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OUTDOORS
Javelina hunt yields rabbits, experience
By Mark Hancock
Battalion Reporter
The moonlight danced over the
thick mesquite and cactus as Al
King and I bounced along in his
old pickup truck on a bone-dry
South Texas road. The truck's
headlights revealed red and
green eyes glaring from the
brush, but only for instants before
they vanished.
“How much longer?” Al asked.
We were supposed to meet the
rest of our friends from the Viking
Archery Club hours earlier, but as
usual our organization was
sporadic and spontaneous — we
were three hours late.
The only hunters out of a crew
of 15 still awake when we arrived
were two old-timers slowly sip
ping nightcaps of tequila and
orange juice next to a smoldering
fire.
Morning came on a cold blue
streak, but the high scattered
clouds didn’t seem to have any
rain in them and they cleared be
fore dawn, leaving a perfect day
for stalking the brush. We just
hoped the rabbits and javelinas
would cooperate, and the rattlers
would take a siesta.
The wind was in our favor,
blowing from the west, and with
the sun at our backs, the two
main senses of most wildlife we
might encounter, sight and smell,
would be markedly reduced.
Without sight and smell those
javelina could only hear us com
ing, but if you had ever heard Al
“easing through the brush" you’d
know the javelina were in little
danger.
“Al, let’s try and work this poc
ket of brush together,” I said.
"You work one side of this arroyo
and I’ll work the other.” With
those last words we separated to
scout the thickest patches of
prickly-pear for javelina signs.
Thwack! An arrow clattered
through the brush across the ar
royo, signaling a probable miss
by Al, and a speeding jackrabbit
confirmed my thoughts. I drew full
and let an arrow fly from the 65-
pound compound bow, but only
stirred up more dust and edu
cated that bunny a little more.
Cottontails were everywhere
and after a flurry of action, I had
one rabbit and the brush had one
arrow. I wasn’t about to be out
smarted or outmaneuvered by
any old bunny, or so I thought.
'Hey Han, how many you
got?” echoed Al. If there were
any javelinas in this cactus patch,
they had just taken a hike from all
the noise.
"Bunnies are winnin’ hands
down,” I yelled back. “Cross over
and we’ll compare bags.”
Al came slipping through the
brush with a quiver that was
minus two arrows.
“The price of this trip’s going
up with every shot,” he laughed.
‘How many you got?”
Whooper population rising
The upswing of the famous whooping cranes that has cheered
bird lovers and conservationists for several years has continued
this winter. The latest official count of cranes wintering on the Texas
coast is 74, including 68 adults and six young.
John Smith, a Texas Parks and Wildlife Department biologist at
Rockport, said this figure was reached after the completion of sev
eral aerial surveys. However, there is a chance that more of the
great birds may arrive this year.
An additional young bird that was originally counted, however,
seems to have disappeared. The fledglings were banded in
Canada both this year and last with identifying colored leg bands in
order to learn more of their population dynamics. Altogether, 13
banded birds are now to be seen, six immatures of this year and
seven of last year’s young.
Whooping cranes are an ancient species that for hundreds of
thousands of years have winged their migration routes across the
North American continent. At their peak they probably never num
bered more than 2,000, but their range was from the Arctic to
central Mexico, and from the Rockies to the Atlantic. With man’s
settlement, the numbers and habitat shrunk. The most drastic level
was reached in the winter of 1941-42, when only 15 were counted
along the Texas coast and six in southwestern Louisiana.
Since then, the majestic cranes have received worldwide atten
tion and every effort has been made to encourage their comeback.
The Gulf Coast wintering grounds of the cranes includes the
Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, Matagorda Island and Isla San
Jose across the Intracoastal Waterway. Here the birds stay in indi
vidual territories from October to Mid-April, when they migrate the
2,600 miles back to their nesting and summering grounds in North
ern Canada.
In 1975, widespread efforts were made to monitor the exact
migration route, in order to be able to divert the birds from such
dangers as diseases and oil spills. In that same year, American and
Canadian biologists started a foster-parent project, whereby some
eggs were transferred from their Canadian nests to those of greater
sandhill cranes on the Grays Lake National Wildlife Refuge in
Idaho.
The sandhill crane experiment has been encouraging so far,
Smith said. The young birds have been readily accepted by foster
parents and have seemed to adopt the sandhill migration route,
wintering in New Mexico. Although they copy some of the sandhill’s
activity patterns, they show no interest in pairing with them, and
tend to assume dominance over the territory. Biologists are study
ing these developemtns with great interest.
The latest count of the cranes associated with the sandhill flock
is nine, which includes three hatched this year.
A number of whooping cranes are in captivity. Of these, there are
22 at the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Laurel, Md., two at
the International Crane Foundation in Baraboo, Wis. and two at the
San Antonio Zoo. With the 74 counted on the Texas Coast, the total
number of whooping cranes known to exist in the world is now 109.
“Just one,” I answered, “but
scared the hell outta 10 or 15.”
We sat down for a minute, Al
had a smoke and I had a dip, then
we split up again, trying to find
those seemingly scarce pigs.
There were plenty of signs along
the creek beds, but following the
game trails turned up nothing but
a few deer, more rabbits, and a
6-foot, 6-inch rattlesnake.
Now I’m not one that’s afraid of
snakes, but this one caught my
eye and just about sent me out of
my camouflage suit and skunk
scent. A brilliant, striking,
brownish-yellow reptile, he slowly
coiled and watched me as I ap
proached his bed, which was
under some washed-out mes
quite roots. Closing to within six
feet, I placed two arrows well
enough into his neck and head to
end any of his notions about
chewing on this hunter’s leg.
It was then I had flashbacks
about my snake-leggings still in
the car. Al came up as I was skin
ning the smake.
The day wore on and the sun
finally got hot enough to run us
under some shade trees for
another siesta. Over to our left
about 100 yards away was a
beautiful pond that gave life to
this dry, parched area. Our con
centration broke when we saw 15
fat, greenhead mallards and hens
chuckle a feeding call and con
verge on this oasis of tangled
vines, thorns and burrs.
“Han, look way to the left on
the far side of the pond, and what
do you see,” Al whispered. One
by one, brown forms in the brush
materialized into four doe, with
three yearlings and four fawns.
The deer didn’t see us. As if by
signal they drank, looked right at
us, and slowly vanished into the
brush. We counted 10 more deer,
not to mention about 50 mallards,
pintails and teal feeding in the
pond.
“Al, I haven’t heard as much as
a snort or a squeal. What’s the
problem?” I asked.
Al answered quietly: “Maybe if
one of us walked down to the end
of this little arroyo here and the
other sat, one of us might get a
shot when the other pushes those
pigs out of their cactus patch.”
As I walked away I immediately
realized what had happened.
Once again Al had gotten me to
do all the work while he sat on his
rear waiting for my javelina. I
walked in the opposite direction I
was supposed to, right between
Al and the truck, at the other end
of the draw. I didn’t see Al again
until I met him at the truck at 6:30
p.m.
“Where you been?” Al half
screamed.
“I walked to the end of the
draw between you and the truck
and waited for a pig,” I said
calmly.
Al gave me a hard glare, but
couldn’t hold his laughter any
longer. “You know what you
are...?”
“I’ve known that for a long
time,” I interrupted.
We climbed into the truck and
headed back to camp for a bar
becue (we always brings meat
from more successful hunts) and
rounded a bend in the road, only
to see four dark shapes in the
road.
“Javelina,” Al mumbled.
These four slowly looked our
way, one took time to take a nib
ble of a cactus bloom, and they
triumphantly ambled off.
Joseph Donaldson
A LIMITED RETROSPECTIVE
Drawings & Paintings 1940-1979
February 5-28, 1979
J. Earl Rudder Exhibit Hall Texas A&M University
Sponsored by University Art Exhibits