The Senior Tour

The buggy rolled to a stop, and Steve and I surveyed the ground ahead of us.  It was a good looking draw, at least by Midland, Texas standards. More of a dry creekbed, it definitely looked birdy and manageable enough for us to put down our two older dogs for a brief run.  The sun was shining and things were warming up quickly, but this would only be a 45 minute walk or so.

Steve put down Em, his then-11-year-old black and white pointer, and I readied Dot, my 9-year old lemon and white counterpart.  I stopped to wonder how many birds these two old girls had between them -- the different species, scents, and locales that they've collectively hunted.  This walk would be dubbed the Senior Tour.

We loaded up with shells and water, and the brace began.  Neither dog was running the way they did back in their younger years, but they didn't need to.  Fanning out across the creekbed, they knew just what to do. Wisdom always trumps enthusiasm (at 43, I'm finally starting to learn that lesson).

Not five minutes into the hunt, Em locked up near a gnarly patch of prickly pear.  Dot was 30 yards behind, staunchly honoring (never a sure bet).  The covey of scalies rose, and two quickly fell.  I don't recall any remarkable retrieves -- there certainly weren't any from Dot, who only cares about living birds, a trait I've learned to accept in her older years.  Either way, we collected our birds and continued chasing singles for the next 30 minutes or so.  It was an impressive show, and all four of us were soaking in every minute of it.

I've killed more birds on a single walk before, and I've certainly seen dogs cover more ground than these two did.  But it's the memory of two veteran dogs that hunted with the prowess that only age and experience can bring.

I'm not sure, but I think that might've been one of the last times Em went to West Texas, having mostly retired from Steve's traveling team.

I got a text from Steve yesterday letting me know that Em had died in her sleep Wednesday night at age 14.  We spoke on the phone, and I extended my condolences, feeble as they were.  Nothing really helps when you lose a hunting buddy, save maybe the solace in knowing the guy on the other end of the phone has experienced that same pain, and is destined to again as long as he's got a bird dog.

That's the contract we all sign, willingly or not.  We'll miss ya, Em.

What Are Your Birds Worth?

$4554.00 worth of scaled quail, Midland, Texas 2007.

If you're a Texas quail hunter, then it's exactly $253 apiece.

I've been rolling this number around in my head for about three months now, and I'm not sure what to think.  The figure, compiled by the Texas AgriLife Extension Service, is certainly a lot to ponder.

The study indicates that in Texas, the average quail hunter spent just over $8600 for roughly nine days of quail hunting during the 2010-2011 season (the year before Texas birds really nosedived.)  Texas, as many of you know, is a pay-to-play state -- there's virtually zero public land, which means very expensive leases, which many times go into the five-figure stratosphere.  So that's probably a number that skews the figure.

I'll let Dr. Rollins and his cohorts' study speak for itself, but it raises some interesting questions, namely:

• Nine days?  Really, guys?  If I'm going to drop some serious coin on a Texas quail lease, even if I live in Kansas, I'm spending more than nine damned days hunting them.  I spend more than a cumulative nine days a year shaving, for the love of God!  I've never cared how many I kill, but nine days concerns the hell out of me -- for a portion of the world blessed with what is the best (yet dwindling) quail habitat on this planet.


• According to the study, the number of Texas resident hunters has plummeted 79 percent since 1981.  Frightening, but I guess I can't blame folks.  It's an expensive sport, and in a where racks and beards matter, shooting something not much bigger than a songbird apparently isn't as cool or as worthwhile in our time-strapped, measuring stick society.


• How does the price of a quail -- or a decent season of quail -- compare to what a trophy deer hunter spends in Texas?  High fence or low fence, a deer outfitter commands thousands of bucks (pun intended) for the privilege to shoot a decent-sized trophy.  That's one animal.  And the success rate I'm guessing are a lot higher than the probability of shooting a decent day's worth of quail (to say nothing of a Texas limit).  So are the economics really in favor of a bird dogger?


• What will gas prices do to this equation?  With most Texas quail hunters (read: urban) at least three hours from decent Bob country, will it cease to be worth the effort?  Or will it increasingly be the domain of the well-heeled?  Sad stuff.

And then, of course, I think about my own season.  I shot exactly two quail in Kansas this season.  It was on "free" public land, and I'm grateful for those birds.  But when you add up the numbers -- gas, lodging, bird dog expenses, vacation time -- well, you get the picture.  I might as well have taped some balsa wings on gold bullion bars and shot them in my backyard. Putting a price on our avocation is indeed a slippery slope.

Yet I soldier on, undeterred, as I'm sure most of you do.  After all, you can't put a price on happiness.  

My wife will read this, after all.

Road Photo Friday: Now THAT'S a Dog Trailer

I snapped this a few weeks ago at a DIY car wash in Del Rio, Texas.  In case you don't have the patience to count, that's a 32-hole rig, folks.

We were going to stop to chat them up, but they were just pulling out as I snapped this.  I don't know if they were hauling bird dogs or hounds (Del Rio isn't known as a quail mecca, especially this year).  The dually that was dragging this monstrosity had Idaho plates.  Judging from the looks of the driver and passenger, they were houndsmen (let the hate mail begin).

Shameless Brag: My Drop-Tined Buck

Here he is. And while I freely admit this post is unadulterated braggadocio, this magnificent buck is worth sharing. He proudly stands sentinel in my office, and I've had a number of positive remarks from co-workers, both hunters and non-hunters alike. I took him last fall down near Cuero, Texas.

He was mounted by Eddie's Taxidermy in San Antonio, and I think they did one hell of a job. And as luck would have it, I was able to have him unofficially scored by Dean Heffner, our fishing guide we recently hired over spring break. The old 12-pointer grossed 165 1/4 inches B&C, which dwarfs anything else I've shot. He's the biggest whitetail I'll ever take, that's for sure. But more than the score, I enjoy looking at that big drop tine, the other tine tips chipped from fighting, and the gray, grizzled muzzle -- evidence of a life boldly lived.

Garrison Brothers Distillery: Hye Times For Brown Liquor in Texas

Being an unapologetic Texaphile, every so often I imagine myself 120 years ago, sitting in the dark and smoky Menger Hotel bar, drinking a glass of whiskey with Teddy Roosevelt as he recruits me to join his Rough Riders. Or I daydream about sititng in the richly-appointed Driskill Hotel bar in Austin, as dusty cowpokes mix with wheeling-and-dealing politicians. And once again, I'm sipping a bourbon.

Even back then, if bourbon was your firewater of choice, you probably weren't drinking anything made in the Lone Star State. Now you can.

Garrison Brothers Distillery, located in the Hill Country hamlet of Hye, is the first-ever bourbon distillery in Texas. (And yes, contrary to popular belief, true bourbon can be made outside of Bourbon County, Kentucky. Law dictates that Bourbon must be a whiskey made of at least 51% corn and undergo two years aging in new, charred oak barrels, among other things, but there are no geographical limitations.)

After calling to set up an appointment on a balmy Saturday afternoon, we were met by owner Dan Garrison in his small, yet busy stillhouse. He and his ragtag staff are literally working around the clock to brew their whiskey. Like any Texan, Dan is proud of what he's got going, and he has every right to be.

In the center of the room was the "Copper Cowgirl" -- a 100-gallon still that works overtime and has seen duty at the Wild Turkey and Buffalo Trace distilleries. They make this stuff by hand, in ridiculously small quantities, redefining the term "small batch." Their mash contains West Texas corn ground on site, wheat that's grown on premises, and malted barley from the Pacific Northwest. That recipie results in what they say the highest fermentable sugar content available. That, of course, makes for smooth, complex bourbon.

And one that's apparently quite popular. The 2008 vintage was released on November 3rd and within ten days, all 1,800 bottles had been snapped up -- reportedly to a tune of nearly $90 for each 750ml vessel.

Dan doesn't apologize for the price, nor should he. The batch we tasted was simply the smoothest bourbon to ever cross my lips. Normally, I like my whiskey on the rocks -- even the premium brands tend to open up a bit with a slowly melting ice cube or two. The Garrison Brothers we sampled was served neat -- and what a pleasure it was. Smooth without being syrupy, warming without burning, with all the vanilla and caramel flavors that define a good bourbon.

Thankfully, Garrison is expanding his facility and was meeting with a builder the day we met him, so there'll hopefully be more opportunities to snap up a bottle or two of this uniquely Texan spirit.

Photos taken from the Garrison website... I was an idiot and forgot my camera.

The Gift

The shotgun barked, same as the ten thousand before it on this particular afternoon.  This one, however, was quickly cut off by a deep and hearty YEAHHHHH! from yours truly.  I couldn't help it.  The day was over, we were out of shells on a borrowed and ill-fitting 12 gauge autoloader, and I was hastily running to retrieve my ten-year-old son's sixth whitewing dove of the sultry South Texas afternoon.

To say I was happy was putting it mildly.  For one, it cleansed the bad aftertaste of my own abyssmal shooting (also putting it mildly) out of my mind once and for all.  But more than that, it was the punctuation -- the exclamation point -- on a special Labor Day Weekend for me, my dad, and my son.

Through some connections, I was able to line up a dove shoot at the Nooner Ranch just outside of Hondo, Texas.  "Pulling a Nooner" is indescribable.  Sammy Nooner (among other things) manages hundreds upon hundreds of acres specifically for whitewing dove.  Having only started showing up in the Rio Grande Valley in the last 20 years or so, these invaders from Mexico are now the dove of choice in this part of the world, and can be found as far north as Kansas these days.  We arrived on Saturday at around 3:30pm, and the hunt was already on -- the amount of gunfire made it sound like something as close as I ever want to get to D-Day.  Literally tens of thousands of fast-flying acrobats poured across the sky, from their roosts in the city of Hondo to Sonny's planted sunflower fields that ring the small town.

As we readied ourselves, I recalled that I wasn't fortunate enough to hunt with my Granddad, but I know that's where I got my love of the outdoors.  For him, hunting was more than sport -- it helped put something on the table for his hardy German family of eight brothers and two sisters nearly 100 years ago.  Back when I was a kid, Gramps would take us plinking with the .22, but for some reason, we never walked a field or sat in a blind together.  No matter.  He was still a mythical figure, regaling me with stories and knowledge that you can't get from any book or website.

Jack, my son, looks at my dad in the same way.  Seeing Jack and Gramps together is a time machine back to my own childhood.  And what better way to relive my childhood than on a hunting trip with the two of them?  And I gave them that gift on Labor Day Weekend 2010.

Funny thing though.  As I sat there on two semi-sweltering afternoons, I realized I was the one who was the biggest beneficiary from my little plan.  My father was proud of me, joining me in something I deeply and profoundly care about.  He told me I shot well (the first day anyhow).  He was pleased I was teaching my son safe, ethical, and proficient gun handling.  Most of all, he was proud that I was exposing Jack to the glory of the outdoors.

My whipsmart, yet sometimes flighty boy had it in him -- he had to -- it was good breeding, not unlike any birddog worth their salt, that had been passed down through generations.  I was just the inevitable enabler, the kin to ignite the spark in him that really can't be extinguished.

So when that final gunshot went off, I looked for that spark in my son, and saw an inferno.  I looked at my dad, and saw an even bigger grin.  And so I ran, ran to that downed dove -- because I didn't want either of them to see me me smiling so hard that I was crying in joy.

Seeing his smile -- and my dad's -- is something I'll never forget.  Here's to the past, the present, and the promise.

And here's to the Gift.

Of Purple Fenceposts and Passing Lanes

When you leave the familiar

And cross the line to everywhere else

Your soul leaps to a higher plane and gives your body

A free ride without so much as a ticket or a hand stamp

-Joe Ely, Bonfire of Roadmaps

Half of the fun of being an itinerant bird hunter is in the getting there -- seeing the places, meeting the people, and sampling the ways of the locals.  In fact, for me at least, it's a sure-fire antidote from the homogenous Wal-Mart culture of 21st-Century America.

Purple fenceposts, for example.  I don't remember when I saw my first one, but it was shortly after moving to Kansas after stints in Texas, Georgia, and Nebraska -- and never once do I recall seeing one prior to that day.  I assumed -- and I've since learned that I'm not the only one -- that a purple fencepost indicated allegiance to the Kansas State University Wildcats, whose color is the somewhat off-putting purple.

Somewhere along the way, I came to learn that these purple splashes mean "No Trespassing."  Kind of a unique way to express sovereignty -- and much easier to erect than a barbed wire fence and harder to remove than a plastic sign.  I was surprised though that growing up just one state to the north, I had never heard of such a practice.  The always-reliable internet research indicates that "purple laws" are on the books in Arkansas, Missouri, and Texas -- though I've never actually seen purple postings anywhere but the Sunflower State.

Anyhow, it's one of those customs you'd never learn about by traveling I-70 at 80 miles an hour.

And speaking of roadways, here's another custom that I think ought to be emulated nationwide.  Down in the Lone Star State, Texans driving at highway speeds on a two-lane road readily pull over on the shoulder to let faster-moving vehicles pass (with a friendly wave as thanks, mind you). 

And why the hell not?  The shoulders are wide, smooth, and often extensions of the road themselves.  I've always thought it was courteous and (in most cases) the safest way to keep traffic moving and not stacked up.  No Texan that I've asked can tell me whether or not it's entirely legal, but no one really seems to care.

Two examples of practical necessity, conceived by real people in the real world.  In this day and age, we need more of that, don't we?