Outdoor Odyssey (Entries tagged as jonbryan)

Saturday Night Lights

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 08:05:00 -0700

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.

September Ducks

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 08:05:00 -0700

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 I acquiring 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” of three 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 dove hunting 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 of blue 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.

Fetch That Bird

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 08:05:00 -0700

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?”

Delegating

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 08:05:00 -0700

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!

The Dove's Revenge

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

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.

Splitting The Difference

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

One memorable trip to “The Wreck” was during the summer of 1982. Alvin Pyland, my Uncle Gus, Dub Middleton, a close friend, and I had spent the morning fishing the Gulf side of the South Jetty. As usual we had an enjoyable trip and a large cooler over half full of fish. The tide had been going out pushing baitfish around the end of the jetty and back toward the beachfront and we had caught trout, reds, Spanish mackerel and even a cobia, better known along the Texas coast as a ling. When the tide changed and started going in I suggested we try “The Wreck”.

Neither of my companions had ever fished it and didn’t even know it was there. In the past, during the fall, they had good success fishing for reds almost directly across from “The Wreck” in ten feet of water along a shelf on the east side of the Ship Channel.

We pulled up my twenty foot, deep vee, into the vicinity of “The Wreck”, and with the depth finder began our triangulating. Soon we were anchored over it and had our baits in the water, when “wham”, Uncle Gus had a big hit from something judging from the bend in his rod, and another, “wham” Dub had a big strike on his spinning outfit, and “wham” I had a big hit too, three almost simultaneous heavy strikes!

The fight was on! My fish, a three, pound trout, came to the boat first, and Uncle Gus netted it while still fighting his fish. Dub was locked in a line loosing struggle with something big and shouted “Jon, start us up and get our anchor up. I can’t stop this thing.” I had a dilemma, Dub’s fish showed no signs of tiring and was heading north with the tide and Uncle Gus’s fish was heading east toward the deep water of the ship channel.

Like a politician, I split the difference and headed at a forty-five degree angle between the angler’s fish. Soon Uncle Gus’s fish, an over thirty, inch red was alongside the boat and we netted it, got the hook out and released it. Reds now had a twenty to twenty-eight inch slot and this one was too big.

Dub was still struggling with his fish, which he thought was either a record red or maybe a big, black drum. I followed it and soon we saw a large, over twenty pound, jackfish. “Record red, huh, haw, haw, haw,” we both laughed as I readied the net. One more short run and the jack was ours. We got the hook out and released it. Jackfish are great fighters, more like sluggers, but have no food value. We found ourselves over three hundred yards from “The Wreck” and both of my guests said, “Why don’t we go back to “The Wreck” and anchor up?”

The Sunken Wreck

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

During the summer of 1981, by accident, Dewey Stringer and I “found” a boat, probably a scuttled shrimper that had been sunk in fifteen feet of water, two hundred yards north of the old concrete ship, right off of the Galveston Ship Channel,. With the right conditions, incoming tide, not too much wind or too heavy a current, we consistently caught speckled trout and red fish at this spot.

A very favorable set of circumstances led us to “finding” this sunken wreck. With our depth recorder on, because we had forgotten to turn it off, we had been drifting the flats north of the old Quarantine Station, on the west side of the Ship Channel. We noticed that we had drifted out too far into deeper water toward the Ship Channel and, all of a sudden, a “hump” appeared on our chart paper.

This got our interest so we crisscrossed the hump several times and determined that it was a sunken boat about the size of a shrimp boat. This was before the days of GPS’s, and Dewey didn't have a Loran, so we had no way of marking the spot other than triangulating on the old concrete ship, a channel marker and an oil rig.

We anchored over the wreck, baited up and let our rigs down to the bottom. Dewey was right into a nice fish, but I was hung up on something. I had caught the wreck and in loosening up my hook brought up a small piece of wood. I netted Dewey’s fish, a nice red, got my rig baited up and proceeded to land a two-pound trout. We were on to something and for the next two years “The Wreck” was a fish producer for us and it was only a twenty, minute boat ride, straight down the Intercoastal Waterway from Dewey’s Camp!

In 1983 the tidal surge from Hurricane Alicia washed away the sunken boat and put an end to a great fishing spot!

A Meeting With Senior Mal-De-Mere

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

We took a trip to Mazatlan with the Schroder family and one event stood out. A long fishing trip with no fish and four hours into our trip the Captain was fretting about (in Spanish) our lack of luck. We had seen some sails lolling about on the surface, but they weren’t interested in our baits regardless how skillfully presented.

Our trolling continued, four lines on out riggers and one flat line and all of a sudden, one by one, everyone in our party, two adults and four kids, started getting Mal-De-Mere, seasick! It seems that when, like flu, one person gets it, it become contagious and spreads quickly.

Taking turns, “chumming” for fish, Jake and I told the Captain to head back in, easily over a one hour trip and as the boat came about to head back to Mazatlan, one of the four outriggers snapped, then a second, then a third, then the fourth and the flat line was nearly pulled from the holder by a vicious strike! The infirmed anglers quickly recovered, grabbed rods and the fight was on.

We had run into a school of dorado, dolphin, not Flipper, and the water behind the boat was churned up with the acrobatic fish. These were large dorado, at least 25 pounds each, and on the medium tackle we were using, great fighters. As the fish wore down, the mate had his hands full getting them aboard, but he finally put the last one in the big cooler.

A younger, and both recovered, Jake and Beechnut display the day’s catch!

The excitement of the furious action helped everyone to recover for about two minutes. Everybody was “up” and apparently recovered, then the Mal-De-Mere hit again. We didn’t get a strike all the way in, but we kept chumming!

Our hotel’s chef did a stupendous job of grilling our dorado and with full “tummies” everyone had forgotten our afternoon meeting with Senior Mal-De-Mere.

Morning Walk, August 21,2009

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

Yesterday’s walk didn’t produce any wildlife pictures because of the activity around here, cutting and bailing hay. Tractors and a lot of noise puts the wild things way back in the thick stuff.

My thirty acre, hay field, Sudan grass, produced one hundred and eleven, big, round bales. The record, year before last, was one hundred and sixty-seven bales! Last years crop, ruined by lack of rain, was a mighty, six bales. You take the good with the bad!

Here is a prepared, four acre, coastal Bermuda, field that will yield up to eight bales.

The serious stuff, dove hunting, starts a week from this coming Tuesday and if we don’t get any real strange weather, we’re expecting a great crop of mourners, white wings and ring necks!

Sailfish In Mazatlan Harbor

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

On this fishing trip in Mazatlan, the Captain put the lines out when we were about four hundred yards away from the dock. The fish hit almost immediately and put on quite an aerial display, making five or six jumps and "greyhounding" for almost a hundred yards. What a fight and what a memory! We snapped a good picture of one of its jumps.

That morning the mouth of the harbor was loaded with sails. As the day progressed the fish moved out into El Golfo never exceeding four miles. An easy trip and for the day we connected with five sails. After almost arguing, one fish was released, mine was being mounted and the Captain sold other three.

The sailfish mount, hecho en Mexico, on the wall of my den in Paradise Valley, Ariz. It weighed one hundred and ten pounds and was ninety-seven inches long. It was destroyed in 1983 when a tornado in north Houston hit the storage shed where I was keeping it. Sadly a trailer park was right next to the shed and it was completely destroyed killing two people.

More Outdoors Pictures, August 15, 2009

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

Sunday morning at Bible study, Warren Blesh, owner of RRR Ranch, in Mills County, gave me this picture of five very nice bucks that he “shot” early Saturday. He was in a blind and worked the Stealth Cam manually.

The one on the left is, by far, the best of the group.

The RRR Ranch is a high fence place with outstanding white tails along with a mix of exotics. If you want to bag a real keeper, get in touch with Warren!

James Crumley sent me this picture of a nice kingfish he caught out of Port O'Conner, Texas. This time of year, offshore, the fishing is really good down there and, no, he's not offering a guide service.

Sunday evening I was getting ready to shut it down when I looked out of our kitchen window and saw a bunch of deer in our newly cut, thirty acre, hay field. Counting them there were eighteen all told, which is a new record for deer all at once!

Not being able to get them to line up for a picture, I "snuck" around and did get this long "shot of a nice buck.

Rocky Point- The Cut

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

On one excursion to Rocky Point, several of the locals asked me to accompany them to “The Cut”, a two hundred foot wide, cut and channel leading from El Golfo into a small bay, St John’s Bay. Catch the conditions right, mainly the water movement, and the fishing is excellent.

The trip was ten miles down the beach, not hard packed sand like along the Texas coast, but fine volcanic sand that refused to pack. It’s a ten, mile trip from Hell, four wheel drive all the way. Tires deflated to eight, yes, eight pounds each! We probably saw a dozen skeletons of disabled trucks littering the beach. If you broke down, chances were the truck just stayed, rusted out and sank into the sand.

Once we got to the cut and the tide started moving, I cast out a Mr. Champ spoon with a small sardinero, hooked through the mouth, and jigged it slowly along the bottom My first cast was met by a savage strike, a long run and after a spirited fight, I landed and released an eighteen inch bonefish! Before our wild trip back to rocky Point, we had loaded up on two to three pound, corvina, a fish resembling our Gulf Coast white trout, but this one can grow to a size of up to thirty pounds and we even released several small snook! Hot fishing!

It is a very enjoyable, exciting experience to make a suspense filled trip to a remote fishing spot, hammer the fish and then come back out in the dark, engines roaring, sand flying and finally making it back to civilization in one piece. I made a total of four trips to The Cut. We even spent the night at The Cut once. Once was enough!

Morning Walk, August 13, 2009

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

Having overslept, I was walking backwards out of my driveway, watching Bo and Spike to see if they were coming with me and not thinking about the time. I turned around and was looking right into the sun.

Being lazy I thought that I would just go along on my walk down County Road 406, sun or no sun, however, I knew that there wouldn’t be any wildlife pictures this morning. Going, I couldn’t keep my head up looking for anything and coming back, we’d have already scared everything off!

Bo and Spike generally walk a very short distance with me then go off after whatever fancies them, but today they saved the day.

They kept up pretty good until I looked back and saw that Bo had decided to lie down on the job. Only a cat would take this particular time to stretch out and I was lucky to get this picture.

Texans Stink Up Raleigh

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

The past week Stumpy and his Senior Softball team, The Texans, sporting a gaudy 20 and 3 record, traveled to Raleigh, N.C. to play in, and our plan was to win, the Senior Softball Eastern National Championships. Sometimes, our best laid plans falter and go astray.

Last Thursday The Texans were the last team without a defeat. We had rolled over two tough, teams, one from Ohio, Joseph Chevrolet, and the other, Doc’s from Michigan. We rested while Doc’s and Joseph’s played for the chance to go up against us in the finals. Doc’s won the extra inning game and this one was Doc’s second consecutive game.

Stumpy and The Texans took the field for, what should have been an easy win then the wheels came off of our vaunted attack. We forgot how to field, we forgot how to hit and Doc’s never looked back and pounded us in the first game, their third consecutive one, 20-4 and now we both had one loss. Never fear, in the final game, Doc’s fourth game in a row, The Texans, vaunted attack will carry them through to victory.

For three innings we, The Texans, held a slim 1-0 lead but in the fourth Doc’s slammed us with five runs and we never caught up. The wheels remained off of our vaunted attack and Doc’s won the Eastern National Championship, 12-4.

The Texans are still embarrassed over their poor, wilted performance and are still licking their wounds, but are looking forward to payback and playing Doc’s, in what we hope will be the finals of the Softball Players Association, National Championships, September 3-6 in Dalton, Ga.

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

Morning Walk, August 9, 2009

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 08:05:00 -0700

Rain washed out my morning walk on August 1 and on the third we traveled to Raleigh, N.C. to play in the Senior Softball, Eastern National Championships, so it was good to get out early yesterday and get my walk in.

When I started the sun hadn’t peeked over the horizon and for half of the way nothing of interest showed up. Rounding a curve an alpaca was grazing and guarding the goats.

Coyotes and bobcats prey on the young goats, sheep and deer and ranchers around here use alpaca or donkeys, both are very protective, to keep the predators away.

Coming back towards my house, finally, two doe were watching me and I got this “shot”.

Walking on, clearing a cedar that was masking me, there was a doe and her two fawns. The one on the left still has its spots.

Softball is fun, but it’s really nice to get out early each morning and enjoy nature’s sights!