Bill Dance is a regular on my weekly radio show and during last week’s session, we began talking about his “Bloopers” shows. It seems everyone that has spent much time in the outdoors has his or her share of bloopers to reflect upon. I certainly do and I’m betting you do too! We just didn’t have a cameraman handy to capture our misadventures!
I thought it would be fun to recall a few of the blunders that I have experienced after spending a lifetime hunting and fishing.
Back several years ago, I was invited by to hunt desert mule deer on Clayton Williams's West Pyle Ranch out in the Trans Pecos region of Texas. I asked Paul Henderson, the wildlife manager on the ranch, if I could bring my muzzleloader. I could tell he was a bit hesitant but agreed-providing I could prove how well it shot at the range before the hunt.
West Texas cowboys served as guides on the West Pyle and they were all intrigued with my “Old West” looking TC SCOUT 50 caliber. They were also impressed at the 2-inch groups the rifle was shooting at 100 yards.
Just before it was time to go hunting, I was circled by six or so of the guides, all intent upon learning how to load and cap the muzzleloader. The wind was blowing a gale and I made the mistake of looking away from the task of pouring powder into the rifle’s bore for an instance. A few hours later, I was putting the sneak on a tremendous 10-pointer that was with a herd of 12 or so does; the rut was going strong.
Walt was watching me with binoculars as I stalked from rock to rock. When about 100 yards from the buck, I eased behind a big rock, scooted the Scout over the top of the rock, cocked the hammer and settled the sights on the buck’s shoulder. BANG!
I (and Walt, through binoculars) watched the big 350 grain conical bullet kick up dust way short of the buck. I realized I had just fired a very light powder charge (remember the wind was blowing hard when I loaded and I made the mistake of looking away from the task at hand).
I slumped behind the rock, reloaded as quickly as my shaking hands could work, placed the #11 primer on the nipple eased back over the rock and to my amazement, the buck had only moved about 20 yards; he was still within range. With a full charge of 90 grains of Pyrodex pushing it, the big conical bullet found its mark and I had my buck on the ground.
Back at the truck Walt said something like, “You don’t reckon the wind blew the powder away before you could get it down the bore, do you”?
I replied, “I reckon it did!”
WHILE IN JAPAN - Close to two decades ago, I was invited to travel to Japan as an outdoor journalists to record a fishing match between a local bass angler and the reigning Japanese pro, Saramachi. A lure company promoted the event in efforts to break into the then lucrative business of importing fishing tackle into Japan. I spent a full day fishing with a couple of Tokyo outdoors writers who spoke about as much English as I did Japanese...nil!
We did speak the universal language of fishing though; those little fellows were excellent fishermen and knew their waters well. About daylight the day of the match, the Texas pro, Rex, and I were driven to a fast food store in a little village about eight miles from Tokyo. We were running a bit late and rushed in to get a few snacks to tide us over until lunch. EVERYTHING looked foreign! There were no Twinkies, potato chips, Moon Pies or anything a couple southern boys would choose for snack food. I spotted some packages of rice cakes that looked like they might suffice for a quick breakfast on the water. We each bought three or four packages, expecting them to be flavorless (or so we hoped), and filling. Back in the car, Rex was the first to tear into his packaged rice cakes.
“What the !**! are these little dark spots in the cakes?” Rex bellowed to our interrupter as he tossed the cake out the window for the birds to eat.
“Dried Shrimp!” was the reply.
I’m not talking about COOKED shrimp. The smell was exactly like that of a sun dried shad that had spend the day on a hot dock! These little crustaceans were ‘sun dried’.
Rex won the fishing match with Saramachi; it’s been said it’s best to go fishing hungry rather than with a full stomach. We enjoyed an excellent Japanese lunch at a local restaurant and every time I see Rex, I ask him if he’s had any rice cakes lately. I venture to guess he has not!
STRONG DRINK IN THE HIGH COUNTRY- Harold Speed, is one of the best all-around outdoorsmen I know. Harold guided fishing trips on the Red River and Lake Texoma for many years, and duck hunts during the winter months. These days, managing his airboat company and competing at bowfishing tournaments keeps him pretty busy. Back in the mid nineties, he invited me to join him and a few family members for a mule deer hunt up in the Uncompadre National Forrest in the Colorado High Country.
I followed Harold’s directions exactly to his campsite and saw a nice buck hanging in the lower limbs of a big spruce tree. It was early October but there was already a chill in the night air. The guys had a nice campfire going and I parked the truck, said hello to everybody. It it’s a long drive to the Uncompadre from my home in Texas and I was tired and a bit sleepy. Harold gave me details of the better areas to hike to the next morning and I got busy getting my gear ready.
“Harold, got any water around...the Coke I drank just make me more thirsty?" I asked.
"Look behind the supply tent," he replied. It’s in the plastic five-gallon container."
I took a tin cup around behind the tent and, with a flashlight, found a five-gallon container. The night was black and there was a stiff north breeze that made it feel colder than it really was, especially for a newcomer from Texas where the daytime high was in the mid eighties. I unscrewed the cap on the can, poured a tin cup of WATER and returned to my chair by the campfire. Harold was setting downwind of me.
“Luke, what in the world are you drinking," he queried me. "That stuff smells pretty strong to me.”
Harold eased over to sniff my drink.
“Just some of your water that I got from the can,” I replied.
“Water!” That ain’t water, it’s gasoline!” he said as he took a sniff.
Seems Harold had brought several containers, some for gas, some for water, and placed them all behind the tent. With the strong wind blowing and the dark night, I had failed to read GAS written on the side of the can, the wind blew the smell of gas away when I unscrewed the top. This is one that I still haven’t lived down!
When I was about ten, I often guided my uncle, also named Luke, on fly fishing trips around our home in northern Red River County. I knew every good fishing hole in our part of the county and my mother and dad had fishing rights to most of them. Late one evening, Uncle Luke drove us to a spot we nicknamed The Round Hole. It was chock full of bass and bream and my uncle was very good with his fly rod. In a matter of minutes, he had landed several hand size bream and a couple of nice bass, using a frog pattern popping bug. Then, just as it was getting too dark to fish, he make a long cast and double hauled his fly line. When the little popper reached the zenith of it’s flight toward the water, I saw my uncle's fly rod point toward the sky and the reel began to scream.
“What kind of fish do ya’ll have down here in Texas," he inquired and the owl continued to strip his line.
After a lengthy battle, Uncle Luke captured the big bird of prey and as country people did back around 1960, my dad used leather boot laces and tethered it to the lower limb of a pine tree near our house. The big bird would attempt to scalp us kids when we came anywhere near. After a few days of feeding the bird meat scraps, Dad cut the straps and let him go.
My uncle never forgot the battle the “flying fish” gave him!
Listen to Outdoors with Luke Clayton at www.catfishradio.com. Bill Dance and Larry Weishuhn are ‘regulars’ on the show. Contact Luke via the web site with hunting and fishing news from your area.