Armed Hiking Gets Old

Crapped out again this yearon opening day of dove season. Now I realize that it has been dry here in Texas--REALLY dry--so the doves are more scarce, but I'm reasonably ticked this time.

In the outfitter's defense, we went to a hog guide for a dove hunt. That is the only concession I will make.

Dick and Dwayne Danner (my in-laws), Jim Davis, Carter Brauer, and Aloysius Sr. and I comprised our merry band.

Had we been after deer, turkey, or pig, then www.texashuntingcompany.com would have been a swell place. The problem is that we were after dove, but then Mr. Moore's claim was that the place had plenty of dove. When we hit the field, it became abundantly evident that other than some tanks near some open fields that happened to have a few random wild sunflower bushes, no real preparation for attracting dove had been made. None whatsoever.

The night before, we enjoyed Mr. Moore's company, and even got more than a little excited by the prospect of having so many various hunts available in one hunting lodge. Mr. Moore traps wild hogs and feeds them in a five acre pen. He sells "guaranteed hunts" wherein you get to shoot one of these mean beasts, and the photos on the wall of his previous customers' kills were impressive. If you pay to shoot a deer, then he throws in a hog and turkey to sweeten the deal. If you want to shoot one of these things in season, then this is an okay lodge to visit as he has pigs, turkeys, and deer in spades (though we question the sport in walking into a fenced-in area with a high powered rifle to shoot a "wild" pig that's been feeding on protein-enriched corn). But we came to hunt dove.

The eve of opening day, I slept in the same bunk room as the guide, Mr. Moore. This was a mistake as he either talks or grunts in his sleep, or perhaps suffers from sleep apnea. I have become a light sleeper of late. Fatherhood, I guess. Anyway, I bolted up in my sleep every 45 minutes or so believing that something was wrong, or that I had overslept, blurting out "what--what'' and hitting the overhead bunk with my noggin, only to glance at my watch and discover how little time had elapsed and that no one was awake but me. When his alarm finally went off, I waited what I thought was a respectable amount of time (a minute, minute and a half?) before hitting the clock's snooze button. I sat up, stumbled to Tinkletown, and made it back to the bunk before my cell phone's alarm went off. No one else was awake. Moments later, his alarm went off again, and I had to ask him if he wanted me to press the snooze again. When one wakes up before the guide, I see this as a problem.

We got out there, and long story short, we didn't see shit. Dad and I spotted two at once, both way out of range, that reversed direction and disappeared. This wouldn't be a problem ordinarily, because that sort of thing happens all the time; however, there are usually MORE FUCKING BIRDS to follow. I heard turkey, quail, buzzards, and hogs, and even got to listen to my father-in-law and brother-in-law and his friend, Carter, take a shot each in the distance, but no doves. About nine o'clock, we wandered back to the trucks where Carter and Dwayne had bagged one bird each. Mr. Moore drove up with three feral pigs in a trailer, and we followed him to the main pen where he released them into the pseudo-wild for a future hunt/massacre. We all went in to town to eat brunch at the Hole in the Wall (really, that's the name) in Newcastle, TX--a good place if you already happen to be in Newcastle. Afterwards, we went back to the lodge to wait for the afternoon hunt.

Carter and his dog, Hoss, ditched the afternoon hunt, and none of us blamed him. He went to see a friend at Ft. Belknap, and I sincerely hope he limited out. He could not have had a worse afternoon than us. Dwayne, Jim Davis, and I took a walk around the perimeter of the grounds while my dad and Dwayne's dad took naps. While we were gone, some friends of Mr. Moore showed up and surpised our dads by walking in the door. They had been invited to come out to hunt that afternoon, too, but they were friends of Mr. Moore whereas we were customers of Mr. Moore. Hang on to that tidbit of info as it will become important later in the story.

Moore came back after his buddies go out to scout the fields. Moore was pertubed by this as he claims that their scents would make it difficult for him to trap pigs for several days. He was even more peeved that the three of us had been wandering around the grounds, taking pot shots at random dove. It's worth noting that up to this point, we were impressed by his lodge, and at the care he had thus far shown in keeping the place. It's too bad he didn't extend the same care and attention to paying customers, but now I'm getting ahead. We all waited around until about 3:30 when all of us, our party and theirs, got ready to go out. At about 3:45 or so, they headed out to go to their field (Moore said they were going to the one we went to in the morning). We stood around waiting for a while longer when Moore decided to fill the 200 gallon water tank with a garden hose to take to one of his field tanks. He had been standing around, acting surly and barking monosyllabic answers to our vain attempts to strike up conversation, for about 15 or 20 minutes before he decided to fill this water tank, and when it was finally filled, he had us wait at the lodge rather than follow him to wherever it was he intended to place us while he drained the water into one of the tanks in the field. This was at 4:45. He said it would take him ten minutes as he drove off.

We stood there in shock, trying to maintain some sort of enthusiasm. My father-in-law gets this look when he's displeased: he presses his mouth into a short, thin line and his upper lip disappears. I have never had this look turned on me, and I never want to have this look turned on me. It means he's thoroughly pissed. After a bit of idle chatter on our part, he suddenly asks, "You want to just pack up and get out of here?" It was the question we all were waiting to ask. Jim and Dwayne and my dad all said they didn't care. I could tell we all wanted to get out of Dodge, so I picked up my shotgun and began to break it down. I offered, "I can shoot skeet at a range and have as much or more fun than this. Either way, I wouldn't have any dove to eat. He said it would be ten minutes at quarter 'til, and it's five past five now." The rest of the party concurred noting that we had yet to hear any gunfire in the distance. Jim suggested that we at least stick around to air our grievances, but I don't think any of us wanted to bother. We were changed into street clothes, packed and ready to go within ten minutes when Moore drove up. He said something along the lines of "the birds aren't flying yet" when my father-in-law replied, "We won't be doing any further business." He said this as he flung his bag into the back of the truck before hopping into the cab. Moore then ran inside, asking us to wait to make sure we didn't forget anything. I assured him that we hadn't as I got into my dad's car, though in retrospect I believe he was making sure that we weren't absconding with his property.

I recalled as we were pulling out that he made a comment earlier about some other customers being poor tippers, so it was an act of will on my part not to roll down the window and yell, "Want a tip? Don't buy a car that's on fire."

Hey, Chet! Next year we're all going back to Brownwood if you want to join us. At least we can have a proper hunt, if not a successful one. Lawyers, Guns and Money. The shit has hit the fan.