"Lord, it's the same old tune, fiddle and guitar
Where do we take it from here?
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars,
It's been the same way for years.
We need to change..."
I tug the worn Shrade sheath hanging overhead to light the room, nudge the axe head doorstop with my boot and open the kitchen door. (The occupants of the house enjoy a woman's touch; the decor does not).
There's strong java already in the pot. The property manager hands me a ceramic mug, chipped handle with the interior permanently stained by a thousand refills and a couple dozen rinses.
"Want cream?"
"Not since Clapton left".
Even though he's heard this from me before, he chuckles. Because he knows that I actually do like a little cream in his Viking brew; I just hate to disrupt this little tradition.
The floorboards flex, creaking under my snake boots as I walk out to the porch.
When asked if I've been ever been struck by a snake in my yondering. I always answer, "Probably?" (I've treated three snakebite victims. One said it felt like being smacked in the leg with a hot ballpeen hammer; the others never even felt the fangs on their bare skin).
Through the dim light from the window, the porch appears to be serpent free. I've been told that this has not always been the case, particularly near the stack of wood for the stovepipe.
There's a lot of unseen labor that goes into a place like this, and I have learned a deep respect for its story and those who have been here before me.
The history of this property is an unusual one; regrettably, I don't think a similar situation is likely in the future.
Down San Marcos way in the late seventies, a group of five buddies saw an ad in the paper for a hunting lease.
Six hundred acres of hard scrub with a century old house on the land. Well and windmill, no power. But sturdy and dry.
A section of the dirt road had been widened and looked suspiciously like a runway. Which made sense, as the previous owner of the property had made a brief but profitable foray into the "import" business.
They met with the owner, an older gentleman, and brokered a deal for the season the way it used to be - and still should.
Friendly conversation over coffee at the local cafe.
Negotiation of the big issues, the unforeseen ones entrusted to good faith.
Cash, uncounted, in an envelope.
A handshake.
That first deer season went well for them, so at the beginning of the next they sat across table again for a similar exchange. And another.
The hunters not only maintained the house and property, but improved it. Gates, fences, blinds, feeders and the house itself.
In the eighties, the county dropped a few power poles, opening up a nice shooting lane in the process. The Highline blind was born. Others were added, blown down, rebuilt, relocated.
As it happens in Texas, the well behind the house at the deer cleaning station eventually went dry.
About a mile down the road, another well was still wet so they installed a pump station. Every season they fill about 1000 gallons in barrels, truck it over to the water tower and pump it up. This system has worked pretty well, with the exception of a long hard freeze shattering the pipes or a raccoon going for a final swim in the tank.
Whitetail were plentiful, but it took a decade of culling spikes and managing does to start producing a steady stream of wide shouldered eights and tens.
Hardly any hogs back then, and those had usually gone feral after escaping from a careless neighbor.
Seasons passed. Antlers widened, some stayed on long enough to be shed. Droughts and floods, real estate booms and busts.
Only three of the core group of hunters remained; guests were rare.
Throughout this arrangement, there were no liability waivers or contract; any issues were resolved through a phone call or a note left on the gate.
The now elderly owner had acquired multiple large tracts not only in the Hill Country, but in central Texas. He didn't get to hunt much himself anymore, but liked those who did, especially men who acted with integrity in protecting and improving his property.
Unexpectedly, things changed at the beginning of one season in the nineties.
Cafe. Coffee. Conversation.
The envelope of cash was slid across the table.
And was pushed back.
"I'm tired of managing all these properties. I like you boys, and don't need your money. As long as you keep doin' what you're doin', you can hunt it year round until I'm off this planet."
Surprised but appreciative, the boys agreed. And kept up their side, as did he.
The group has been justifiably picky about who sets foot on the property. They don't need money, and don't much value those who throw it around to get their way.
My introduction about six years ago was coincidental.
I was acquainted with the property manager from my church, and heard that he had mentioned a problem with hogs.
"Yeah, that might work. Hey, do you like to shoot deer and turkey?"
"Nope, just hogs and coyotes."
"Good answer. Anytime we let somebody on for hogs they just wind up wanting to go after our game animals."
And my story there began.
Since then, I have hunted and worked through all types of weather. I have hunted in sleet at 20°, being the only mammal foolish enough to stick his head out of the burrow, and sweated it out at 108° digging rocks out of the road and clearing brush.
Seen the grass burnt to threads in drought, and had to replace feeders and cameras lost in eight foot deep gully washers.
Slashed a truck tire on a rock I knew was there, and dinged open an oil pan on one I didn't.
Shot my first hog out here, and learned to hack out backstraps by headlight in the rain.
Taught my chosen son to overcome his fear of zombies in that house, and discovered that when you set boot on soil, you'd best have a blade, flashlight and phone on you.
It's a part of my history, and I can't imagine how deeply embedded it is within the guys who have been on it for three decades.
The heirs now hold the deeds to those properties. They sell one off, and when they need a little jingle, another goes on the market.
As little San Marcos explodes into one of the fastest growing cities in America, the land value increases by the day, making it a tempting target for developers.
But a couple of the grandkids (now in their thirties) think that they might like to hunt, and the property owner has been guiding them with good success. And that may keep it off the auction block for another season or two.
Even if you've never taken the time over a cup of coffee, tumbler of bourbon or campfire to pinpoint them, in your personal history there are places that hold a deep and primal emotional bond.
Rarely are they obvious settings - church pew, wedding altar or cemetery plot.
More likely, it's a childhood fishing hole, under the hood of your first car, the armchair where you read stories to your children (or theirs).
The long since paved over dive where you got your ass whupped in that first glorious parking lot fight.
A sobering jail cell, a bloodied
car seat.
Beside a hospital bed where you first greeted a newborn friend, or bade farewell to an old one.
That place you're thinking of now.
Just the memory of it elicits a wince, a grin, a nod or shake of the head.
Your declared denomination, spiritual affiliation or inclination toward the cosmos is irrelevant:
These are sacred places.
It's just two hours to sunup, and my goal is a third hog and a deer to add to the freezer of a family who just can't catch a break right now.
I rinse out the cup, pee off the porch, close the wrought iron gate and step onto sacred ground.
Back into the darkness...
For the young buck who may be surprised (and perhaps even disappointed) in a story about hunting that doesn't end with a muzzle blast and a pile of fur...
I wish you many hours and miles out in the wild, and the wisdom that sometimes comes with them.
Where do we take it from here?
Rhinestone suits and new shiny cars,
It's been the same way for years.
We need to change..."
I tug the worn Shrade sheath hanging overhead to light the room, nudge the axe head doorstop with my boot and open the kitchen door. (The occupants of the house enjoy a woman's touch; the decor does not).
There's strong java already in the pot. The property manager hands me a ceramic mug, chipped handle with the interior permanently stained by a thousand refills and a couple dozen rinses.
"Want cream?"
"Not since Clapton left".
Even though he's heard this from me before, he chuckles. Because he knows that I actually do like a little cream in his Viking brew; I just hate to disrupt this little tradition.
The floorboards flex, creaking under my snake boots as I walk out to the porch.
When asked if I've been ever been struck by a snake in my yondering. I always answer, "Probably?" (I've treated three snakebite victims. One said it felt like being smacked in the leg with a hot ballpeen hammer; the others never even felt the fangs on their bare skin).
Through the dim light from the window, the porch appears to be serpent free. I've been told that this has not always been the case, particularly near the stack of wood for the stovepipe.
There's a lot of unseen labor that goes into a place like this, and I have learned a deep respect for its story and those who have been here before me.
The history of this property is an unusual one; regrettably, I don't think a similar situation is likely in the future.
Down San Marcos way in the late seventies, a group of five buddies saw an ad in the paper for a hunting lease.
Six hundred acres of hard scrub with a century old house on the land. Well and windmill, no power. But sturdy and dry.
A section of the dirt road had been widened and looked suspiciously like a runway. Which made sense, as the previous owner of the property had made a brief but profitable foray into the "import" business.
They met with the owner, an older gentleman, and brokered a deal for the season the way it used to be - and still should.
Friendly conversation over coffee at the local cafe.
Negotiation of the big issues, the unforeseen ones entrusted to good faith.
Cash, uncounted, in an envelope.
A handshake.
That first deer season went well for them, so at the beginning of the next they sat across table again for a similar exchange. And another.
The hunters not only maintained the house and property, but improved it. Gates, fences, blinds, feeders and the house itself.
In the eighties, the county dropped a few power poles, opening up a nice shooting lane in the process. The Highline blind was born. Others were added, blown down, rebuilt, relocated.
As it happens in Texas, the well behind the house at the deer cleaning station eventually went dry.
About a mile down the road, another well was still wet so they installed a pump station. Every season they fill about 1000 gallons in barrels, truck it over to the water tower and pump it up. This system has worked pretty well, with the exception of a long hard freeze shattering the pipes or a raccoon going for a final swim in the tank.
Whitetail were plentiful, but it took a decade of culling spikes and managing does to start producing a steady stream of wide shouldered eights and tens.
Hardly any hogs back then, and those had usually gone feral after escaping from a careless neighbor.
Seasons passed. Antlers widened, some stayed on long enough to be shed. Droughts and floods, real estate booms and busts.
Only three of the core group of hunters remained; guests were rare.
Throughout this arrangement, there were no liability waivers or contract; any issues were resolved through a phone call or a note left on the gate.
The now elderly owner had acquired multiple large tracts not only in the Hill Country, but in central Texas. He didn't get to hunt much himself anymore, but liked those who did, especially men who acted with integrity in protecting and improving his property.
Unexpectedly, things changed at the beginning of one season in the nineties.
Cafe. Coffee. Conversation.
The envelope of cash was slid across the table.
And was pushed back.
"I'm tired of managing all these properties. I like you boys, and don't need your money. As long as you keep doin' what you're doin', you can hunt it year round until I'm off this planet."
Surprised but appreciative, the boys agreed. And kept up their side, as did he.
The group has been justifiably picky about who sets foot on the property. They don't need money, and don't much value those who throw it around to get their way.
My introduction about six years ago was coincidental.
I was acquainted with the property manager from my church, and heard that he had mentioned a problem with hogs.
"Yeah, that might work. Hey, do you like to shoot deer and turkey?"
"Nope, just hogs and coyotes."
"Good answer. Anytime we let somebody on for hogs they just wind up wanting to go after our game animals."
And my story there began.
Since then, I have hunted and worked through all types of weather. I have hunted in sleet at 20°, being the only mammal foolish enough to stick his head out of the burrow, and sweated it out at 108° digging rocks out of the road and clearing brush.
Seen the grass burnt to threads in drought, and had to replace feeders and cameras lost in eight foot deep gully washers.
Slashed a truck tire on a rock I knew was there, and dinged open an oil pan on one I didn't.
Shot my first hog out here, and learned to hack out backstraps by headlight in the rain.
Taught my chosen son to overcome his fear of zombies in that house, and discovered that when you set boot on soil, you'd best have a blade, flashlight and phone on you.
It's a part of my history, and I can't imagine how deeply embedded it is within the guys who have been on it for three decades.
The heirs now hold the deeds to those properties. They sell one off, and when they need a little jingle, another goes on the market.
As little San Marcos explodes into one of the fastest growing cities in America, the land value increases by the day, making it a tempting target for developers.
But a couple of the grandkids (now in their thirties) think that they might like to hunt, and the property owner has been guiding them with good success. And that may keep it off the auction block for another season or two.
Even if you've never taken the time over a cup of coffee, tumbler of bourbon or campfire to pinpoint them, in your personal history there are places that hold a deep and primal emotional bond.
Rarely are they obvious settings - church pew, wedding altar or cemetery plot.
More likely, it's a childhood fishing hole, under the hood of your first car, the armchair where you read stories to your children (or theirs).
The long since paved over dive where you got your ass whupped in that first glorious parking lot fight.
A sobering jail cell, a bloodied
car seat.
Beside a hospital bed where you first greeted a newborn friend, or bade farewell to an old one.
That place you're thinking of now.
Just the memory of it elicits a wince, a grin, a nod or shake of the head.
Your declared denomination, spiritual affiliation or inclination toward the cosmos is irrelevant:
These are sacred places.
It's just two hours to sunup, and my goal is a third hog and a deer to add to the freezer of a family who just can't catch a break right now.
I rinse out the cup, pee off the porch, close the wrought iron gate and step onto sacred ground.
Back into the darkness...
For the young buck who may be surprised (and perhaps even disappointed) in a story about hunting that doesn't end with a muzzle blast and a pile of fur...
I wish you many hours and miles out in the wild, and the wisdom that sometimes comes with them.
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