BIG Things That Crawl...and Fly

While walking to my truck yesterday, I stumbled across a caterpillar crawling it's way towards my tires. Not just any caterpillar though. A big one. I immediately thought of my sister as she is deathly afraid of these things. I thought of how she would be both completely disgusted and completely intrigued at the same time. This thing was huge. Bigger than my fingers, I'm not sure how most birds would go about tackling this meal if at all.



I believe this is the Eacles imperialis, otherwise known as the Imperial Moth. Given it's location, it could have been feeding on the many oak trees, or as I believe, the large Japanese Maple nearby.

Now Steph, I know this may haunt your dreams, but please show the boys. I'm certain they'll get a kick out of this thing!

Isapa Hunting

So last night I had this dream that I went to some imaginary deer lease my boss had. This place was somewhere out in west Texas...No, perhaps New Mexico or southern Colorado. There was a light cover of snow on the ground, and much of the prairie grass was still visible, peaking up in patches through the otherwise smooth rolling surface of snow. This was my first time on the lease, so much of the landscape, as well as local etiquette, was new to me. What would follow in the dream would have me cursing the f'n Isapa as the alarm went off.

I recall arriving with my limited assortment of shotguns and rifles. Of course, my time here would be spent hunting all sorts of animals, not just deer. This was the land of wealthy, where choices on what to hunt were limitless. After establishing that my hunting tools were crap, (after all, the motley crew of lease holders were all wealthy douche bags that could afford only the best) I was sent off to hunt birds. Not Quail, Pheasant, Mallard, or Gadwall, but some random assortment of song birds that I couldn't identify to save my life. I felt like the young spartan sent off to fend for himself, except instead of defending myself from giant wolf monsters, I was defending myself from a laundry list of fines from shooting various state honored songbirds.

The night before the bird hunt, I studied with great fervor the various game/song birds of the area, hoping to only bag legitimate species. To my dismay, for every legal bird I studied, there was an illegal bird that was practically identical. "PROTECTED" slapped right across the image. Wouldn't you know it, that when the day rolled around and I set off alone to harvest my limit, every bird that I bagged was the damn protected state song bird. After the hunt, I gathered my treasure bag of punishment and return to the base camp. One by one, through laughs and ridicule, the warden tallies the damages. Not only were these birds protected, but too small to eat. My punishment? Not fines. Not jail time. No, I would be banned from hunting the treasured Isapa.

As the sun rose the following morning, I recall watching from my bunk, all the other hunters riding off into the hills for the morning hunt. Laughing, joking, and patting each other on the back as they downed whiskey and smoked cigars, the hunters faded from 6' tall figures to 1" tall blips on the horizon. Hunters Weekly magazine flopped across my lap, at least I could enjoy the warm fire while those bastards had all the fun.

Then came the Isapa. From my window I could see the gazelle like creatures bounce around like giant rabbits on speed. One by one, drunken men took aim, falling over with each shot. A free for all. Fake pearly whites seen from miles away. In the other room I could hear and tea kettle going off and the footsteps of the tiny Hispanic women as they prepared the feast that would await the hungry stomachs of the hunters after a day in the hills.

One by one the men return. Hanging their trophies on the skinning racks, they showed off their field dressing skills and spoke in accents only a drunk man could understand. once again I was subjected to the taunting of the men as they paraded the fact they THEY got to hunt while I was stuck in the cabin. Furious, I left them men to fill their faces and bask in their own egos. I grabbed my "poor man's guns" threw them in my bag and left out the back door. The screen door creaked and swung shut behind me in a crack that was quickly muffled by the falling snow.

As I walked away, the men's laughter grew quite and inaudible with each step. Soon, all that I could hear was the crunching of snow under each of my feet and the delicate sprinkle of icy snow as it hit the white surface of the ground. The cabin was soon a glowing box on the horizon, and as I made my way to the train station, I couldn't help but feel belittled. I felt like Grendel as I gazed upon the building full of drunks. I hated those filthy bastards. I hated those damn birds. What good were those tiny creatures anyway. They had about as much meat on them as a blue jay. But most of all, I hated those damn Isapa. I don't know why, but I hated them more than those inebriated fools in the cabin. I hated how they bounced around as I lay trapped in the room. Standing there gazing around at the falling snow, I realized the irony. I realized that in the end, it was I who was free. The Isapa now hung by their hocks, split wide open from their throat to their groin.

As I woke up, I found myself laughing at the Isapa. More so, I found myself laughing at the word "Isapa". I decided that as soon as I had a minute I would find out if there really is anything that goes by that name. Sure enough there is: International Society for Aging and Physical Activity. So, rather than deal with the obvious underlying adequacy issues stemming from the upcoming baby and whether or not I'll be a good father and still have the freedom to do the things I want , I'll take this approach: I'll take it as my subconscious telling me that I'm getting older and it's time to start becoming active again, therein ensuring that I'll have enough energy and stamina to kick the living shit out of the next Isapa that comes my way! Boooya!

Glass Half Full

The last couple of weekends have been more about great company than hunting and fishing. I say this because I seem to be coming home with more ice in my cooler than anything else. No Teal in my bag, nor fish of fresh or salt water. Am I just a poor hunter? A poor fisherman? Well, I wouldn't say that. No pro by any stretch, but I've come home with my fair catch before. I've reached my limit on my occasions, just not this month. Down on my luck I guess. Doesn't matter though. I've had great company. Though I did not bag any Teal or catch any Redfish on my trip with dad, and though I didn't catch any bass on my trip with Patrick, I've enjoyed the time outside and the conversations I had with both men.

The weekend before last my father and I woke up around 3:30 and headed out to Justin Hurst WMA. Formerly known as Peach Point, the place was justly renamed in honor of the game warden, Justin Hurst, who was recently gunned downed by poachers while on duty. It's a shame that cowards would do such a thing, especially to such a good man.

Upon arriving to the WMA, we found ourselves car #30 in line...not a good sign as we were left with the poorest choices of spots for the morning hunt. None the less, we walked our way through the muck to our designated hunting area and set up our decoys. As the light began to announce it's arrival, dragonflies took to flight to start a hunt of their own: Mosquitoes on the menu. Mosquitoes were light that morning, which is quite unusual in my experience, especially after all the rain we've had. During most hunts, you're lucky if they don't carry you away.

Much of the morning, we found ourselves observing the birds either flying by just out of range, or working areas on the horizon. You could hear the thump of shotguns going off in areas all around. There was a great deal of excitement all around....except on our pond. Quiet. Many birds worked the channel about 100 yards out. I'm ashamed to say we did get a couple of Teal within range, but rusty on the draw, the birds flared and laughed at our attempts. Perhaps warming up with some skeet next pre-season would be wise.

With the sun now up and the morning flights behind us, we packed up and headed out. After a bite to eat, we headed to the check out station to announce our empty bag. An Aggie girl working on her PhD was swabbing bird assholes to check for avian bird flu, a study she is conducting. What a way to spend a morning, huh? Suddenly I was okay with my zero, thankful I didn't have an asshole to offer.

Time to try our luck on the coast. The old man and I headed off to cast our lines into the surf in pursuit of the Red Drum, aka Redfish that have come to shore to spawn. As we drove the shore looking for a spot, we saw truck after scattered truck of fishermen, none of which were reeling in anything of interest. Couple of small 18" sharks maybe. We finally chose a spot and pop busted out the net to catch some Mullet to use for bait.




Once we had bait, we cast out the lines out and put the poles in the side of the truck. Now we wait. Soon we pulled out a few sandwiches mom had made and watched the tide roll in. You can see the brown waters of the Brazos river merging into the Gulf from about a quarter mile away. Slowly those brown murky waters were getting closer. By the time they reached us, we would be packing up and heading out. In the meantime we would catch a small Redfish and one of the biggest Hardhead Catfish I've ever caught. Hardheads are worthless, so back it went, and the Redfish was under 20", so back it went as well. Empty handed we left the surf.



Tired and longing for the a shower and clean sheets, Pop and I headed for the comfort of home. Perhaps in the next few weeks, before November rolls around, we will be back at it. Maybe next time we'll come home with a Red.

A week passes and already I'm lookin' to fish. I had originally planned to hit Town Lake, but once I found out Patrick was heading to the ranch, I figured that the destination might as well be Lake Somerville. I'm not familiar with the lake and I've been wanting to do a little exploring. I would later come to find that I have a lot of searching to do before I find the hot spot for bass.

I woke up early on Sunday, around 3:30, and having packed the night before, was on the road in no time. I reached Ledbetter by 5:30, and after deciding on the Nails Creek Sector, was back on the road with Patrick by 6:00. I've never been to the Nails Creek Sector, so it was all new to me. As we got closer, the fog got thicker. This we literally going to be a shot in the dark. As we pushed off in the canoe, the Q-beam proved useless. Only a thick glow of light appeared after 1 million foot candles bounced off every molecule in that foggy horizon. As the sun barely lit up the sky, we could make out the outline of grass beds and lily pads.




Patrick and I fished the edges of the labyrinth for I don't know how long. We tried all sorts of jigs and spoons. Went for bass, went for crappie. Just couldn't escape the fact that we were just in a bad spot. Finally Patrick threw out a line for catfish, and we got some activity from there. Eventually, we paddled around to see check things out. We stumbled across a man made tributary and followed it up stream along it's winding banks. Calm and quiet, it was rather relaxing. We tied up the canoe somewhere along the way and set down for lunch. During this time we came across some pretty neat things, from water moccasin to a herd of wild hogs.




By about 1:00 we were headed back to the boat ramp and on back home. Somehow the drive back to Austin was just about more than I could take. Tired from lack of sleep and the physical exertion of paddling the canoe combined with driving alone and coming home empty handed, all I wanted to do was get home and go to bed. Still, as exhausted as I was, and even though my cooler was empty, I'd do it all over again. To be outside in nature, hunting and fishing, we'll, it's just something that runs deep in a man's blood. You'd be crazy not to do it.