The ole ranch hand don't remember the first fish he ever caught. However, yesterday marked the "first" fish caught in the Tin Star Ranch pond.
Near bout a year ago the ancient ranch pond had been dug out and reshaped to prepare it for re-stocking with fish. Observing it was a warm sunny December day with the bass striking at unseen things on the water's surface, your chubby angler determined to knock the dust off his piscatorial acquisition equipment. It was time to see if those two inch hatchlings planted nine months earlier had grown to "catchin" size.
Flipped a smaller floating "chugger" bait out there and a fat 10 inch hybrid largemouth bass was soon on the dock looking embarrassed, but elated by the tussle.
Chunked that youngun back, chunked that lure again, and scored the twin to the first.
Switched to a yaller "grub" bait....same story....them bass was like piranha on steroids?
Wanted to check out the hybrid bream so put on a bream hook and scouted down a few grasshoppers and floated them under a cork.
Them bream was clueless as the bass just sucked them g-hoppers down as fast as the old one could toss them out?
Yep, don't remember the first fish ever caught, but will not soon forget the first fish caught on the Tin Star......PRICELESS!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Keeper
The eight point was likely three years old and in prime condition. Not yet a "keeper", but an excellent animal for future harvest.
It pranced in the back pasture with its head held high with pride, yet he was obviously keeping a wary eye for challengers.
The would-be Daniel Boone was watching from the deer stand hoping for a trophy to appear. Sure nuff, a loud snort came from the near brush and the sound of hoofs pawing the ground echoed.
As if on cue, the larger buck stalked indignantly into the open with his eyes riveted on the upstart suitor to his harem of does.
Brother Boone immediately got extreme heart palpitations and grabbed at his trusty rifle like it was a rattlesnake.....resulting in a LOUD bang as it fell into the side of the tin wall of the hunting shed.
Brother buck takes off like a red hot poker was stuffed up his butt, but makes a single fatal mistake. He stopped at the edge of the brush to see what manner of idjit would make that much noise while trying to be "stealthy"?
Scratch the second Tin Star Ranch buck for 2010 and git the grease hot for them venison back strap yummies.
It pranced in the back pasture with its head held high with pride, yet he was obviously keeping a wary eye for challengers.
The would-be Daniel Boone was watching from the deer stand hoping for a trophy to appear. Sure nuff, a loud snort came from the near brush and the sound of hoofs pawing the ground echoed.
As if on cue, the larger buck stalked indignantly into the open with his eyes riveted on the upstart suitor to his harem of does.
Brother Boone immediately got extreme heart palpitations and grabbed at his trusty rifle like it was a rattlesnake.....resulting in a LOUD bang as it fell into the side of the tin wall of the hunting shed.
Brother buck takes off like a red hot poker was stuffed up his butt, but makes a single fatal mistake. He stopped at the edge of the brush to see what manner of idjit would make that much noise while trying to be "stealthy"?
Scratch the second Tin Star Ranch buck for 2010 and git the grease hot for them venison back strap yummies.
Friday, December 24, 2010
CORNBREAD SKILLET
Mama cook everything in a heavy black iron skillet.
Fried chicken, taters, fruit pies...you name it, it went in that skillet (and she made it damn good!).
The ranch hand don't rightly remember, but it would be a good guess that she made cornbread in the oven in that skillet. Regardless, when she passed, Dad "inherited" the skillet and it is a well known fact that he made world class cornbread in that puppy.
Always the same consistency, always just the right amount of "brown" on the top, and it always fell out of the skillet effortlessly and looked like a layer of a cake ready for the icing.
Dad passed and number one son "inherited" the skillet and the cornbread recipe.
Ever noticed how just getting a recipe don't perzactly result in a great table setting? Ya gotta learn time, temperature, and temperament of stuff and just plain keep on a'tryin'.
What follers is likely to be the first/last "recipe" my loyal reader(s?) will find in this humble blog. Mom started it, Dad fine-tuned it, and yours truly will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to the honor of cooking it:
CORN BREAD
1 cup flour
1 cup yellow corn meal
1 pinch soda
1 T baking powder
1 t salt
buttermilk
(put any SUGAR in it and you will be hunted down like a cur dawg and called the pansy ya are)
450 degrees oven in greased skillet for 20-25 minutes.
(What follers is "top secret" classified shit so remember that loose lips sink ships)
After cooking yur culinary masterpiece, scrub that skillet in soap/water, but NEVER dry it with a towel! Put your treasured baking tool on the stove over a fire and heat it until the water evaporates and while still hot, rub some cooking oil on the interior to keep it "seasoned". Then put that implement of deliciousness in its storage place "oiled" til the next time.
Cooking instructions for DUMMIES (like yore chubby scribe): Wait till that red hot poker from hell has cooled before ya grab holt the handle or ya will soil your pants when the error of your ways sinks in (Hell yes, there is a reason yur chuck wagon aficionado know this?).
Fried chicken, taters, fruit pies...you name it, it went in that skillet (and she made it damn good!).
The ranch hand don't rightly remember, but it would be a good guess that she made cornbread in the oven in that skillet. Regardless, when she passed, Dad "inherited" the skillet and it is a well known fact that he made world class cornbread in that puppy.
Always the same consistency, always just the right amount of "brown" on the top, and it always fell out of the skillet effortlessly and looked like a layer of a cake ready for the icing.
Dad passed and number one son "inherited" the skillet and the cornbread recipe.
Ever noticed how just getting a recipe don't perzactly result in a great table setting? Ya gotta learn time, temperature, and temperament of stuff and just plain keep on a'tryin'.
What follers is likely to be the first/last "recipe" my loyal reader(s?) will find in this humble blog. Mom started it, Dad fine-tuned it, and yours truly will spend the rest of his life trying to live up to the honor of cooking it:
CORN BREAD
1 cup flour
1 cup yellow corn meal
1 pinch soda
1 T baking powder
1 t salt
buttermilk
(put any SUGAR in it and you will be hunted down like a cur dawg and called the pansy ya are)
450 degrees oven in greased skillet for 20-25 minutes.
(What follers is "top secret" classified shit so remember that loose lips sink ships)
After cooking yur culinary masterpiece, scrub that skillet in soap/water, but NEVER dry it with a towel! Put your treasured baking tool on the stove over a fire and heat it until the water evaporates and while still hot, rub some cooking oil on the interior to keep it "seasoned". Then put that implement of deliciousness in its storage place "oiled" til the next time.
Cooking instructions for DUMMIES (like yore chubby scribe): Wait till that red hot poker from hell has cooled before ya grab holt the handle or ya will soil your pants when the error of your ways sinks in (Hell yes, there is a reason yur chuck wagon aficionado know this?).
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Chasin' the Water
The ranch hand had the Tin Star pond scraped, shaped, and scooped a while back and the rains dutifully filled same.
After the piscatorial container was "full", the ole fat boy started wishin' he had built a "dock" out into the water to ease the feeding of the fish therein and for improved observation.
As with the nature of all things, the rains stopped and the water level has been diminishing.
Accordingly, the portly one has been adding a 4x4 section of treated lumber dock one section at a time while ever pursuing the fleeing water's edge.
Now comes the dichotomy between wanting to build more dock, and wanting it to rain to fill the pond back up?????
Ain't it always that way?
After the piscatorial container was "full", the ole fat boy started wishin' he had built a "dock" out into the water to ease the feeding of the fish therein and for improved observation.
As with the nature of all things, the rains stopped and the water level has been diminishing.
Accordingly, the portly one has been adding a 4x4 section of treated lumber dock one section at a time while ever pursuing the fleeing water's edge.
Now comes the dichotomy between wanting to build more dock, and wanting it to rain to fill the pond back up?????
Ain't it always that way?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Last Day of the Season
The ranch hand hunted during the late 70's in the Sabine River bottom on near a 1000 acre deer hunting lease that was wild and woollie.
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
About 1978 found the would be venison shooter at the last day of the season about a 100 yards off the river on the stand til plumb dark with not hide nor hair of a deer for the entire effort.
Disappointed, but cold and ready to be home, the ole fat boy eased the '64 Chevy truck in the direction of Marshall up the pitch black, lonely cow path to the paved road. Unfortunately, an error in navigation judgement resulted in dropping to the pickup frame in a black sucking mud hole bog that an elephant could not have escaped from?
After hours of digging, shovin' "stuff" under the tires, and plain pushin', shovin', coaxin' that 1/2 ton puppy to walk out of the mud, it was evident that a L-O-N-G walk to town in the dark was gonna happen.
Imagine this: The night was dark as sin, the "hunter" was clad head to toe in "camo", and mud was caked an inch deep from eyeball to toes? Who was gonna pick up this miscreant "hitchhiker" on Texas 43 in the dark of night?
Imagine the anticipation when the lost soul heard a tractor chugging his way and saw the pale yellow light of its frontal beacon pointing the way toward the river?
That blessed farmer, looking for a lost cow, pulled JRM's little truck from the bog and allowed a cold, dirty (empty handed) hunter to make it home on the last day of the season.
Dang, if only that was the "worst" story the ranch hand could tell about hunting miscues?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Dress Britches
The range hand sashayed in from the town job yesterday and jus' plunked down in the sun room to enjoy a cold adult beverage while perusing the back pasture with binoculars.
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Tired from the week's labor, the old fat boy didn't even change to ranch clothes.
Bout dark thirty, a three year old eight point eased from the brush and began to munch at the corn feeder. Weren't long before the youngster jerked up his head and began to intently stare at the distant corner of the field?
Sure nuff, the bull of the woods stiffly entered stage left to challenge the would be challenger to his forest kingdom. Likely twice the age of the youthful intruder, the magnificent antlers of this alpha dawg gave ample warning of the consequences of failure to acknowledge his superiority.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the binocular jockey was fighting heart palpitations while trying to ease a bullet in the trusty 7mm-08 and slip out the back door onto the porch. Course, with the ole fart's anticipatory shaking going on, there wasn't much else to do but cabbage down on his knees in order to rest the gun on the porch rail while shooting.
Bottom line: scratch one superior Tin Star Ranch buck and one pair of skint knee dress britches from that dirty porch floor.
Dang if it weren't worth it!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Terminator
The lunar phase of the moon is the illuminated portion which varies cyclically as the moon orbits the earth. The boundary between the illuminated and the dark portions is called the terminator. (Wickipedia)
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
The Tin Star Ranch deer "terminator" rose long before dawn this fine morn and ascended the venison acquisition structure intent on harvesting the next round of sausage, jerky, backstrap, and chili meat.
The forest varmits failed to cooperate, but the slightest hint of the waning moon phase rose about 6:15AM as a crescent greeting against the brilliance of the morning stars.
Precious are the moments spent in the velvet smooth of morning darkness viewing the heavenly panoramic orb of God's creation as defined by His shadowy terminator.
Who cares about deer hunting anyway?
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