In theory, the affinity to "deer hunting" has direct relation to pursuit of the elusive forest ruminant.
In reality, it is only rookies that attach significance to the acquisition of venison.
The ranch hand's "hunt" this fine afternoon did not include so much as the sighting of an insect.
And yet.....the experience was a tranquil, soul satisfying experience which drained all vestige of life's trials from a tired and worn body.
The peace born of solitude, communion with nature, and all of God's creation is a priceless experience beyond comparison.
Truly, the quantity of game has no relation to the quality of the moment.
Thank you, oh Lord, for a blessing most rich.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Alpha Dawgs
The youngster was shy about his pasture debut.
Tentative steps led from the dense brush into full view, but body language suggested lack of confidence.
Timidity was understandable as the neophyte was entering the jousting arena of the tall dawgs.
This was the battlefield of tenured testosterone warriors who are long of antler and short of patience in their fight for the privilege of resident females.
The dwindling light of the evening sun eventually allowed confirmation of an empty pasture. There would be no challenge from older suitors on this day.
The immature six point buck was free to explore the pasture, graze on the corn, and generally "rule" the area for a brief moment in time.
The ranch hand, thru this brief glimpse, saw the future of the Tin Star herd.
Here's hopin' to see that youngun' another day as the alpha dawg in the mix.
Tentative steps led from the dense brush into full view, but body language suggested lack of confidence.
Timidity was understandable as the neophyte was entering the jousting arena of the tall dawgs.
This was the battlefield of tenured testosterone warriors who are long of antler and short of patience in their fight for the privilege of resident females.
The dwindling light of the evening sun eventually allowed confirmation of an empty pasture. There would be no challenge from older suitors on this day.
The immature six point buck was free to explore the pasture, graze on the corn, and generally "rule" the area for a brief moment in time.
The ranch hand, thru this brief glimpse, saw the future of the Tin Star herd.
Here's hopin' to see that youngun' another day as the alpha dawg in the mix.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Pushin' Up Daisies
There was a time when the ranch hand rose before dawn and cussed the sun for not giving 'nuff light to do the necessary.....this exorbitant dance was followed by performing manual labor till the sun set and found the worker wishin' for an hour or two more of light?
Damn...things change with age...the old fat boy still wakes long before dawn, but the duration of just maybe 6-7 hours and then the ole giant bear jumps on the back and the effort of lifting a foot becomes more than "fun" can be defined?????
Got lots done the last two days...for an old man????...had a lot more planned, but what the hell, it's better than bein' "six feet under" and pushin' up daisies???????
Damn...things change with age...the old fat boy still wakes long before dawn, but the duration of just maybe 6-7 hours and then the ole giant bear jumps on the back and the effort of lifting a foot becomes more than "fun" can be defined?????
Got lots done the last two days...for an old man????...had a lot more planned, but what the hell, it's better than bein' "six feet under" and pushin' up daisies???????
Friday, October 29, 2010
TIME
OK, its weekend time again...the salt mine ranch hand has done another round of "town" work and it is time to do the treasured "ranch" work.
Tend to the weeds, manicure the trees a bit, gently suggest the rocks stop multiplying, and feed the fish.
The temperature is rodeo cool, the sky is empty except for the unfathomable blue, and the air is resonating with the sound of silence...except for the woodland creatures?
Life is good and "town" is but a distant memory until the dreaded Monday clock announces with solemnity born of malevolence that it is time to once again traverse the route to "town".
Truly the country part is a sweet wine variegate with the luscious touch of velvet smooth sensations, sensory palpitations, and never ending need for the balm of forgiving time.
Tend to the weeds, manicure the trees a bit, gently suggest the rocks stop multiplying, and feed the fish.
The temperature is rodeo cool, the sky is empty except for the unfathomable blue, and the air is resonating with the sound of silence...except for the woodland creatures?
Life is good and "town" is but a distant memory until the dreaded Monday clock announces with solemnity born of malevolence that it is time to once again traverse the route to "town".
Truly the country part is a sweet wine variegate with the luscious touch of velvet smooth sensations, sensory palpitations, and never ending need for the balm of forgiving time.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Good Life
The ranch hand and his beautiful bride recently acquired a decorative steel fire pit for the back yard.
The current cool fall evenings are being enhanced by the soul felt solace of staring into the dancing tendrils of a wood fire.
It is comfort promulgated by a calming effect and the tendency toward inward reflection.
As the restless turbulence of the flame ceaselessly changes its pattern of light and nuance, one's psychological warmth trends ever toward mellow and life is good.
The current cool fall evenings are being enhanced by the soul felt solace of staring into the dancing tendrils of a wood fire.
It is comfort promulgated by a calming effect and the tendency toward inward reflection.
As the restless turbulence of the flame ceaselessly changes its pattern of light and nuance, one's psychological warmth trends ever toward mellow and life is good.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Just Talking
The ranch hand and his Dad used to ease down to the pecan orchard bottom land to harvest oak fire wood.
Wright City timber was magnificent as it towered toward the clouds and seemed to be lost to the horizon in a never ending dense forest.
Dad always said that poor folks have poor ways. True to form, we had two of the sorriest chain saws one could imagine. "Two" was necessary because we were always cutting with one and working on the other to try to get it back in operation.
After cutting what Dad called a "jag" of wood, we would haul the fuel back to the house and pile it in the yard. That's when the "fun" started. The only method available to split the round logs into manageable fireplace wood was to use an axe, sledge hammer, and splitting wedge.
We used to pound on that dang wood til we couldn't hardly stand up. On occasion, we would get the axe or the wedge STUCK in the wood and wonder if it would ever be recovered without burning it out?
It was incredibly hard work, but the ole fat boy don't remember that so much as the opportunity it provided to drink a few col' beers with Dad and just talk. Long conversations about folks we knew, old worn out jokes, country philosophy, and life in general.
The ranch hand now uses a high dollar chain saw that would slice thru steel all day long like it was hot butter. There ain't a splitting wedge on the place. That implement of torture has been replaced with a hydraulic ram which halves the logs with the touch of a button.
In some ways it is "better", but the most important part is gone. No amount of modern machinery will ever replace that time with Dad doing honest labor and just talking.
Damn I miss that man.
Wright City timber was magnificent as it towered toward the clouds and seemed to be lost to the horizon in a never ending dense forest.
Dad always said that poor folks have poor ways. True to form, we had two of the sorriest chain saws one could imagine. "Two" was necessary because we were always cutting with one and working on the other to try to get it back in operation.
After cutting what Dad called a "jag" of wood, we would haul the fuel back to the house and pile it in the yard. That's when the "fun" started. The only method available to split the round logs into manageable fireplace wood was to use an axe, sledge hammer, and splitting wedge.
We used to pound on that dang wood til we couldn't hardly stand up. On occasion, we would get the axe or the wedge STUCK in the wood and wonder if it would ever be recovered without burning it out?
It was incredibly hard work, but the ole fat boy don't remember that so much as the opportunity it provided to drink a few col' beers with Dad and just talk. Long conversations about folks we knew, old worn out jokes, country philosophy, and life in general.
The ranch hand now uses a high dollar chain saw that would slice thru steel all day long like it was hot butter. There ain't a splitting wedge on the place. That implement of torture has been replaced with a hydraulic ram which halves the logs with the touch of a button.
In some ways it is "better", but the most important part is gone. No amount of modern machinery will ever replace that time with Dad doing honest labor and just talking.
Damn I miss that man.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
MAGIC
The ranch hand's paternal grandfather started bar-b-que in the late evening and checked it periodically during the night in order to have tender, moist, and savory "que" the next day. Grandaddy never did anything in his life halfway and no doubt this endeavor was no exception
The ole fat boy recently acquired a meat smoker of sorts and forayed cautiously into the realm of culinary protein burning.
Ain't much to it. Half hour to lay the wood in the fire box, get it going, and regulate the pit temperature. Twelve hours smokin' time with a careful eye to the temp gauge so the seasoned oak stays low and slow. Allow an hour for the meat to "rest" while the juices redistribute. Slice that puppy, plate it, and call in the dawgs (OK, family) to eat.
Trouble is, iffen ya want to gobble them groceries round bout six in the PM, ya gotta start the rodeo bout four in the AM as follows:
1. Drag your sorry butt out of bed
2. Do whatever
3. Stumble thru the dark to the culinary station (trees between the house and barn)
4. Try to remember why you are standing in the dark out in the yard
5. Stick wood in the firepit while wondering why dumbutt didn't do that part the day before
6. Trudge to the barn to get the propane fire starter (coulda done that yesterday too?)
7. Trudge back to the barn to get the matches to start the propane burner
8. Yeah, to the barn again cause the damn matches won't work and need the propane lighter
9. Get fire going and wait (did I mention it is dark as sin) for the smoker to reach cooking temp
10. Back in the bunkhouse to get the meat
11. Slap the victim on the grill
12. Note to self to kick own ass for not bringing paper towel to wipe seasoning/blood off hands
13. Wait to see if pit temp stabilizes at the right spot?
Then the "magic" begins:
It is a moonless morn with few clouds. The stars are almost blinding in their brilliance as they glory in the absence of city lights to attenuate their sparkle.
The darkness all around is like a soft blanket that envelopes the soul and calms the spirit.
A dove in a distant tree releases a mournful coo into the predawn coolness and there is promise of a new and better day.
I finally get it Grandaddy. It isn't about the bar-b-que. It is about the solitude, seasoned with the wonder of God's glory in all His creation.
The smoker is just a prop, Mother Nature is the stage, and all of creation is the reward for the those willing to begin the day with "que".
The ole fat boy recently acquired a meat smoker of sorts and forayed cautiously into the realm of culinary protein burning.
Ain't much to it. Half hour to lay the wood in the fire box, get it going, and regulate the pit temperature. Twelve hours smokin' time with a careful eye to the temp gauge so the seasoned oak stays low and slow. Allow an hour for the meat to "rest" while the juices redistribute. Slice that puppy, plate it, and call in the dawgs (OK, family) to eat.
Trouble is, iffen ya want to gobble them groceries round bout six in the PM, ya gotta start the rodeo bout four in the AM as follows:
1. Drag your sorry butt out of bed
2. Do whatever
3. Stumble thru the dark to the culinary station (trees between the house and barn)
4. Try to remember why you are standing in the dark out in the yard
5. Stick wood in the firepit while wondering why dumbutt didn't do that part the day before
6. Trudge to the barn to get the propane fire starter (coulda done that yesterday too?)
7. Trudge back to the barn to get the matches to start the propane burner
8. Yeah, to the barn again cause the damn matches won't work and need the propane lighter
9. Get fire going and wait (did I mention it is dark as sin) for the smoker to reach cooking temp
10. Back in the bunkhouse to get the meat
11. Slap the victim on the grill
12. Note to self to kick own ass for not bringing paper towel to wipe seasoning/blood off hands
13. Wait to see if pit temp stabilizes at the right spot?
Then the "magic" begins:
It is a moonless morn with few clouds. The stars are almost blinding in their brilliance as they glory in the absence of city lights to attenuate their sparkle.
The darkness all around is like a soft blanket that envelopes the soul and calms the spirit.
A dove in a distant tree releases a mournful coo into the predawn coolness and there is promise of a new and better day.
I finally get it Grandaddy. It isn't about the bar-b-que. It is about the solitude, seasoned with the wonder of God's glory in all His creation.
The smoker is just a prop, Mother Nature is the stage, and all of creation is the reward for the those willing to begin the day with "que".
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Topper Rodeo
At a ripe old age (12?), the ranch hand's grandfather (Papuh) offered to sell his H&R "Topper" single-shot 12 gauge for the princely sum of $15.
There is no way to cogitate how a ragged country boy found that much cash, but the deal was struck and a hunting legacy began.
The "Topper" had an old screw replacing the front sight and black electrician's tape holding the forearm in place. A healthy patina of rust merely enhanced its beauty as a potential for endless adventure.
The most endearing trait of the "once shooter" was that the shell extraction device did not function. In other words, when a round was expended, a quick follow-up shot required one to:
1. Open the breech
2. Whup out the trusty Barlow, uncork a blade, pry the hot casing out
3. Dig fresh ammo from jeans' pocket and plug same into the chamber
4. Latch shut the shootin' iron
5. Cock back the hammer
6. Find the fleeing (or rolling around laughing his butt off) game animal
7. Pull down and blast the offending varmit
8. Try to figger where the hell the knife ended up?????
Needless to say, money... and thus ammo, was a precious commodity at the time. Wasting shots was not an option. Accordingly, the aforementioned shooting contortion became a well rehearse, but seldom selected maneuver.
As the ole fat boy has employed semi-automatic weapons over the past years, spraying rapid (missed) shots over the landscape, he has often had fond remembrance of that little shotgun in terms of "hit" efficiency.
Hmmmmm, maybe this dove season can be salvaged after all by easing that puppy from its place of honor in the gun safe for one more rodeo?
There is no way to cogitate how a ragged country boy found that much cash, but the deal was struck and a hunting legacy began.
The "Topper" had an old screw replacing the front sight and black electrician's tape holding the forearm in place. A healthy patina of rust merely enhanced its beauty as a potential for endless adventure.
The most endearing trait of the "once shooter" was that the shell extraction device did not function. In other words, when a round was expended, a quick follow-up shot required one to:
1. Open the breech
2. Whup out the trusty Barlow, uncork a blade, pry the hot casing out
3. Dig fresh ammo from jeans' pocket and plug same into the chamber
4. Latch shut the shootin' iron
5. Cock back the hammer
6. Find the fleeing (or rolling around laughing his butt off) game animal
7. Pull down and blast the offending varmit
8. Try to figger where the hell the knife ended up?????
Needless to say, money... and thus ammo, was a precious commodity at the time. Wasting shots was not an option. Accordingly, the aforementioned shooting contortion became a well rehearse, but seldom selected maneuver.
As the ole fat boy has employed semi-automatic weapons over the past years, spraying rapid (missed) shots over the landscape, he has often had fond remembrance of that little shotgun in terms of "hit" efficiency.
Hmmmmm, maybe this dove season can be salvaged after all by easing that puppy from its place of honor in the gun safe for one more rodeo?
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Fierce Hunters and Other Myths?
Morning doves are said to be the leading game bird in North America with up to 70 million shot annually by hunters.
Raising up to six broods per year, these prolific breeders amply endure the annual hunting pressure with no discernible loss in numbers.
To enumerate the annual "kill" of doves in Texas, one must respond to a survey each year in order to purchase a migratory game bird stamp and thus collect more doves.
The fierce ranch hunter rather bashfully responded to the mandatory survey this year by replying that last years accumulation totaled a mere three lost aviary souls.
Understandably shamed by this paltry expression of game acquisition, the ole fat boy resolved to improve on assassination of the 55 mph fliers this season.
Alas, it appears to not be in the cards.....15 days into the season the myopic sexagenarian curmudgeon totals his game count at one (1), "numero uno"....as in a single fricken varmit bird?
Ain't no point in wastin' words on excuses? The proof is in the absence of protein in the freezer.
Raising up to six broods per year, these prolific breeders amply endure the annual hunting pressure with no discernible loss in numbers.
To enumerate the annual "kill" of doves in Texas, one must respond to a survey each year in order to purchase a migratory game bird stamp and thus collect more doves.
The fierce ranch hunter rather bashfully responded to the mandatory survey this year by replying that last years accumulation totaled a mere three lost aviary souls.
Understandably shamed by this paltry expression of game acquisition, the ole fat boy resolved to improve on assassination of the 55 mph fliers this season.
Alas, it appears to not be in the cards.....15 days into the season the myopic sexagenarian curmudgeon totals his game count at one (1), "numero uno"....as in a single fricken varmit bird?
Ain't no point in wastin' words on excuses? The proof is in the absence of protein in the freezer.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Free Dawg
The pre-dawn darkness last Saturday morn was an enveloping blanket of sensory softness as the ranch hand stumbled around preparing the pit smoker for an obligatory sacrificial offering of brisket.
Not asleep, but not quite awake, the would be pit-master bent to the task carefully placing each stick of seasoned Tin Star Ranch oak in the steel firepit in a manner that might best caress the beef to its maximum potential of lip lickin' goodness.
Attention to detail and deftness of touch was essential (since ole dum butt forgot to bring a flashlight). Would not the fam's tongues soon be dancing a jig with their tonsils at the culinary delight therein?
The neophyte meat-burner assumed a rather delicate position by bending over, reaching into the firebox enclosure, and using tactile means to position the fuel (while hoping no stinging/biting varmit had assumed residence).
Meanwhile, the ever faithful ranch dawg, Fido, decided to sneak (injun style) between the legs of his beloved master and SNEEZE!
History should denote the world record leap that resulted when one old fat man jumped a pit that is 7 feet long, clearing the smoke stack that is at least 6 1/2 feet high, landing bragging distance beyond with but a smidgen of urine dribbling down his leg??
Anybody want to give a "free" dawg a new home?????
Not asleep, but not quite awake, the would be pit-master bent to the task carefully placing each stick of seasoned Tin Star Ranch oak in the steel firepit in a manner that might best caress the beef to its maximum potential of lip lickin' goodness.
Attention to detail and deftness of touch was essential (since ole dum butt forgot to bring a flashlight). Would not the fam's tongues soon be dancing a jig with their tonsils at the culinary delight therein?
The neophyte meat-burner assumed a rather delicate position by bending over, reaching into the firebox enclosure, and using tactile means to position the fuel (while hoping no stinging/biting varmit had assumed residence).
Meanwhile, the ever faithful ranch dawg, Fido, decided to sneak (injun style) between the legs of his beloved master and SNEEZE!
History should denote the world record leap that resulted when one old fat man jumped a pit that is 7 feet long, clearing the smoke stack that is at least 6 1/2 feet high, landing bragging distance beyond with but a smidgen of urine dribbling down his leg??
Anybody want to give a "free" dawg a new home?????
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)