From Bass To Bucks

By Jason Shipman

Bass fishing has been a lifelong passion for Kevin Phillips. “I’ve basically fished my whole life. From the time I was like 5 or 6 years old, it’s all I’ve known,” Kevin said. “My grandparents ran a marina on Lake Somerville, and I fished there for crappie and striped bass while growing up.” Bass fishing was a natural progression, and then Kevin started tournament fishing after high school. “There have been a few breaks along the way but I still tournament fish,” he said. “I like fishing because I’m pretty good at it and I like to compete.” Kevin prefers to fish drops and points in deep water with a Carolina rig and recalls a memorable day catching a 9- and 7-pound bass in consecutive casts.

Kevin now lives in Channelview, located east of Houston. His day job in construction equipment sales keeps him busy, but he gets on the water every chance he gets. He has quite a few good fishing holes nearby but among his favorite are Sam Rayburn Reservoir, Choke Canyon, Fayette County Reservoir, and Lake Nacogdoches. Kevin is also heavily involved with running and managing the Kellogg Fishing Club.

“It’s a great bass club,” he said. “We host around 10 tournaments a year across the southeast part of the state and our members are primarily from the Houston area.” In the future, he hopes to create a program that helps youth entering the sport of competitive fishing learn proper etiquette both on and off the water.

Family, work, and fishing have occupied all of Kevin’s time for the past 55 years. “I came from a family that didn’t necessarily hunt,” he said. “I have been so tied into fishing that I didn’t have time for much else. That changed when friends took an interest in sharing the sport of hunting with me.”

With zero prior hunting experience, and at the urging of some good friends, Kevin gave hunting a try a few years ago and hasn’t looked back. “In a way, there are a lot of similarities between hunting and fishing,” he said. “You’re getting up early and heading to a blind or a boat ramp. Either way, I love the sunrises! Now having experienced both hunting and fishing, I realize that both sports really have the same effect on you.”

Kevin gets on the water every chance he gets, but among his favorite places to fish are Sam Rayburn Reservoir, Choke Canyon, Fayette County Reservoir, and Lake Nacogdoches.

With his attention averted to deer hunting, Kevin has immersed himself in the sport of hunting over the last few years. He has gone from avid bass fisherman to avid deer hunter, just like that. From the photos, it’s easy to see why. He has taken some tremendous bucks and enjoyed a great deal of successful hunting. “Hunting has taken hold and turned into a new passion I can’t shake,” Kevin said, laughing.

This hunting season Kevin made a return trip to a ranch where he has been hunting for several years. It had been a dry year and tough on the deer and wildlife in general. “You just keep hearing about how dry it is, you know? My friends and I really didn’t know what to expect,” he said. Little did he realize he would take his best buck to date.

“The hunt started out a bit slow. We were seeing some goodlooking bucks, just young ones, and not exactly what we were looking for,” he said. “It was unseasonably warm, and the mature deer were not very active.” After a few hunts, Kevin started to get a bit nervous. “I began to wonder if I was going to get a chance at a deer. You start second guessing every move you make at that point. I was running out of time and was going to have to return for work soon,” Kevin said.

It was an afternoon hunt, the day before he was scheduled to return home. They settled into a new blind in the early afternoon for a long hunt. “We had moved around and hunted several locations on the ranch, and figured we’d give a new spot a try,” he said. It seemed logical, but after an hour with no deer sightings, they began second guessing themselves.

Another hour went by with only a few does and small bucks showing up. “We were down to the wire with only a few minutes of legal hunting time left when four bucks showed up,” Kevin said. The largest buck was in the lead and was massive. “He was huge, I can’t even tell you what the other three bucks looked like. I never looked at them!”

Not wanting to let the opportunity slip by, Kevin quickly readied his Browning 6.5 Creedmoor for the shot. The group of bucks made their way toward the hunters and stepped out of the brush at a distance of about 100 yards. “I was really nervous as I squeezed the trigger,” Kevin said. “At the shot, the massive buck jumped straight up in the air and fell dead in his tracks.”

They took a few minutes to collect their gear before walking up to the fallen trophy. “The buck just got bigger as we walked up. He was absolutely huge!” Kevin said. “I pegged the meter on this one and couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It is the buck of a lifetime. Funny thing is, I felt the same way last year!”

Kevin’s deer is in a class of its own and definitely a deer of a lifetime. The giant buck has a typical 6x6 frame with five additional non-typical points for added character, 28-inch main beams, 42-inch mass, and a gross B&C score of 221.

Kevin doesn’t intend on slowing down his hunting endeavors just yet. “I was hooked on hunting from day one and I feel like I have started a new chapter,” he said. “No doubt about it. I’ve taken some great deer, but I think this is just the beginning!” We wish Kevin the best in all of his future hunting pursuits.

Kim had her eye on this buck ever since it appeared on the trail cams. After he appeared, it was only a matter of time before she got her chance to take him.

My husband Lee and I have been blessed to be on a 14,800-acre low fence/free range lease that’s surrounded by other large properties that all have low fences, and all follow the 51⁄2 -year-old or over management program. I had been hunting since the first of October when bow season started, but still had not seen anything to shoot. That all changed one morning when my game camera sent a picture.

I was at the lease hunting alone, taking advantage of the cooler weather. That morning, I was in my friend Griff’s popup blind, looking for some cull bucks when Lee sent a text asking if I had looked at the pictures the camera had sent. Of course, I didn’t have good enough phone service in the popup blind to pull up the pictures. I got out of the stand and drove down the road to where I could get service, and what I saw on my phone made me pretty dang excited!

This big boy had been at my popup blind, the blind I’d been hunting for days. But he had never made an appearance for me. I decided to cancel my 4-hour drive home that morning and stay and hunt that evening.

That evening I got to my popup blind a good hour and half before the deer typically show up. I just sat and waited. I had a lot of young bucks come in and saw one boss buck that was probably 4 1⁄2 years old. He was the king of that area.

I saw him go to the hillside and look down a path that Lee had mowed. When he only stood there for a few seconds and turned and high tailed it out of there, the big boy was on his way in. I grabbed my bow and got ready.

Over the top of the hill, the big boy walked out. I was about to have a heart attack. I calmed myself down and made my mind up to take this one. No second guessing my decision at all.

As he walked in, he presented me with a perfect broadside shot, and at a distance I was comfortable shooting. As I started to pull back on my bow, one of those pesky, future trophy bucks busted me. I slowly let down after they turned away for a moment to start my pull back again. I was almost completely pulled back and ready to do my pre-shot routine before releasing, when something scared the heck out the buck and his jumping scared the heck out of me. He went out of my shooting range and never gave me another chance.

I went back to the lodge at dark and immediately called Lee to tell him about this buck. I decided to stay one more morning and give it another shot. Truth be known, I’d have stayed another month.

I was in my popup blind at 6 a.m. waiting for daylight at 7:11 and 43 seconds, to be exact. He appeared again shortly after daybreak, but he stayed way out of my comfort zone for shooting. All the other bucks that had been there browsing for food had left the area, except one big eight-point. I only had to worry about him busting me.

I prayed the big boy didn’t walk to the brush at the back of the cleared-out area where I would never have a shot.

I could tell he was making his way towards me, so I grabbed my bow to get ready. He stopped for a moment to eat at exactly 21 yards. I leaned over in the popup blind to a section of the blind that would hide me as I pulled back on my 50-pound bow. I was able to get it pulled back and thought I had it made at that point when I saw on the left side of my blind another buck walking up to see what the big boy was eating. Thankfully, he didn’t bust me. I sat straight up with my bow pulled back and ready for action. I saw the big boy looking right at me, just 21 yards away. He was staring a hole through me, but I held steady, hoping he would turn and give me a broadside view so I could shoot. At this point he was interested in the new buck that showed up and started to make his way towards him. I had to make the decision to take a quartering shot and I had to do it soon or lose my chance.

Next, all I remember is hearing that sound we all want to hear when we bow hunt, that thump that says you hit the deer. I watched him do the side wobble as he walked away into the brush. I watched till I could no longer see my pink lighted nock still in him. I never heard him crash though, so I decided to wait a good hour and a half before searching for him.

After the shot, I shook uncontrollably as if I was freezing to death. There’s no stopping buck fever when it starts for at least a few minutes. Once I stopped shaking and could hold my phone still, I immediately called Lee. It was almost like he was there with me.

He knew the big boy was there, and hoping and praying I would get a shot at him. Lee was so excited for me, to say the least. Lee suggested I go back to the lodge and wait and get some coffee. I was thinking of having whiskey because I needed to calm my nerves, but I went with the coffee option instead.

My next call was to Billy Hill, our friend and the ranch game manager. I thought I might need his expert tracking abilities looking for blood. After he showed up, we made our way to the other side of the lease. We started tracking from where I shot him and looked for blood, but found none.

At this point I felt sick to my stomach. We walked about 100 yards farther than what Billy thought the buck should have gone, because the buck had done the side wobble after being shot. Billy said he shouldn’t have gone this far, so we decided to split up and circle back. I had to text Lee to tell him we didn’t find the buck.

As soon as I sent the text, I heard a whistle from Billy, then another whistle. “I hear ya, and I’m on my way!” I replied. He had found the buck.

The look on Billy’s face was like, “He’s an OK buck but not all that.” I walked over and looked down and was like, “Oh my gosh!” and then I heard Billy laughing. After I hit him for giving me that look, he went on and on about how the game camera pictures I had shown him didn’t do the buck justice. I immediately called Lee and he was screaming through the phone with excitement.

After Billy and I dragged the buck out of the cactus and loaded him into the truck, we headed back to headquarters to prep him for the meat market and to score him. I wrote down the measurements Billy gave me. He went over to his table and started adding the numbers. He got a total, then backed away and walked around for a second and said, “I think you’re really going to be happy with this.”

After adding again, he shook his head and did his little walk around again, then I asked, “WHAT IS IT?” He pointed to the score sheet and I saw 1744⁄8 . I took a picture of the score sheet and texted it to Lee. I won’t tell you what words he used to respond in his text, but I could tell he was happy for me.

I always pray when I’m in the stand that I have a good, clean, ethical kill, and that I’m able to find the deer. I’ve lost one deer in my life with a gun and one cull buck I shot with a bow that wasn’t found till the next day. That’s the worst feeling ever. But I have a freezer just waiting on my deer meat and a spot above the fireplace to put the big boy, my buck of a lifetime.

Wild turkeys suffered the same fate as all edible or otherwise useful wildlife species. They were exploited to rarity by early settlers trying to eke out a living on the landscape before any game laws or thoughts of conservation existed. This over-exploitation was followed by a time of restoration that continues to this day in some areas. State wildlife agencies, private landowners, and conservation organizations started to work together to trap and transplant turkeys from remnant populations to suitable habitat. This effort was a huge success, and the turkey population nationwide grew from about 200,000 in the early 1900s to 6.7 million in 2014 according to the National Wild Turkey Federation. Turkeys now occupy all states except Alaska and six Canadian Provinces. By 2010, most available habitat was full, and translocations slowed down considerably. Soon after, biologists reported turkey populations were stable or declining which has spurred interest finding out why. As always, the reasons for turkey population fluctuations are very complex.

Five subspecies of wild turkey live in the United States, but only three live in the Southwest. The Eastern turkey (Meleagris gallopavo silvestris) occurs in far East Texas all the way to the East Coast and up to the Canadian border. It’s warm-weather cousin, the Osceola (Meleagris gallopavo osceola), lives in Florida. The Southwest is home to the Rio Grande, Gould’s, and Merriam’s.

Rio Grande turkey (Meleagris gallopavo intermedia)

Rio Grande turkeys, or simply “Rios,” are the most widespread and common turkey in Texas. Physically, they’re similar to Eastern turkeys, but with more copper and bronze iridescence to their body feathers and a lighter tan color at the end of the tail feathers. The era of market and subsistence hunting reduced and eliminated Rio Grande turkey populations and by 1920 they were mostly gone from much of their range. Penreared Rios were translocated into East Texas in early 1900s without much success.

Since the 1920s, restoration efforts included 30,000 Rios released in suitable habitat in Texas. Today they’re distributed from South Texas to the eastern Panhandle, generally painting a wide swath down the middle of Texas. Their distribution does not overlap appreciably with Eastern turkeys in East Texas, but there’s extensive hybridization between these two subspecies to the north in the southern Great Plains. There’s also some hybridization with some Merriam’s turkeys released into the Davis Mountains in 1983. Rios have also been translocated to many western states including Hawaii and are widespread in the west coast states of California and Oregon. Although originally very much a Texas native, they currently are hunted in 14 states.

Gould’s turkey (Meleagris gallopavo mexicanus)

The Gould’s turkey was first described by ornithologist John Gould in 1856 and is the largest of the five subspecies, both in weight and body measurements. It looks most similar to the Merriam’s, but the body feathers have more green iridescence and both the rump and the band at the end of the tail feathers are snow-white in Gould’s. Spurs in adult Gould’s toms are small or sometimes completely lacking, even older gobblers may have only half-inch spurs.

The distribution of Gould’s is primarily Mexico throughout the Sierra Madre in the Mexican states of Sonora, Chihuahua, and Durango with an extension up into southeastern Arizona and southwestern New Mexico. By World War I, turkeys had largely disappeared from much of their range. Beginning in the 1950s, some of their former habitat in Arizona was stocked with Merriam’s turkeys, but this effort was unsuccessful, perhaps because Merriam’s are poorly adapted for this arid habitat, or simply because not enough Merriam’s were translocated to assure success.

Some believed Gould’s turkeys were the rightful residents of these arid mountain islands surrounded by desert seas and so in the 1980s, 21 Gould’s from Mexico were released on the Fort Huachuca Military Reservation in southeastern Arizona. This small population struggled for a decade so discussions with Mexican biologists and government officials secured more Gould’s for translocation to the U.S. A total of nine jakes (captured by yours truly) and 12 hens were live-trapped in January 1994 near the village of Yecora, Sonora, Mexico and released into the Galiuro Mountains in southeastern Arizona. For the next 20 years, I organized biannual planning meetings and led efforts to restore Gould’s turkeys in all southeastern

Arizona mountains and to help New Mexico with their efforts. New Mexico received 60 Gould’s from Arizona between 20142016 as part of an interstate trade for 40 pronghorns.

Today at least 1,500 Gould’s live in about 11 mountain ranges in southeastern Arizona and at least 175 in the boot heel of southwestern New Mexico, in addition to robust and widespread populations in Mexico. During the spring 2023 seasons, Arizona is offering 79 tags and New Mexico has two. In New Mexico, the Gould’s turkey was listed as state threatened in 1974, but because of these restoration efforts they were removed from the threatened list in October 2022.

Merriam’s turkey (Meleagris gallopavo merriami)

Merriam’s turkeys, named after zoologist C. Hart Merriam, are darker than Eastern turkeys with blue-purple-bronze iridescence on the body feathers. The rump and tail fan tips are white or light tan. Some Merriam’s tail fans are as white as Gould’s, but most are more tan.

No archaeological evidence of modern turkeys has been found throughout the current range of Merriam’s, only a smaller prehistoric turkey (Meleagris crassipes) that went extinct 3,000 years ago. This suggests Merriam’s were a relatively recent addition to the landscape at the time of European settlement. The most common theory of the origin of the Merriam’s is that Native American cultures in the Southwest obtained domesticated Gould’s through trade with native Mexican cultures. These domestic turkeys then escaped or were abandoned 1,500 years ago and established themselves in the wild as the birds we now call native Merriam’s. Another theory holds that habitat differences soon after the Pleistocene allowed the natural spread of Gould’s northward where they changed somewhat as they adapted to their northern mountainous habitat.

Merriam’s are now distributed in scattered populations throughout the West with only a few states as exceptions. They are birds of the mountains more than any other subspecies, but not exclusively found there. Merriam’s are currently hunted in 13 states. They are not in Mexico, but occur in a few mountain ranges in West Texas. In Arizona and New Mexico, this subspecies occupies most of the available turkey habitat north of Gould’s range along the Mexican border.

A future full of turkeys

After many decades of successful turkey restoration through translocations and habitat improvement, we are now transitioning to maintaining the habitat and hunter access to it. There have been concerns of recent declines, but turkeys are prolific breeders and if conservation organizations like the National Wild Turkey Federation, along with state and federal agencies, continue to work together our children and grandchildren will continue to enjoy the thunderous gobble echoing off the canyons and mountain forests of the Southwest.

Nick had waited a long time for an opportunity at taking an elk. He finally got his chance when he and his father-in-law went out West for an elk hunt.

Ihad always wanted to experience the thrill of hunting bugling bull elk, but the opportunities to do this in Texas outside of a game ranch are few and far between. After seven years of putting in for archery elk draws with no luck, my father-in-law Dan and I finally got lucky and pulled a tag for a September 2020 archery elk hunt out West. This would be my first archery elk hunt, but neither Dan nor I had ever taken a bull with our bows before. This was a bucket list item for him after a lifetime of hunting and I was extremely excited to experience early season elk hunting for the first time. We have both always been the do-it-yourself type of hunter and we would not get a guide or outfitter for this hunt, so our trip planning started immediately. We looked at every map of the unit we could find, but we knew we couldn’t decide on an exact area to hunt until we got out there and got eyes on the unit before the hunt. Dan would go out a few days before me and meet up with his uncle, cousin, and brother who only lived a few hours away from the hunting area. They would get a head start on scouting, pick a place to set up camp, and have everything set up for the start of the season. September finally arrived and we headed out West to try our luck. The weather forecast showed warmer than normal days with evening lows only dropping into the 40s. Regardless of weather conditions, we were prepared to go after the elk and put in the miles to give ourselves the best opportunity for success. We set up camp, did some scouting, and decided on two areas where we wanted to focus on to start the season. We wanted to get out, cover some ground, and see what we could find.

The season started off strong the first morning. We split up in two different areas we had scouted. I started up a rugged mountain trail through the tall pines about half a mile from our camp and hit the bugle for the first time at about a full hour before first light. I had an immediate response to my first call, and it sounded like the bull was about 300 yards or so up the trail.

I then got a response from another bull on my right. I set up probably 50 yards off the trail and hit my bugle every five minutes or so until it just started getting light enough to see. I saw a cow elk moving in front of me at maybe 80 yards and saw something large moving through the brush maybe 50 yards behind her. I hit my cow call a few times and he stepped out maybe 80 yards in front of me in some brush.

The bull stared in my direction, and then looked at the cow. I lightly hit my cow call again, and he slowly turned and followed the cow back into the brush. I couldn’t see his entire rack, but I knew he was a solid bull and a definite shooter. Not bad for the first two minutes of shooting light on opening morning!

I tried to get back on that bull all morning as he headed south. I would get to within what sounded like 200-300 yards of him several times but could never get close enough to get eyes on him through the trees. After about 2 hours, I felt like I was finally making up ground on him. I looked up and found myself at the fence marking the boundary between the national forest land and the Indian reservation at the southern border of our unit.

I had traveled about 2 miles from where I had started, and it seemed like the elk were retreating to the reservation. We figured they would move into the unit at night to feed, then retreat to the safety of the reservation at first light. Dan had a handful of responses to his calls as well that day, so we knew we were in good areas. We decided to venture out a little more in the unit, but no other areas had heavy sign like where we were the first morning, so we focused our efforts in these two areas.

On the third morning of our hunt, Dan, at 63 years old, marked off the top item on his bucket list. His cousin called in a 6x6 satellite bull off the herd and got him within 20 yards while other bulls were trying to herd cows all around him. The bull came charging in looking for the cow and Dan arrowed the bull while it quartered towards him. Dan kept a smile on his face for about the next month after taking this bull.

On day five, I went back to the area I hunted the first day with Dan’s cousin who would help me call. I would get 600800 yards off a forest road into our unit an hour before first light and try to catch the bulls heading out of our area to the southern border. At about first light, we heard a bugle about 400 yards east of us, so we hurried over to get in front of the bull and get set up. We started cow-calling and heard cows call back, but they weren’t getting any closer.

After about 10 minutes of calling, I heard another funny sounding bugle and decided to move towards it. I crept in and sure enough, two other hunters were the ones answering our calls. Because of this, we decided to head farther into the unit at a northwest bearing. We walked about 800 yards and I heard a deep bugle that sounded more like a growl 200 yards in front of me in some pines.

I knew by the deep bugle it was a mature bull. The wind was blowing right towards him. I tried to circle around to get in front of him and catch him before he caught our wind. I eased in by myself to minimize the pressure and our scent.

I got eyes on him about 100 yards in, but he was about another 100 yards in front of me down wind. He was nothing short of a monster. I hit my cow call, then he turned and looked for a second. He started trotting off due south, right towards the reservation.

I knew he winded me, but he didn’t run off full speed. My only chance would be to run and get in front of him to cut him off. I started off sprinting slightly downhill and running parallel to him. I looked over to my right and saw him trotting right along with me about 100 yards off with several pine trees between us.

A small ravine lies about 150 yards in front of where we were heading. If I could get there before him, I knew he would have to slow down going down the hill. He slowed down and I got to the ravine edge before he did. I knelt for a split second and nocked an arrow.

I cranked my single pin sight down to what I thought was the 70-yard pin slot. Before I knew it, he was in front of me and stopped for a split second looking at me. I guessed he was at about 60 yards. I aimed low and let my arrow fly.

Right as a I released, he moved forward. As soon as I shot, my heart sank. I saw my arrow hit him way back and high. He took off and bolted straight back towards the reservation.

I saw a cut mark on him right in front of his tenderloins where my broadhead went in. I looked down at my sight and saw I had accidentally stopped it at 55 yards. If I had actually set it to 70 yards, the arrow would have been a foot over his back. It turned out he was about 45 yards away when I shot him.

The shot was a clean pass through, and I went and found my arrow quickly. It was dripping with bright red blood. I decided to back out and go to camp. I shot at 6:30 a.m. and told the guys not to let me leave camp until 9:30 a.m., so we could give him at least 3 hours to die.

Four of us returned right to where I had shot the bull. We found good blood within minutes and tracked it. He bled out of both sides, heading back to the reservation and we were maybe 500 yards from the boundary fence. We tracked him down a small canyon, up the other side and then came up one more ridge and saw him dead 75 yards in front of us.

I hit the bull right in front of the tenderloins and the arrow exited about 8 inches out his other side in front of his hindquarters. He died approximately 100 yards off a national forest road and 150 yards from the unit boundary and the reservation, a perfect spot for packing him out. I used my TTHA membership Buck knife to get him dressed and out of the woods.

The bull was a 6x8 and had 61-inch main beams, a 41-inch spread, and 21- and 22-inch fronts. Four months later I had him officially scored at 373” and a net score of 358”, enough to easily qualify for the Pope & Young record books.

Death in the Dust

Two South Texas bucks meet the ir end

By Ralph Winingham

Death in the dust did not come quickly or easily for the two South Texas brush busters whose final resting place was just off a well-worn sendero on a hunting ranch just south of Laredo. No hunter’s bullet had found them. They weren’t that lucky.

What killed the two dark-antlered eight-point bucks was a cruel twist of fate—finding themselves face to face in the wrong place at the wrong time. Their uncontrollable desire for dominance had overwhelmed their natural tendency to flee from trouble.

Mother Nature alone knows exactly what happened during their last few hours of life, but a little outdoor detective work provided a few details to paint a picture of their demise. These two bucks had been seen in the same area several times during that white-tailed deer season. Their heavy, chocolate-colored antlers seemed to gleam in the early morning sun or fading afternoon light as they drifted in and out of the brush.

Each deer was in prime condition, about three or four years old, with only a slight paunch starting to show their middle age. Heavy of body and muscle, they feared no enemy but man. A quick retreat into the brush whenever a hunter approached within rifle range was their best defense against any potential human threats. Other challenges to their existence were met with antler and hoof. These were the four-footed knights of the brush. Their antlers were not the foils of fencing, but were like the strong, piercing daggers of street fighters.

The bucks may have shared the same feeding grounds for several years without encountering each other during the breeding season, but this year fate put them together on a South Texas brush country battlefield. From the first moment they crossed paths, their combat was fuelled by a cauldron of reproductive juices flowing through every part of their being. Only the two bruisers know when the first blow and grinding crash of antlers broke the silence of the afternoon. An inspection of the shredded brush and churned up dust at their battle scene was clear evidence that their conflict was as violent as any one-on-one combat in any war zone.

Each buck must have done his best to thrust and twist his dagger-like headdress in moves meant to overpower his adversary. From the instant they first clashed their antlers together, every other animal within 300 yards would have been aware of the titanic struggle. The conflict of domination could have lasted mere minutes, or may have raged off and on for the entire afternoon. A few nearby mesquite trees and maybe a passing jackrabbit are probably the only living things to witness the exchange of brute force.

All that is really known for sure is how the clash of brush bruisers ended. Somehow during their tussle, their antlers locked together. The two bucks tugged and twisted until they were exhausted, but their efforts to separate were futile. The smaller buck of the pair may have weakened first, dragging his enemy down with him, or both animals may have simply surrendered to exhaustion.

Based on the scattering of the remains, one or both of the tangled bucks may even have still been breathing when Mother Nature’s clean-up crew found them. This was not a scene from a Disney movie where the old or weak simply settle down on a soft bed of leaves and enter into their final sleep. Coyotes, buzzards and Mexican eagles all left numerous tracks throughout the battle-torn area as they took part in stripping the bucks down to skin and bone. How long the scavengers worked their damage or whether either of the two bucks fruitlessly attempted to escape the carnage are not thoughts to dwell upon.

What remained when the scavengers had finished their work was two sets of antlers still entwined in an unbreakable death hold—a trophy to the absolute certainty that in nature, only the strong survive. As a tribute to their life and unfortunate demise, the locked-antler bucks were transformed into a unique display courtesy of the taxidermy skills of the late Fritz Herff, who was the long-time owner of the Broadway Locker and Taxidermy Shop in San Antonio. Cleaned, polished and preserved, the skulls and locked antlers of the two magnificent animals are now encased in an oak-framed glass coffee table prominently displayed in the author’s den. With just a little imagination, anyone looking over the fine wildlife display can still hear the sounds of battle as they picture two bucks engaged in what would become their final conflict.

Their struggle was the struggle for life and propagation of noble creatures that are respected and prized by thousands of outdoor enthusiasts who share a tiny bit of their space in the great outdoors. As an aside to this Campfire Tale, it should be noted that two white-tailed bucks meeting their end from natural causes at the same time is a very rare occurrence, even in the Lone Star state that is home to more than three million deer. Texas Parks & Wildlife Department officials have said that department biologists receive no more than half a dozen reports of hunters finding locked-antler bucks each year. Many of those are just the sun-bleached skulls and antlers found after scavengers and the weather have done their damage to the unusual trophies.

The small cadre of professional Texas taxidermists who deal with thousands of white-tail bucks each year rarely handle locked-antler trophies, which are much more complicated to process because the antlers are locked into place. The typical turn-around time for a normal shoulder mount is about four to 10 months, while the processing of a locked-antler display can require two or three times that effort to produce a unique display. Perhaps it is fitting that the violent death in the dust that took place in days gone past was not an easy one, but through the creation of a lasting trophy, it will be a remembered one.

Adoctor, accountant and lawyer walking into a bar is often the start of too many over-used and ill-crafted jokes. Now, if you change “bar” to the Llano Estacado in southeastern New Mexico for mature mule deer—well, then you have the start of a great hunting story.

It’s been said in parenting, “The days are long, and the years are short.” It probably takes being a parent to truly appreciate that sentiment. So, when a father and two grown sons hack out enough time from their careers, wives and young children for a long overdue southwest road trip and trophy mule deer hunting, it’s something remembered.

Many will recognize Ricky and Derek Lester for their preeminent whitetail breeding and hunting operations in Gonzales County. However, many may not know they’ve been closely managing and curating the RDL Ranch in New Mexico for the last seven years, while building prime mule deer habitat. This includes a strong regimen of quality protein and selective harvesting of cull bucks during the limited New Mexico hunting seasons. The result is several thousand acres of breaks, washes, saddles, and flatland that would make even the most discerning hunter eager for first light on opening day.

So, when Ricky and Derek asked my father, also a resident of Gonzales, if we were interested in a hunt starting late October 2022, it was only a matter of coordinating dates, tags and licenses. My dad, Commie (the doctor), my brother Matthew (the accountant) and I (the lawyer) found ourselves with time on our hands, heading northwest loaded down with coolers, sleeping bags and enough gear to outfit an army platoon.

We met our hunting companions in Elida, New Mexico, Oct. 28 for the half-hour drive to camp. Derek and Jason Shipman would serve as our guides while Derek’s father-in-law and another buddy, Derek Dojahn, would help with transportation, cooking and processing.

The drive out to camp was nothing but grassland as far as the eye could see, dotted by stands of towering wind turbines. I was beginning to think this was more pronghorn antelope habitat than a home base for big mule deer. But, within a minute of pulling through the ranch gate and losing 200 feet of elevation, I was instantly able to see why this was the right place to be.

We spent the first evening swapping stories and telling questionable jokes before turning in early. After all, many of us had started at 3 a.m. that morning in Central Texas. Eggs, bacon and hot black coffee have fueled many early hunts, and this one was no exception. Sufficiently fueled and caffeinated, we headed out for the morning.

Our family trio wore Kuiu and First Lite camo, used Swarovski, Leupold and Nightforce glass, and used three separate 6.5s, two Creedmoors and one PRC. The morning’s plan was to start by gaining the elevation we had lost the afternoon before while driving into camp and skirting the higher rim of the basin, glassing into the fingers and draws running down into the open flatland below. It was my first time in a Mahindra Roxor, a turbo-diesel Jeep look-a-like, this one being fully outfitted with a high seat in the back for my brother and me. The vantage was great; the wind protection was not. There is cold and then there is COLD! But once those first rays of sunshine peaked over the ridge from the east, spirits and fingers alike, were warmed.

Our two-vehicle convoy eventually made its way down into the basin and out across the flat. It didn’t take long before we picked up a group of four does and a good management buck about 700 yards away on a ridge. We decided to make a move on the group once they fed over the top. Jason led the three of us down a steep wash and up the other side, where we jumped between clumps of cedars, using the dead space between us and the deer to stay concealed while maintaining an eye on our target.

For those of you who have hunted mulies, it’s not usually the deer you’re watching that get alarmed. It’s the ones you encounter on the way that cause the trouble. Sure enough, we jumped a wide, tall management buck in our pursuit—a definite shooter in his own right.

The ensuing melee of gear, shooting sticks, pointing, backpack shucking, and other gyrations left us knee deep in scrub brush with half-extended shooting sticks and the buck running over the ridge ahead of us. It turns out that when the buck pushed over the crest, he alerted the group we were pursuing—a tough lesson to learn. But, as we would soon see, it was the best thing that could have happened.

After regrouping and kicking ourselves for hauling everything but the kitchen sink on our hike, we loaded up and kept moving towards the back of the ranch. Our plan was to drive short stretches, stopping to glass the terrain. Jason’s Jeep took the lead as we followed him up a short rise, bridging two depressions.

Jason quickly stopped and motioned for us to dismount. He had his eyes on a good buck, about 300 yards away. Matthew was called up for the shot. He was hunting for a management buck, and that was the initial call from Jason and the others who were able to get glass on the deer. That call quickly turned to trophy buck. The deer had double forks and was wide. This was no management buck, and Jason turned to me.

I set up with my 6.5 Creedmoor, a re-barreled Remington 700. I used my own 127-grain LRX handloads, suppressed, across the hood of Jason’s Jeep. The problem was the deer was lying down with his hind end facing me—not an ideal shot. But given where he was in the brush and the wind, I couldn’t flank left or right because he would catch my scent, or I would lose the shot.

I told Derek and Jason I would take the shot from where I was. I dialed one mil on my scope, which would account for the roughly 11 inches of drop at that distance. My first shot sailed across the depression, entered just above his left hip, and traversed the buck lengthwise.

He never got up.

I walked to the buck while the vehicles negotiated their way to me and the deer. I could tell 50 yards out he was the right deer to take, all 265 pounds of him. Heavy chocolate antlers, double forks, a few kickers over his brows, the kind of character you want in an old mature mulie. The icing on the cake was Jason finding this buck’s left shed from a year before with matching kickers.

Sharing a moment like that with my dad and brother was worth far more than a scoring tape could ever measure. We lined up for pictures before getting him into the back of the Jeep for the drive back to camp, and a midday sandwich before heading out again that afternoon.

With spirits high, Jason again took the lead with my buck while Derek, my dad, brother and I brought up the rear. In one of those blue moon, star aligning kind of moments, Derek happened to look out into a shallow drainage to our left as we rounded a corner just out of camp. He stopped the vehicle quickly and said, “Shooter.” It took only a moment or two before my brother bailed out and set up across the hood. In what seemed like seconds compared to the lengthy caucus over my buck, he was cleared to take the shot.

Before my dad could even get to the “m” in “take him,” the Christensen Arms MPR in 6.5 PRC let loose a Hornady factory loaded 143-grain ELD-X. The sleek projectile covered the 100 yards so fast, the report of the rifle and the buck falling appeared to happen at the same time. The deer collapsed into a heap.

Matthew’s buck was massive, double-forked, and with good tine length. We had two trophies down in less than an hour. His buck was positioned for pictures and then we loaded him in the back of Jason’s Jeep. Those two bucks combined for over 500 pounds and close to 400 combined antler inches, representing the quality of mule deer on the RDL Ranch.

My buck was old and barely had any rear molars. Jason pegged him conservatively at eight or more years. Matthew’s buck was 4 years old, carrying head gear belying his age. Despite the gypsy-esque nature of mule deer in that part of the country, the ranch’s protein and supplement program has clearly made an impact on deer quality.

Derek’s father-in-law ended up taking another trophy buck that evening, and the other “Derek” dropped a good cull buck the next morning. Derek, our host, downed another cull buck the morning after that. Overall, we came away with five mature bucks that would satisfy any hunter.

Just as quick as our northwest road trip began, our southeast trip started, but this time with full coolers. Windshield time lets a man ponder the mysteries of the universe and, to a certain extent, his choices in life, such as what town to stop in for a Whataburger.

I drove home to my two sons, my wife who I love dearly, and surely a pile of emails rivaling Mt. Everest. But I was doing so with grey whiskers on my face that were just yesterday not as grey. And before that, not there at all.

You see, the time has gone fast. But for those of us who know, hunting memories run deep. While I love coming home to my family, I also long for the range, a cold wind, antlers in my binoculars and time with my dad and brother. The next trip can’t come soon enough.

Of all the critters I have called, I have had more up close and personal encounters with bobcats than any other predator. I did go hand-to-hand with a big boar coon I called into my lap while sitting on the ground one night. In the coon’s defense, my Ray-O-Vac lantern blinded him, and I played some pretty sweet music on my Herter’s call. Then there was the time I called an Alpha male coyote across a coastal Bermuda strip after three blasts on the Black Magic call. I had a hunter on my right and one on my left, but both were so amazed at how fast the coyote ran at the guy blowing the call that neither raised their rifles. The old dog looked me in the eye, making a woofing, guttural sound every time his feet hit the ground. Finally, the old male rolled to a stop about 6 feet in front of me. Because the dog was still in the open field, I decided to wave my arms at him and run him back by my shooters. The white palm of my hand must have looked like the white belly of a rabbit because the old dog snapped at it before boldly walking into the brush 5 feet to my left.

The first close bobcat encounter I can remember was one morning when calling on a ranch in La Salle County. I was calling with my good buddy Larry Symes from Oklahoma when we sat down where a cross fence made a 90-degree angle. The area within the 90 degrees had typical thick South Texas cover while the remaining 270 degrees had open strips for nearly 100 yards. We sat down near the corner of the 90-degree fence line with me looking left and Larry looking south.

A few minutes into the stand, I noticed Larry shifting his weight while attempting to poke his rifle through the barb wire fence behind him. I knew better than to try to turn around. Whatever it was had to be extremely close because it was so thick. It was then that the report of Larry’s .22-250 caused me to nearly jump through my skin. Larry said the cat was locked onto me because I was blowing the call. Though we were only three or four steps apart, this allowed him to poke the rifle through the fence, almost into the cat’s chest, and pull the trigger.

Ironically, the next two close encounters with bobcats occurred the same afternoon while hunting near Tilden. The first happened when I sat down on the edge of a small coastal Bermuda field in an attempt to call a coyote from the brush on the opposite hillside. I tucked myself into the edge of the brush in deep shadows, with the breeze blowing from right to left. About 10 minutes into the stand, I had the feeling something was watching me, though I had not seen or heard anything. I became so uneasy I slowly turned my head to the right to see a mature bobcat sitting just out of arm’s length, staring at my back.

I decided if the cat would allow me to lift my rifle from my shooting sticks and turn around without leaving, I would kill him. As I began to move my rifle, I made a kissing sound in an attempt to keep him entertained. Though the cat did move a few feet away, I killed it at distance of less than 10 feet.

On the last stand of the evening, Larry and I sat down along the north fence line of a 20-acre field with brush on three sides.

Steve Roberson has witnessed some close encounters with bobcats with his dad, and has taken his dad's lessons to heart.

Because I am a lefty, I always sit on the right, with Larry on the left. The west boundary of the field about 20 feet to my right was a high fence and paralleling the fence on my side was a gravel ranch road. I sat against a large post near the left side of a cattle guard with Larry about 20 steps farther down the fence line to my right.

After the second series, I saw a large tom slide under the high fence about 25 steps down the fence. He stepped upon the gravel road and boldly trotted towards me. I began to squeak on the short-range call, producing a high-pitched squeal most predators cannot resist. About 10 steps away, the tom stopped to study the situation, so I gave him more “high-pitched” squeaking. The calling put him in motion as he walked straight up to me, staring into my eyes, and didn’t stop until he was at arm’s reach.

I decided I wouldn’t kill this cat because I wanted to see just how close I could call him to me. Now that I had him in slapping distance, what could I do to make this a most memorable calling moment? I decided I would reach my hand out to the cat and see how he would react. I had a camo glove on my left hand so I decide to reach with it. The thin cotton glove would offer some protection, if the tom decided to slap me.

As I slowly reached the hand out to the cat’s nose, he slinked back but did not take a step away from me. When I fully extended my hand, I held it there. The tom raised up and smelled my fingers for approximately 10 seconds, then turned and walked upon the road to my right.

I think a hunter can get away with calling cats extremely close because a bobcat in the hunt isn't concerned with human scent. If you’re camouflaged and don’t move, it’s amazing what they will tolerate.

One of Gary's close encounters put him within hand's reach of a bobcat. He believes hunters can get away with calling cats extremely close because a bobcat in the hunt isn't concerned with human scent.