Corporate Spankin

On Friday the 27th we (Chris and Alan) had an inter-office fishing tournament down at surfside (Prizes given to woman with longest fish of any species, and man with longest fish of any species). Previous to this, we had been talking a lot of smack. I mean A LOT. So, we had to go with our game faces on. The weather before Friday had been absolutely horrible. Wind and rain. We were crossing our fingers and hoping for the best, but the forecast for Friday didn’t have a little sun with a cloud in front of it. It just said WINDY, and it was. We arrived at 8:00 in the am just in time for the tournament to start. We took one look at the surf and decided that the competition would be determined by who caught the biggest hard head. Within about 5 minutes, I hooked and landed the hard head that I was the most proud of in my life. What I thought at the time was a tournament winning 14 incher. At that point, the wind was just a mere 15-20mph, and the water was chocolate milk for as far as we could see. I netted a couple of mullet and one immediately went on a hook while a piece of jack I had caught a couple of weeks ago went on another. We put the lines in my yak and I headed out. The mullet line fell off as a wave broke over the yak, but the jack made it out past all the breakers. We were both kind of feeling the typical coast feeling of, “Whew, at least the baits are out. Now we can start drinking.” However, we had a pleasant surprise about 10 minutes later when one of our co-workers said, “Hey, Chris, you have a bite” Chris walks over and is explaining to the man that, “no, that is just the wind. You will know it if I got a bite.” Just as Chris was turning around – zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz – FISH ON!! Chris grabs the pole and sets the hook and tried to move the pole over the next one to prevent a tangle. Well, we all know Chris isn’t the tallest man in the world, and seeing him trying to put a 12 ft. rod bent from the pull of a big fish over a 12 ft. rod sticking straight in the air was quite a hilarious sight. I grabbed the rod and easily moved it over the other one and was just fixing to hand it back to Chris when something absolutely shocking happened.

Chris actually said and I quote, “You can reel it in if you want.”

I almost dropped the rod in disbelief. I don’t know what in the hell was going through his mind. Those of you that have been fishing with Chris on the coast and have seen the short distance sprint from beer drinking position to hook setting position know what I am talking about. First of all Chris is fast. Second of all he would never willingly give up the right to reel in a fish. ESPECIALLY the first fish of the trip. So, after I composed myself, I went to fighting. A short 10 minutes later we landed what would end up being the tournament winner. 42.5 inches of beautiful redfish that was destined for the grill. After patting each other on the back, it was back to fishing.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that there were about 20 some odd people at this particular competition.

Anyway, I went to go try my luck at catching more bait, but it just wasn’t happening. The wind had picked up to about 30-35 mph and was cold. As I was walking back, I saw a fin in the surf and cocked the net, fixing to net me up another hunk of meat for the box. Then I looked up and Chris was reeling in the line that had jack on it. I followed the line directly into the mouth of the fish that I was about to net. Well it turned out to be about a 38 in. black tip.

The rest of the day went pretty much the same. Everybody else watching Chris and myself reel in one fish after another. At the end of the day, our tournament bag contained the following:

Redfish—42.5 in.
Redfish—36 in.
Redfish—29in.
Black tip—38in.
Gafftop—25in
Gafftop—25in
Hardhead—14in

Everybody else’s tournament bag put together looked like this:




No, I did not forget to write anything. Nobody else caught a single thing—nothing, nada, zilch.

Since we were the only ones to catch anything, we got both prizes. It is still under dispute between which of the two of us got the woman’s prize, but since they were both the same, I guess it will always be under dispute.

Well, that is just another Chris/Alan adventure. Stay tuned for part 2 of the West Texas Safari. We will be posting the tally on Monday, November 13th

Keep your guns loaded and your hooks wet,

Alan and Chris

Good Hunt Oct. 17th

A hearty portion The big pig was delicious when given the crock pot treatment with some red wine, beef broth, potatoes, carrots etc.

Hog-mangee is back!!

Jim F. and I Went to Normangee last night immediately after work. Chris would meet us there later.

Mr. Bailey claimed his rain gauge only caught 2.5 inches but I wonder because it
was very wet. Jim and I Walked all through the forest and saw minimal pig sign south of the creek which was good since I didn't want to haul a pile of pork two miles back to the truck.Lots of activity in the western pasture where I never see pigs but someone else shoots them all the time in the mornings. Mr. Bailey saw 50 pigs saturday morning and it looked like they had been busy.

We drove around spotting a coyote and several does with the binoculars but no pigs


Chris called and said he would be there about 6:30ish so I formulated a plan to maximize our success. After scouting the forest along the creek I determined that the best use for a late shower would be to have them drive straight in and watch the
blue feeder in the corner while those of us that had been there earlier took up some harder to access vantages of to the north and west around the forest with the 'X' cleared through it.

I ended up walking through the northern forest with my .270, with the 'X' cut through it just as the sun went down while Jim kept an eye on the pasture to the west. I stalked up close to several more deer but let them off the hook since it isn't rifle season yet.

I was walking toward the truck and was telling jim that I had only seen deer when I heard a rifle crack from the southeast. I pumped my fist into the air "Yes!"
My faith in the shooting skills of Mr. Z being so I knew that there was pork on the ground. A second shot sounded, this one followed by a loud squeal, then a longer moment later a third shot.

We jumped in the truck and headed to where the action was. We got on the scene and helped find both bodies, one was difficult to find. The first pig which was shot in the cranium was a big boar in the neighbor hood of 190lbs or so. The second shot had gone into the entire herd of black shapes, and slowed up a slightly smaller than average sow by blasting her pelvis into several pieces. The third shot carved a wicked hole though the sows lungs and ribs

Profuse happiness and good times ensued as we looked for an appropriate tree limb.

Wind, Rain, & Bull Reds

Kasey was lying when he told me that the weather was good at the coast. For some reason I believed him and packed up the truck. We got to Sargent around 6pm on Saturday night. The wind was howling from the East at 25-30 mph. We netted some mullet and casted cut bait into the choppy water. We caught two bull reds before the tide came in and the rain started. We retreated almost all the way back to the bay before we found high ground. The surf reached the bay on both sides of the truck that night. Under these conditions, we decided not to set up the tent. Instead, we sat in the truck and hit the whiskey bottle until we passed out.

The wind was still kicking on Sunday morning but it was straight from the south. The surf was huge however the nasty long-shore current was gone. The wind and rain were continuous. We fished 5 rods and managed to catch 8 more bull reds and 1 slot red. The fishing seemed to pick up on the falling tide. I think we left just when the fish started hitting more frequently.

I’ll post some pictures when I get them from Kasey.

Dove Hunting (09/29-09/30)

I went dove hunting last weekend with Wayne, Eric, and a couple of their buddies. One of the guys is the state wildlife biologist responsible for leasing the property we hunted. We hunted a public spot about 40 minutes southwest of San Antonio. The morning was pretty good but the afternoons were better. Wayne and I hunted Friday afternoon, Saturday morning and Saturday evening. If I had just a little skill with the shotgun a limit would have been easy on Saturday. As usual, the Bumgarner boys shot well.

After hunting we fired-up some coals, hit the cold beer, and smoked cigars. It was a really good time.

Alans Story

Saturday, the opening day of bow season, I tried to get someone to go fishing with me. Apparently everyone was too excited about killing deer. Anyway, I went to Galveston by myself and started fishing in my kayak around Stingray Island. Fish were everywhere. I think I caught about 30-40 fish of various kinds before noon. None big enough to talk about. I decided to head down to San Louis Pass. Here I was catching much better quality fish, but still nothing to talk about except the snapper. Unusual in such dirty water I also had out a line with a finger mullet in hopes of hooking something to put in the cooler. I decided if I was going to make it back to the truck by dark, I needed to leave around 6:30. At about 6:25, I had hooked about a 14 inch red and had just got him to the side of the kayak when my other rod went berserk. I just cut the line on the red, and grabbed my other rod and set the hook. For the next 30 minutes and about ½ mile, I just held on while it got darker and the truck got further away. Other people were heading to the dock, and a kayak in the middle of the bay is not a good place at night. I had pretty much decided to cut the line when it finally turned around and headed back the way we came. I still hadn’t seen the fish. I had ruled out shark because I only had 15 lb test, and it would have broke by now. Redfish was ruled out unless it was a world record. I thought the water was too dirty for anything else. More than anything, I just wanted to see the fish which in itself was difficult since it still had out about 200 yards of line and every time I gained an inch it would pull about 3 out. It continued on past the point of hook up and towards my truck, so I was pleased that I didn’t have to cut it loose just yet. However, it was pulling me directly towards some fishermen that were anchored. I was apologizing to them because they saw me coming and pulled their lines in to avoid a tangle. (Thank you if you are reading this) As I was saying a few words in passing, the fish finally gave up and I was able to bring it right up to the front of my kayak. Only then did I know that it was a Jack. At this point it had been about an hour since I set the hook. Fifteen minutes later I finally put the stringer through his mouth. By my guess, it pulled me a total of about 1.5 miles. It broke my previous personal “long fight” record by 45 minutes. It was also the first fish of any size that I have caught from my kayak. I look forward to doing it again soon.

Gave 'em the shaft

The morning was uneventful, not surprising as the moon was not behaving the way I wanted it to. Aaah but the evening, nights are always the best. Something about nature’s cruel trickery which goes back to the days before man harnessed fire and found a way to put in a small glass container. Dark is final. The morning hunts are only limited by our lack of patients, and those with the patients to stay afield till evening are limited by the same. Ironic how the last half hour is almost endued to be the most productive thirty minutes of a day; the celebration of sundown. Midday will offer a few surprises to those eager enough to witness such things, but the twilight is the great wicker horn which holds the cornucopia of nature’s tasty critters. That’s when this story occurs.

Approximately 7:15 in the PM the day of the bow opener, I was hung to the side of a plantation pine in East Texas, watching a few does nip at some new growth in a fresh cut timber windrow; a gentle and occasional breeze set me to swaying side to side, comforting. Does know everything at least thirty seconds before the rest of the world becomes aware. They broke to an alert position, stomped, and bolted from the scene. Being no rookie to the art of doe-watchin, I picked up my bow and readied myself, mental check list; fundamentals of shooting and mechanical schematics, ranges, and drop charts flew through my mind like the tornado scene in the Wizard of Oz. All is well, confidence is high and that is the most important part. Then is happens, like a nature show on PBS about Ants of the Amazon, pigs everywhere, for lack of a better word, swarming. The primary direction was dictated by the larger of the two sows, but the lead was constantly changing as the little ones seemed to have more energy than bearing. The two sows had recently birthed a huge litter each, close to forty pocket-poodle sized rats cut a swath through the underbrush pausing momentarily to push their noses under piles of pine needles or the occasional Black Jack leaf to root out whatever it was that caught the attention of their snout.

Now at full draw they pass directly under me. I hate this shot, when left with nothing else, take it…but there is always something better. Experience at the hand of previous failure tells me to wait, I listen. It is always easier to heed your own advice than someone else’s.

The first time this type of shot presented itself, I was very green to the world of bow hunting, I took the shot and it worked; Hammer of Thor style. This fostered confidence and to some extent arrogance. But put your self in them shoes, you make a notoriously difficult shot, center punch the spine and drive the broad head through the center of the pump after bisecting a pair of lungs, anchoring a fat doe to the ground with your point buried in the dirt and your quarry skewered in place, fletchings sticking out, dry, like a flag raised in conquest. Makes you confident, maybe overconfident, and maybe even supercilious. But when the pendulum swings back…the next two times I tried this shot I missed, once because the arrow fell off the string, that will knock the haughtiness right out of you.

Back to the shot… so I wait. At 22yds the optimal broadside shot presented itself. The rest happens pretty fast, a better story to be told than typed. There is honestly a lot lost in translation between thought and the written word, some sort of typegeist I assume, a ghost in the keyboard if you will. Often it limits the flowery vernacular due to spelling and stifles the creativity due to brevity. However the largest threshold is dictated by the perimeter in which my thoughts, memory, and typing speed all overlap. The result is often cliff notes of the way a story should be told. But it seems I digress, back to the shot.

Pigs keep their pumps a little farther forward than deer do so it pays to wait for them to open the pocket when trying to run an arrow through one, that’s where I was, waiting for that front leg to move…there it is. I watched the fletches disappear in the blackness and commotion ensues. Chaos. I don’t remember doing it, by my recollection, I shot and was instantaneously at full draw with a fresh arrow scouring for the shot, no time had elapsed, so I tell the story as such. From my perch my options are limited; if I can’t em see I can’t shoot em. Views of the fleeing hogs were obstructed by objects both near and far and to compound it, the scurrying of forty or so rats in the mix overwhelms the senses like looking at one of those pictures in which some people claim they can see some obscure image of Gandhi on a pogo stick or Joseph Stalin eating fried chicken, whatever, they don’t work for me. But they will make you dizzy and being dizzy in a tree some twenty feet off the ground is more than not good. I concentrate on the sow not painting the forest floor and find my shot. Dang that seems like a long way. Mental math and release…archery equipment does not afford the shooter the audible impact report, yea that whump sound that gunpowder will give, so I was not positive. She was moving at a good clip and by my eye forty-five yards out and doing the opposite of getting closer. I held about three to five inches high and swung the bow to follow her for the shot, my release was silk, but you question yourself. The shot was through an opening in the trees about four yards from my position and then through a larger opening in the trees that unlucky sow was running through. Double lunger pass through. Twenty yards from the frothy-pink arrow she piled up, hard: a furrow in the dirt about ten inches long stood as testament.

Two sows in probably about fifteen seconds, upon gutting I discovered the first had a beautiful trihedral wound through the center of the pump, a tribute to patience. The runner had a similar infliction through the front lower quadrant of the lungs.

A good haul of meat as they went about 175 and 125 pounds. As for the rats, coyotes gotta eat too.