Rancho Blasto

I was finally heading to the club for the “Friday night before the hunt” party.  I admit it, I was excited.  I never thought it would get here.  I had left the office early, and thankfully, had an easy drive with no traffic.  It had been a long time since I was a member of a duck club and I really missed it.  As I drove, I went over in mind all my preparations.  I was ready.

My club is located on the edge of Mystic Lake, in Riverside County, on land leased from a dairy.  I am the newest member of the East End duck club, but I wouldn’t be hunting with strangers.  It is made up of guys I had hunted with at both the Cazadores and Mystic duck clubs.  This is a really good group of hunters that know what they are doing.  I was glad I would be with them again.

The party that night was expected to be great.  I had seen most of the guys at earlier work parties, but now we would all be together for too much food, and possibly a little too much drinking.   I can recall a few opening day parties when I over did it a little.  Being much older, and hopefully wiser, I had decided to take it easy this night.  I wanted a successful shoot in the morning.  I didn’t want to spend it puking in the blind.  Been there, done that.  I wanted to shoot ducks.  I was ready.

When I arrived that afternoon, I had one more thing to do.  I had a 30 pack of bud light sitting in the seat next to me for the dairy operator Mike.  He was going to use one of his tractors to move my future club home, an old fifth-wheel trailer, from his barn into position at the camp.

People speak about gold being the ultimate form of currency.  Many of us know that a 6-pack of beer or a bottle of Crown Royal can be used as readily as gold, and often brings a bigger smile to the recipient.  These gifts are often used for favors far in excess to the value of the booze itself.  It is the gesture that is important here.  Most men understand this form of barter.

I got to the club about 2PM, and as I drove up, there was Joe Hylton giving final directions to Mike as the fifth-wheel was backed into position.  Joe is an old buddy, and the East End club president.   The fifth-wheel was Joe’s and he had offered it to me for the season.  He said it was kind of a spare as he had a new one now.  I have always known Joe to be a generous man.  Not just in terms of lending gear and equipment, but also with his knowledge and experience.

After a quick hello to everyone, we leveled out the fifth-wheel.  I then ritualistically handed the 30-pack to Mike and said thanks.  He smiled wide and accepted my gift, then took off to finish some work at the dairy.  Most likely he would be throwing the beer on ice to share with his friends.  Mike would also be joining us tonight at the party.

I went inside the trailer and spent a few minutes cleaning out the spider webs and dirt.  Lastly, I hooked up the electricity, and we all stepped back and watched.  We waited about 10 minutes, and since the old trailer didn’t go up in flames, I moved my gear inside.  I was ready.

I spent a lot of time preparing for this weekend.  Over the preceding months I had gathered up my gear and went through it all, cleaning and inspecting everything I thought I would need.  I had my calls, waders, binoculars, gloves, duck strap, and flashlight.  All the stuff I needed for the blind.  I bought a new parka, and radios, purchased ammunition, and of course, my hunting license.  I had plenty of cigars, food, water, and zip lock bags for the birds I knew I would get.  I even bought a new coffee pot for the trailer.  I was ready.

The party that night was great as expected.  I had brought smoked sausages, Richard brought venison and fish from a recent trip, Jules was cooking quail, and Mike and Joe had brought steak and vegetables.  It was a good time.  The bad jokes and hunting stories lasted much later than they should have for a bunch of guys getting up at 5AM.  We went to bed tired and a little drunk, but we were ready.

In the morning, I drew blind #2 on the new pond.  I would be on the end and by myself.  It was dark, but there was just enough moonlight so a flashlight was needed only for the details of the walk out.  I got into the blind and laid all my stuff out.  I poured a cup of coffee from my thermos, sat back and sipped slowly as I watched the sky.  I was ready.

Shooting time was 6:28 AM, but I didn’t need a watch. Shooting time came literally like thunder.  The wildlife unit in the valley started shooting first.  Suddenly ducks appeared out of the dark from every direction, and whizzed by me.  My eyes went from one bird to the other as my Benelli roared shot after shot.  All those months of anticipation and preparation suddenly took their toll.  I couldn’t hit my ass.

The last three birds should have been in the bag.  One was a bull sprig.  I was pissed.  I took a deep breath and started talking to myself.  By the way, that is a sure sign you’re in trouble.  Thank god I was alone.  This disaster would not be retold by my blind partner.

While cussing at myself, I turned to my left, and was surprised to see three honkers flying tight over the main pond, not making a sound.  They do this sometimes.  More than once, I have jumped up at the last minute, seeing a silent single trying to sneak by.

These three birds were flying low, slow, and stupid, right down the middle of the pond and angled toward me.  They flew right in front of me an easy 25 yards away.  This kind of crap always seems to happen when we can’t shoot them.

I was shooting #3 shot at the ducks, and in my mind I went through taking the big birds with it.  I thought, pick one bird, swing through its nose, and keep shooting until it folds.  They were so close I thought I might be able to get a second bird out of it.  Too bad though, I knew they weren’t legal yet.  Goose, as I recalled, always opened 2 weeks after duck.  I let them pass and watched as they flew off toward the lake without a sound ever coming from them.

Seeing the geese made me feel good.  It calmed me down.  Less than a minute later, a duck came in off my right and I stoned it.  It fell in the field to my left.  A short time later, and I had a second duck down in the pond.

The sun was now up, and thought I best take time to fetch my birds.  I sure miss hunting ducks without my old lab Ceniza.  Before I left the blind, my buddy Jules came walking up.  He and Richard were in blind #3.  I first met Jules when I joined Cazadores all those years ago.  He is French-Canadian originally, and a very passionate hunter and great camp cook.

Jules came by to see how I was doing on my first day.  We exchanged our bird counts, and then he asked me if I had seen the geese fly by.  I told Jules I had seen them, and made a remark or two about their silence as they came and went.

Then Jules said something that stunned me.  He wasn’t even looking at me so he missed the look on my face when my heart stopped.  He said that they were too far out for him and Richard to shoot at, and he wished that someone could have gotten a shot at them.

With hesitation, I asked Jules if geese were open.  With a big grin and his French accent, he replied, “Sure day are”!  Now Jules saw it on my face.  I wanted to die.  He was now looking right at me and asked, “What is da matter Carl”?  I told him what had happened, how close they were, and how I let the birds pass by.

“Why you do dat Carl”?  Jules had pretty much summed the whole thing up in one sentence.  Then he asked, “You do not read the regulations”?  He was killing me now.  I said the only thing I could, “Jules, I’m a knucklehead”.  Jules just smiled and said “That too bad man.  You would be a lucky person to shoot goose on opening day”.  I cussed myself.  I wasn’t ready.

After we finished shooting the morning, we headed back to camp for some breakfast.  I had shot a nice drake red head that should have given me some bragging rights, but instead, I had to relive the agony of retelling the goose story.  The ribbing is all in good humor as we have all been there.  My pride will recover, but it will take a few weeks for sure.

I guess there is a moral to this story.  Being ready doesn’t mean mostly ready.   In my excitement leading up to the opener, I never read the goose regs.  First thing I did when I got home was to do so.  Now, I’m ready.

Susan and I had taken a week off to go to the ranch.  We both needed to get away.  June was always a good time to go.  This particular afternoon, Muddy Bill was with us.  We had been fishing today at Santa Fe dam in Williams.  It was a beautiful day, but the fishing was not.  Bill had caught the only fish that day, a small, suicidal trout that picked his soaking bait, over mine.

Fishing over, we headed back to the ranch.  I had bet a beer on who caught the first fish.  Since Bill not only caught the first fish, but the biggest, and the most, I poured him a couple fingers of bourbon over ice, and began to eat crow.

Just as I was about to convince Bill, that the trout he caught was actually his imagination, a large Tarantula wasp landed on the picnic table in front of me, next to the bottle of bourbon we were at present enjoying.  The wasp began to drink water from a half dollar sized puddle left over from a piece if ice that had missed the glass.

Well, being a good host, I thought it rude that the wasp only had water, when Bill and I were enjoying this fine Kentucky spirit. So I splashed the critter a little bourbon from my glass, doubling the size of the puddle it was drinking from.

Susan said the wasp would never drink it.  She tends to think that bugs, is just bugs.  I said to her that if the wasp didn’t want a taste, why did he belly up to the bar? Then, to Susan’s surprise, and to mine, the wasp began drinking the bourbon and water.

The wasp was really going after it.  We all began making jokes about the wasp having fine taste in drink, and it getting drunk.  I even asked if it wanted a cigar.  Since we were getting along so well, I decided to test just how friendly it really was.  This decision was not without some danger.

The Tarantula wasp has a fierce reputation here in the south west.  I have seen them many times in California, Arizona, and in Baja Mexico.  These wasps are huge, and can be aggressive.  They have a wingspan of about 3 inches.  Kind of unnatural in some way, seeing a bug so big, especially one that can do you some harm if you were to piss it off.

These particular wasps make a living out of hunting down tarantulas.  This unique habit adds considerable to their reputation.  After finding a tarantula in its hole, they draw the spider out, and paralyze it with a sting.  No easy task.

The wasp then drags the dazed spider back down its hole and lays an egg on it.  This egg hatches and then the wasp larva feeds on the paralyzed spider until full grown.  Leaving the drained carcass of the spider sprawled on the floor of its own living room like a trophy rug.  Nice.

So for good cause, I usually stay well clear of them.  That’s not hard to do, being as big as they are, they are easy to spot.  The humming of those big orange wings is loud enough to get your attention well before you even see them.  Thankfully, if you ignore them, after a quick look at you, they just fly by.

This particular wasp on the table in front of us seemed to be calming down after a few sips of bourbon.  Its wings no longer fluttered with that characteristic tense pulse.  What was really funny is that as it drank its antenna started to curl up.

At first I wanted to see if I could touch it.  Susan said I was stupid.  I reached forward with a pair of tongs that were sitting on the table and touched it.   At this, Susan and Bill seemed to reposition themselves in their chairs.  Getting ready to run I guessed.  I touched to wasp with the tongs several times, and to my surprise, it did not seem to mind!  It just continued to drink the bourbon!

We all started laughing.  This kind of broke the tension of fear.

I continued testing the wasp with the tongs.  No reaction.  It just continued to drink while Susan continued to tell me how stupid I was.  Could I dare to touch it?  Why not!  It seemed safe enough, so I announced that I was going to touch the wasp with my finger.  Susan said I was an idiot, and Bill just sat there sipping his bourbon.

I slowly moved my right hand toward the wasp, my index finger outstretched.  Susan was on her feet, but thankfully quiet now.  Bill was just smiling.  No problem, I thought, the wasp had been drinking for a few minutes, and the tongs didn’t bother it.  Just as I was about to touch the wasp, it suddenly lifted off the table, and headed right for me.

The wasp was not in really good shape, so it didn’t fly all that straight at me.  After clearing the edge of the table it kind of angled down toward my crotch.  This was worse for me than you know.   I was wearing short pants.

Fearing for my life, I went backwards rather than standing up.  As I fell back into my chair, my legs went up slightly and that damn wasp flew right up my left pant leg.  Dang!  This was when I sprang into the air.  I never got a look at Susan or Bill, as I was paying real close attention to the wasp, but I did hear Susan gasp.

This had clearly not gone as I planned.  Now on both my feet, I could feel the wasp moving around on the inside of my left leg.  What was worse is that it kept crawling further up as I danced.  I was really in trouble now.  I did the only thing I could think of.  I dropped my pants.

I frantically ran my hands over all the important places first.  Trying to wipe off the wasp I imagined was everywhere now.  I kept waiting for the burn of the stinger, but it never came.  Looking down, I saw the wasp crawl out of my shorts that were now piled around my ankles.  It fluttered its wings as it laid there.  It seemed to relax again, making no further attempt to kill me.

Now with the danger past, I looked up at Bill.  He had never moved from his chair.  He just sat there, smiling, his chin resting on his hand, and slightly chuckling.  Susan was screaming at me.  At first, asking if I was OK, but before I could tell her I was fine, she called me an idiot again, and told me to pull my pants up.

In as dignified a move as possible, I reached down for my pants and shooed the wasp off.  The funniest thing happened next. As I pulled up my pants, we all watched as the wasp flew off and began a large slow clockwise circle.  It was coming back again.

Before I could start running, the wasp flew right into the bottle of bourbon sitting on the table!  It bounced off with a “tink”, and landed on the table.  The wasp rolled onto its feet, and walked the couple inches over to the puddle of bourbon, and began drinking again.

I decided to let the wasp have its drink in peace.  It has a right to a drink without anyone poking them with a finger, trying to pick a fight.  Bill said that was a good idea, considering.  Susan just said I was an idiot.

It was time again for the annual squirrel and rock chuck shoot, so Mark Davis and I got together one sunny afternoon for a pre hunt plan meeting.   Now don’t get to thinking we take this stuff so serious that we each show up with paper, pen, maps, and equipment logs.  We just sat out on Mark’s patio, fired up a couple fine cigars, and told lies to each other for a couple hours.  Toward the short end of our cigars, we got around to making some plans.

When planning for this trip, in addition to the specifics of how much equipment, ammo, and gear we planned on stuffing into my truck, this year we included a plan on how to deal with the food.  Specifically, how we wanted to deal with the restaurant food.  On a trip like this eating in restaurants is part of the deal, but after a few days, the stuff will kill you if you eat too much of it.

Now before some of you get sarcastic, yes, my waist line has seen thinner days.  Just more of me for Suzy to love I suppose.  In fact, all of us attending this particular adventure would have a little trouble fitting into our high school prom tuxes.  Just the thought of going on a diet during four days of shooting with this bunch is not a good idea, but Mark and I decided we would try and do something.

Our most serious eatin’ concern was for the Bil Toki.  As some may recall from my previous hunts, this is a Basque restaurant in Elko Nevada.  It is here that we have the big celebration dinner at on Saturday night.  It is here we really get in trouble. Now don’t get me wrong, the food is good here, maybe too good.  This year, Mark and I vowed not to overdo it.

If you have never been to a Basque restaurant you should really try it.  Served family style, Basque food is simply good comfort food.  What sets it apart is that it is served in massive portions. This is where we get in trouble.  So much food is laid out there is no way to eat it all.  You can’t even finish the leftovers on the second day.

The meal starts with bread, and soup.  Sounds easy right?  Well, that’s followed by plate after plate of salad, spaghetti, baked beans, green beans, and the fried potatoes.  After the last load of side dishes has hit the table, the main course is coming out.  Here you have your choice of either a huge rib eye steak or a fillet as large as your plate.  There is also your choice of fish, chicken, lamb, tongue, and pork chops all served in the eye popping large portions.  Oh yeah, don’t forget to save room for desert.

So for good reason, Mark and I have learned to fear this meal.  While very good, it will wipe you out, so we decided take it easy.  We convinced ourselves that we could split a meal.  We didn’t even know if it was possible, but we were determined to try.

Our plan in hand, the day finally came to load up the truck.  No such thing as packing light, you never know what could come in handy, right?  We filled my truck with too many guns, bags of gear and clothing, and enough ammo to push the Taliban out of Nevada, should they show up for the weekend.  To top the load off, I had 10 cases of red wine Bill Campbell asked me to pick up for him.

While I considered my truck full, it is nothing compared to what Rod Herrett will pack in his rig.  He carries so much stuff that he has installed a heavy weight drawer that is the length and width of his truck bed.  It is always stacked as high as possible yet still able to slide the whole load out from under his camper shell.

Once, I saw him unlock this drawer while his truck was facing slightly up hill.  Like his truck was giving birth, the fully loaded drawer with all that crap piled on top of it shot out of the truck bed.  Rod never had a chance.  His boot heels left two 4’ long grooves in the dirt as the drawer pushed him back.  It took three of us to push the drawer back in.

We had great weather on the drive up to Twin Falls, Idaho, plenty of sunshine, and the temperatures in the mid 70’s.  And as we passed through Wells, Nevada, we scanned the fields we would be shooting on Saturday.  There were plenty of ground squirrels all over the place.  This would be a good trip.

We arrived at Rod’s home in Twin at 5PM, about the same time Bill Campbell arrived from Montana.  I was glad to see Bill, but he was really happy to see me.  I had the wine for him.  Rod’s wife, Laurie, told us that Rod and the rest of our group, Ron Reiber and Lane Pearce, were out shooting chucks already.  So we just sat out in Rod’s garage, fired up some cigars, and waited for their return.

Mark, Bill and I would stay at the home of Gene Goold.  He is another good friend who would join us this weekend.  Gene raises good English pointers.  I have hunted over many of his fine dogs on past adventures.  I was glad he would be with us.

Shooting chucks and squirrels is fun, but you do need the right shootin’ irons.  Distances vary, and wind can be a factor.  Mostly, I have relied on a couple rifles, a Marlin .17 HMR, and my Remington 700 in .221 Fireball.  Last year I had found I needed something more, something heavier than my trusty .221 for the rock chucks.  I had wanted a new rifle for this trip.   What I wanted was a 6/204 RR.

Rod fondly calls this cartridge the “Rancid Ron”.  This is a wildcat that was developed by Ron Reiber.  As it sounds, it is basically a .204 Ruger necked up to 6mm.  I have watched over the last couple years as Ron and Rod used guns chamber in this round to smash varmints at all distances and all weather.  I wanted one.

Rod put me in touch with Fred Smith at Bullberry in Utah.  He had a Remington 700 action he could let me have at a good price.  After making the deal, he screwed on a 22” stainless barrel with 1 in 12 twist, chambered for the Rancid Rod.  To hang onto my new toy, Wade Dunn of Bell & Carlson set my barreled action nicely in one of their Medalist stocks.  The rifle was finished off with a Burris 6X20 scope on top.  Complete, my new shootin’ iron looked as good as it shoots.

Rod was good enough to load me up some ammo.  His load for me is 28.6 grains of 8208 powder pushing a 75 grin V-Max bullet at an a little over 3000 fps.  At the range, the rifle shot a ¾” hole at 100 yards.  I was warm all over.

All day Friday I blasted rock chucks with it.  It was real nice.  It was accurate and comfy.  Everything I had hoped for.  Most important was that the recoil was low enough that I could see the bullet hit the target.  A .243 can do all that the 6/204 does and more, but why miss out on the great visuals?  I want to see my bullet paint the Picasso, not have someone tell me about it.

We broke from shooting only long enough to run into the town of Hagerman for a sandwich.  I had a great sturgeon sandwich at a restaurant there.  Seems they farm these fish in the area.  Don’t pass it up if you ever get the chance.  Dang, you see what I mean about the food?

When we were done shooting for the day, we headed back to Twin were Laurie was cooking dinner for us.  I know, more food, but she is a good cook.  In the morning we would head for Wells, where we would pick up George Weber and start on the ground squirrels.  But first, Laurie had strawberry shortcake for dessert!  Dang.

We woke early and headed to Rod’s house.  From there we headed to Wells to meet up with George.  Kind of nice that the squirrels are not early risers, that gives you time in the morning for more food.  We went inside the 4-Way Casino for some breakfast.  I stayed on the plan and only had coffee with a couple pieces of toast.  I was proud of myself.  Mark fell on his face and ordered eggs Benedict.

After breakfast, we headed south out of town.  We arrived to the spot, and could see a few squirrels running about.  I decided earlier I would start with the .17 HMR.  While not much to look at, my ugly little Marlin sure does shoot.  Never understood why they put a crappy trigger on a gun that can shoot this good.  I installed a Rifle Basix trigger right after I got the rifle.  That was all it needed to shoot very well.  The only problem remaining is looking at it.

It was not a bad start.  The squirrels were falling to our barrage at a fair rate for the first hour.  Although the weather was turning and the squirrels were getting scarce.  About mid morning, Mark and I had stepped up to our center fire rifles.  Mark was shooting his .223 Encore, and I was shooting my .221.  Unfortunately, the squirrels were now few and far between.  Rod called for a big move.

Rod had been on the phone talking to the owners of another ranch north west of Wells.  After he secured permission, we headed out.  We had shot this place about 4 years earlier, and it had been real good as I recall.  It was at least a 40 mile move for us, with half that on dirt road.  We moved out, leaving our mornings work to the ravens.

We arrived at the new spot and found it was thick with squirrels.  Mark and I could see this was much better.  We split up at this point, two rigs headed to the north end, two headed south.  Gene and Bill were with us, and we wasted no time having at them.  It was windy, so we started with the centerfire rifles.  The shooting was real good, but I noticed that after about a half hour, it slowed a bit.  Rather than picking at them at long range at a slower pace, I decided we needed to make a move.

We moved down about 100 yards and started shooting again.  I was just a good as before.  When it slowed down again, we moved down another 100 yards.  We did this several times.  Eventually, we started leap froggin’ with Gene and Bill as we moved along the edge of the field.  This really kept the shooting fast and furious.

It was getting late, the sun was nearly down.  So we loaded up, and headed for Elko. We had to get to the motel and clean up.  Tonight, we were going to the Bil Toki.

Going to the Bil Toki is always fun.  As you enter, you walk down a long corridor and pass a white board with the daily specials written in different color pens.  Immediately my eye caught a past favorite, beef tongue.  Dang.

George was the last to arrive.  He had his sweetie, Gretchen, with him.  We all headed to the bar and waited for our table.  We had hardly half our drinks down when we were called by a polite wave directing us toward the dining room.  I funny thought came to me as we moved toward our table, I was doomed.

Mark sat across from me.  We both eyed each other.  It was time.  Mark broke the silence first.  He lowered the menu and looked me right in the eye and said, “What are you gonna to have?”  I gave him the only answer I could, “I don’t know, what are you gonna to have?”

Mark appeared calm, but I could tell he was close to breaking.  He said, “I don’t care man, whatever you want is fine with me.”  Great, now it was up to me.  By this time, the waitress was ready for my order.  With everyone listening I said, “My buddy and I will share an order of beef tongue, if it’s OK.”  It seemed a long pause before our waitress said, “That’s fine, lots of people do that.”  Finer words were never said to me.

Mark and I had done it!  We looked each other in the eyes and smiled with relief.  I felt myself rise slightly in my chair.  Lane was the first to speak.  “What? You guys are sharing and order?”  He was on to us.  At Lane’s question the others started to question.  I looked toward Mark for assurance.  After all, we were in this together.  He was smiling.  We both just shrugged our shoulders to answer.  We had done it, we had really done it.

The meal was good as always, but I had a new confidence.  It was easy to pass on the baked beans, and take small portions of everything else.  But we weren’t out of the woods yet.  As if someone had tipped off the chef to our plan, without notice large platters of food started to appear at both ends of the table. Oh no!

The chef knows several in our party and looked forward to our visit this night.  In honor of the occasion, he had prepared some specials just for us.  There was Paia, with shrimp and Linguica sausage, and sweetbreads sautéed with mushrooms and garlic.  Oh god.  Mark and looked at each other, both of us shaking our heads in disbelief.  We were so close.  But a wave of will power came over us.  We each had only a small portion of the Paia, and I had only one of the sweetbreads.  Success was at hand!

I had a grin on my face as the deserts came and went without one for me.  I was not to full, I had had just enough.  I could see Mark smiling as well as he slowly rubbed his gut.

The conversation at the table this night was about guns, hunting and times past.  All the things good friends talk about when they get together for a special occasion.  When we retired to the motel, I opened a bottle of tawny port I had brought with me, and we continued our conversation until the bottle was gone.

Good friends, great guns, and another adventure to share with them in beautiful country.  In a man’s life, these are the times that really matter.  Don’t pass up the opportunity to enjoy one for yourself.  Just try not to eat so much.

This is our new dog.   Her name is Harley Quinn.  I promised Susan I would post her photos for everyone to comment on.  Have you ever seen a dog that looks so much like the character from Batman?