliminating some of the smell. I later learned that snakes don’t have kidneys and liquid waste is secreted out of their body through the skin.

Most times when hunters have a close encounter with a serious predator or big Rattle Snake, the hunt is over for the day, as was our case, however, we went back to camp and set to preparing our supper, fried Rattle Snake. Small problem, no corn meal, but we had flour in our camper, which should work just fine as long as long as the grease doesn’t get too hot. We cut up the snake into one and one-half inch pieces and rolled it into the flour and wrapped the five plus pounds of meat up in foil and popped it into the cooler and waited for Walton to get back. We saved the quail for back home, feeling confident we would get some more the next day.

We had heard James shoot several times and he and Crystal returned with three quail. He said, “You all came in early. What’s up?” We told him our exciting story and told him we were having Rattle Snake for supper. He blanched! Not hesitating, we showed him the large quantity of white meat and began to fry the Snake and fries.

After supper, James said, “That Rattle Snake wasn’t bad.” He was right. All white meat, sweet and tender, not bad at all.

We not only ate the snake, but the rattles now grace a special display in my great room, and, we made one hat band and one belt from the skin.

The fishing in El Golfo out from Mazatlan was terrific and a Fall trip yielded Dorado, Sail Fish and a White Marlin, but the truly memorable event was the most unusual Duck hunt I had ever been on. I had been hunting ducks for over 25 years, sneaking stock tanks, decoying them in flooded rice fields and timber, pass shooting and shooting them over Goose spreads, but I never imagined a hunt like this one.

Norman Shelter, a Houston friend of mine, and I were standing on the bank of a tidal lagoon north of Mazatlan, as our guide and his two helpers loaded our guns and shells into 2 flat bottomed, aluminum boats with no visible means of propulsion. Across the lagoon, probably 600 yards away was our objective, where we could see Ducks coming in, some landing on the water and some landing in the trees! Hard to sneak up on!

Our guide told us to each to get into a boat and his helpers started pushing us into the lagoon. More instructions from the guide, “Load your guns and lay down in the bottom of the boat and be still and they will push both of you into shooting range and the rest is up to you.” Our helpers didn’t “habla Englais”, but each got behind the boat and hid his head behind the gunnel and started pushing.

Soon we were across the lagoon and both of us raised up and commenced firing at the Ducks getting up off the water and the ones coming out of the trees. Ducks flushed wildly as we reloaded and shot some more. The Ducks then circled and flew right back over us and we unloaded on them again, which chased them off for good.

As one helper retrieved the Ducks the other held the boat and soon we were looking a very different kind of Duck. Long neck and web feet, with toe nail like things on each foot. A beige breast, black back and a white stripe down the side led to our tentative identification, Fluvous Tree Ducks, Fulvous Whistling Ducks or Mexican Squealers, but officially they are, Dendrocygna Bicolor. We took 4 home for supper and gave the rest to the helpers along with a generous tip to which they replied, almost in unison, “Muchas gracias, Jefe!”

Norman and I were a sight when we strolled through the lobby of the El Cid Hotel, muddy, wet and carrying the Ducks. We weren’t sure if the Chef would cook them for us, but later at supper, the Duck L’Orange, which we never expected in Mazatlan, was a fitting close to a different kind of Duck hunt.