Texas Safari Report -- A Novice's View (long)

[alnitak]

After driving thirty hours over two days, we arrived in Castroville close to midnight on Thursday. We pulled into the only hotel in town -- the Alsace, set upon a hill overlooking the placid valley. The pleasant young man at the desk found us a nice room with a wonderful view of the verdant rolling hills. He also pulled a couple local brews out of the cooler for us, and we retired to the room, raised our glasses in an earnest toast to the coming hunt, and went to bed with eager anticipation of the next day’s activities.

Although we had planned to be there at noon on Friday, around 9:30 am Michael talked to Ricky and brought news that the ranch already was awash with activity, as Cayden had brought in the first trophy –- a fine ram. Like a young colt at the bit, Mike took off for Hondo, excitement flowing in his actions as he quickly threw his things together and took off in the truck. Meanwhile, I was trying to finish a work deliverable so I could devote my full attention to the weekend’s activities.

Around 11:00 am, I heard this thundering knock at the door. I opened it to find a robust, stolidly built man standing there, who immediately and energetically boomed, “You ready to go?” He explained that he had been sent to retrieve me, as Mike was deeply engaged with Ricky and getting acclimated to the camp. I quickly threw my things together, hopped into the truck and enjoyed a pleasant twenty-minute ride to the ranch as Paul regaled me with stories of the ranch and its animals, and generally just made me feel at home. This proved to be just the first example of the accommodating and helpful attitude I experienced from Paul and all the others at the ranch throughout the weekend. Arriving at the ranch, I immediately spied a few deer, wallowing in a small water puddle in the front pasture. Paul let me know these were Pere David deer from China, and drove me within thirty yards for a close look. The two doe and the buck immediately struck me with their size and unique face, almost moose-like in their broader features. The four-year old buck had an impressive rack and blandly eyed us as we crept close. They were totally undisturbed and continued to lay in the shallow wash. Apparently, these deer are fond of water and originated in the marshes of China. However, they are no longer found in the wild, but only in captivity.

We pulled up to the door of the low-slung building that housed the common area and bunkrooms. Entering the cool environs, I was immediately embraced by the warm atmosphere of the paneled walls filled with exquisite mounts of exotic animals –- a spotted Axis Deer and a majestic Red Stag; the broad, palmetto-like rack of a Fallow Deer; the four-horned head of a Jacob’s Sheep and the sturdy horns of a trophy Ram; an imperial Oryx with its curved scimitars beside the blue-gray of a large male Nilgai with its small, upright horns; a Thomson’s Gazelle caught in mid-leap, seemingly coming through the wall, and a lunging Leopard chasing down an Antelope in flight; a regal Blackbuck with its black and white mask; the broad and imposing head of a Water Buffalo and the angry visage of a Cape; the blocky head and shoulders of a black Boar; and others that have faded with time, but will be recalled when I sift through my memories of this weekend in the months and years to come.

As we gathered and waited for all to arrive, we started to form the bonds that held us throughout the weekend. The “old hands” like Joe and Ricky, already familiar with the ranch and its operation, quietly eased the rest of us into the flavor of the ranch; Richard and Paul went out of their way to make us feel at home; Eric and Cayden, having already become comfortable, extended their help to the rest of us. By mid-afternoon, all had arrived and gotten established. It was time for the hunt to begin!

We piled into the truck and the attached trailer for a tour of the ranch. Numerous dusty and rutted trails, with names like South Fence, Blind Path, Power Lines and Four Crosses, cut through the 600 acres of stunted trees, creosote bushes and sparse undergrowth. Our heads were on swivels as we drove around the property. Here, a white Fallow stag watched us from the cover of a shaded grove; there, a group of Blackbuck darted this way and that in response to the roar of the engine and the rattle of the trailer. In the distance, a herd of Oryx ghosted around a corner, their pale and tan hides flashing in the brown brush. We passed the ponderous Watusi keeping silent vigil with the haughty Longhorns, while the flighty Zebra took solace from their company. Around the bend, aggressive rams herded in the road, ceding ground only when forced. Across the way, the indifferent goats ignored us as they continued their single-minded pursuit of the next meal, the large Catalina a sober presence among the frivolous herd. Under the trees, silent, dark mounds of bison lay undisturbed by our inspection, not deigning to acknowledge our presence. By the muddy watering hole, the aggressive Water Buffalo solidly stood his ground, daring us to encroach on his territory, bad attitude personified. We returned to the camp with the feel of the place firmly fixed in our minds, already envisioning our chosen prey and the shots we would have to take.

As explained, the rules were simple: keep the guns in the rack by the door or in your car; use the designated area outside by the fire pit to do all of our ooh-ing, aah-ing and drooling over each other’s weapons; and ask before you shoot if you see something you like, as there were some special animals (and prices) to be had. With that, we all relaxed a bit, waiting for the midday heat to dissipate before starting the hunt in earnest.

I had come for a buffalo (though this is a misnomer; as that name is reserved for the only two true buffalo, the Water and African Buffalo; my targeted species was an American Plains Bison [Bison bison bison]), one of the juveniles, with a hankering to put some bison in the freezer. Originally, I had inquired about the trophy Oryx, but I couldn’t justify the indulgence in this year’s budget given the rising mortgage and energy expenses. In the back of my mind, however, was a thought that I might take another meat animal, like a doe or a hog, if the opportunity presented itself. The tour of the ranch, and seeing the variety and plethora of game available did nothing to dissuade my thinking. Maybe, just maybe, I could swing the additional cost, though I knew there would be some heavy explaining to do at home. But for now, I had seen my buff and was eager to be at it.

First, however, there was the matter of Andrew’s Blackbuck. We had spotted three does in the front pasture. We piled into several trucks and sped to the corners of the field, setting out to corral and then herd the animals within range of Andrew’s Marlin .44 Legacy. As has been related, that initial foray proved to be unsuccessful, but it did serve to whet the appetite for the rest of us, our excitement growing with each leap and bound of the trio as they covered the ground like silent wraiths on a moonlit night. Soon, it would be my turn. The internal observer mocked … soon. Are you ready?

We reconvened in the ranch house, deciding to wait out the day a bit longer to take my trophy. It would lessen the urgency to field dress the meat and get it in the cooler, though minutes count in the apex of the Texas sun and summer heat. In those waiting hours, we took our first opportunity to peruse the items put up for auction by the Levergun community, all displayed side-by-side across the finished bar in the common area. We inspected, handled, fondled and played with bullets and molds, holsters and belts, hats and shirts, large knives and small, each of us deciding on those things we coveted and the price we were willing to pay to appease our desire. It was a process we would repeat time and again over the next couple of days. Every item was of interest, and everyone an interested buyer, the questions and comments coming in a steady flow:

“Will this holster fit my Freedom Arms .45 colt?”
“I wonder how these .30-30’s shoot? Do you think they’ll expand?”
“Look at this print! Nice detail on that Marlin.”
“When will the bunny hunt take place? Tomorrow night?”
“Are you interested in this Case knife?”
“What is the steel in this Bowie?”
“I’m not sure I could use a trigger weight gauge, but I’d sure like to have one.”
“This mold is missing a pin. Easy enough to fix.”
“Mike said these .44’s are dead-on accurate!”

After an hour or two, Joe decided to scout for Mike’s adult female buffalo, the only one on the ranch. Reportedly, she was of good size, a true representative of the species. We hadn’t seen her during our earlier reconnaissance and wanted to place her before the early-evening hunt. Several of us packed into the truck and went back into the compound, entering through the North gate, the hollowed track underneath it giving clear sign of the means by which Blackbuck found their way in from the front pasture. As before, a variety of game animals appeared, some running before us as we disturbed their placid patrol and others freezing on the spot, motionless, trusting to escape our notice through their inactivity.

Circling the compound, we came to the small, rounded hillocks behind the ranch house, next to the muddy pond the Water Buffalo had adopted as his domain. As we had noticed earlier through the back fence, the two juvenile buffalo lounged in the shade of a small grove of low trees.

“Which one do you want?” Joe asks.
“What do you suggest?” I reply, deferring to his greater experience.
“You tell me.”
“I like the bigger one,” I say, eying the heavier coat and larger profile.
“Do you want meat or trophy?” Joe asks. “The smaller one will be tenderer.”
“I came for meat, but the larger one speaks to me,” I say with some hesitation, unsure of the path I should take.
“Your choice…,” as if I could choose.

Turning back, we headed for the Northwest corner of the compound still looking for the mature cow. As we retreated, the choice I faced followed me like a bad hangover, nagging at my senses, with the same resistance to a quick resolution.

Passing the blind, where Tom would spend several fruitless hours that evening waiting for the elusive pigs to show, we spotted a large, brown mass diagonally through the scrub. We moved to a better advantage point and found ourselves staring into the eyes of the female bison. What a magnificent animal! Topping the massive head was a bushy mound of thick brown fur, framed between the symmetrically curving horns. The fur extended into the neck and torso, getting lighter at the shoulders. The heavy cape extended down, sheathing the forelegs in a matching coat, a distinguishing characteristic of a mature bison. About five years old, this cow was fully grown and probably weighed in at more than a thousand pounds. No gangly juvenile, this, but a majestic vision of the Old West!

Having completed the task we set out to accomplish, we returned to the ranch house to prepare for the late-afternoon activities. I retrieved the new Browning 1886, a gift from my brother, and the Randy Garrett ammunition he had also given me. These bullets, 420 grains moving at 1850 feet/second and delivering almost 3,000 foot-pounds of energy, have taken every game animal in the world and seemed an ideal match, both for the Browning .45-70 and the bison that was their target. However, I did have a little trepidation in using them, as I had not shot them before nor did I have a chance to sight in the rifle with them prior to the hunt. In fact, I had just received the rifle the week before and only tried it at the range once with factory ammo, loaded at much lower levels. Trusting the published parameters for the ammo, and taking into account that my shot would probably be at 50 yards or less, I grabbed ten cartridges and headed out the door.

My brother and I hop into the truck with Joe, as Paul and a couple of others jump into another vehicle to assist in finding the juveniles. After twenty minutes or so, Paul spots the bison from the other truck and radios their position to Joe. We park our truck at the headway of the path, and disembark for our trek to the quarry. I load five into the magazine and work the action to chamber one, easing down the hammer to put on the half-cock safety. As we walk down the path, our eyes canvass both sides for signs of the buffalo. Rounding a bend, I see dusky-brown through the trees on the right. Perfectly framed down a corridor of trees, one of the two juveniles stands broadside to us, watching our approach with disdain. I move to the center of the arbored aisle, rifle at ready and my eyes searching for the missing beast. Inside, uncertainty struggles with the impulse to act. Is this the bigger one? Is this your buffalo? Shoot now while he’s still and offers the shot, or look for the other one? “That’s it! That’s the one you want, right?” I hear my brother say. Then Joe points to the left. The other bison is there, its dark bulk set further back in the trees. “There’s the one you want,” he assures me. Seeing the two, in the excitement of the moment, my eyes deceive my mind. The second one, spied through the brush, seems slightly the larger. A decision made, another six or eight steps to my left gives me an open path through which to shoot, the buff almost black against the stand of trees behind it. From about forty yards out, I slowly kneel and bring the Browning to my shoulder, hammer still in the half-cock position.

“Shoot. Shoot it between the eyes.” I hear the hissed instructions, but I wait. Inside the whispering voice cautions, not yet…wait…not yet. I tell Joe I’m not comfortable with the shot, thinking both of the European mount I want and the damage the Garrett loads will do to the skull and my untested ability to make the head-on shot cleanly. The brooding presence of the black buff looks at me a moment more, then decides that I’m of no consequence, and turns his head. I pull back on the hammer, knowing the time is near. I wait. He takes a hesitant step, then one more, still quartered towards me. Will it turn enough and get the left leg forward? When will you shoot? Another step, now quartering away…right there…focus on your spot…right…THERE! BOOOMMM! The rifle bucks, though I don’t feel it at all. THWAAPP! The smack of the bullet impact seems as loud as the rifle shot itself, both sounds merging into one event to the ears, the litany of a successful shot. Joe’s words come back to me, “Don’t watch the animal after the shot. Be ready to shoot again.” Quick…ratchet the lever…be ready. Cha-chang!

“Shoot again!” I hear. But, I know as soon as the buff starts to turn. I see it stagger as it steps to move behind the scrub…it’s not going anywhere. I raise the rifle and wait for it to reappear in a shallow opening past the covering brush, though I’m sure it’s going down. Then a thud, sounding louder to my ears than it actually was, more felt than heard, and a cloud of brown dust flies. He’s down.

“Cover us,” Joe instructs as we move to our left, down a broken path past the thicker underbrush that hides our view of the fallen bison, his bewildered brother circling in an agitated manner. My buff lay there on his side, unmoving, laboring with ragged breath, a bloody, bubbling hole telling the tragic tale of the double lung shot. Later, as we field-dress the animal, we would find the pulverized bone of his far shoulder, left behind as the Garrett bullet continued on its lonely odyssey into the Texas countryside, its moment’s work done and solitary task complete. This, then, was the reason he staggered and fell, the leg unable to support the massive weight, leaving no way to run from the pain and shock …no way to chase after his fading breath. Joe shows me where to put a mercy bullet through his heart in the triangle between his forelegs, echoes of the ricochet cutting a path through the trees, pursuing the fleeing spirit of the buff before dying in the distance.

In the aftermath of the kill, as we chase away the sibling determined to investigate and driven by the scent of blood to perform the ritual buffalo dance, I give quiet thanks to God for the magnitude of the sacrifice the bison made and for letting my shot be true and merciful. Looking at the slain bison, it amazes me how diminished it appears, how shrunken, without the force of life coursing through its veins. I remind myself how precious that life is for all God’s creatures and the great responsibility He has left to me in how I use that life, ... and how I take it. I walk back to my trophy and kneel for pictures.

We all have our stories of that weekend, some memorable and some only made so by the camaraderie and friendship of those that shared the moments with us:
• Bouncing along at night, looking for the elusive bunnies, while the failing alternator lent fading light
• Watching a young huntress dedicate herself to the moment with unassailable concentration and follow through with fierce determination
• A rodeo of trucks corralling Blackbuck as they race across the open pasture, kicking up their heels as they leaped the shallow ravines
• Ricky and Joe intent on their mission of discovery, with a caravan of gun bearers, beaters and chroniclers trailing behind them
• Patient Tom and his lonely vigil for the elusive hog, then quickly springing into action and his efficient heart shot with that beautiful Sharps
• The nightly congregation of satisfied hunters, relating the days’ adventures, offering well-deserved kudos and sharing silent memories of their personal experience
• Cowboy hats and baseball caps; flopping boots, tennis shoes and Docksiders; pee-grass and creosote; cold beers and cigars; gut piles and a cold meat locker; late-night story-ing and snoring
• Gathering around the only working computer to bid on auction items

For a first hunt, it was the experience of a lifetime, one that I will never forget. I thank everyone who shared that experience –- Richard and Paul, Joe and Ricky, Eric and Cayden, Andrew, Tom and Scott, Jack and Smitty, and most of all Mike –- for your generosity, help, patience, experience and genuine good cheer. I cannot wait until next year!

[86er]

Thank you for that great reminisence. I closed my eyes and could see and hear the weekend replayed all over again. It was my pleasure to assist you and I only hope to do it again soon.

[RKrodle]

That was great. I enjoyed every word as it bought back my own memories of the weekend.

[O.S.O.K.]

Nicely done.

[Hobie]

I'm sure you made more than a few jealous!

[Tycer]

Well told!

[rjohns94]

Well done Bro'

[Rod WMG]

That was well written! Made me happpy and a little jealous.

Sounds as though you all had a good time. Glad you got to come to "God's country."

[Bigahh]

Well written, almost as if I were right there beside you on the hunt!

[piller]

That was well written. I had fun back in February down there, and I want to go again.

[dr walker]

It sounds like you had a great time.

[RSY]

That was great! Except for one key missing element:

Hondo's world-class Chinese buffet!

Scott

[alnitak]

I have to chuckle ... all of that writing and I forgot to enclose a picture!

So, here's my buff:

[awp101]

Excellent write up alnitak! Ever thought of hunting and writing for a living?

That was great! Except for one key missing element:

Hondo's world-class Chinese buffet!

Scott

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm-mmm!

[CowboyTutt]

Alnitak, that was TRULY well written. A few more pics and you could publish that anywhere!

-Tutt

[2ndovc]

Finally had a chance to sit and read this one. Great story!


Sounds like a great time!!


jb

[alnitak]

Excellent write up alnitak! Ever thought of hunting and writing for a living?

Wouldn't that be the life! Unfortunately, I'd have to make some money at it...I don't think the wife would buy the, "But it's an adventure!" line when the mortgages came due. But it's a great thought!