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here are hunts and then there are hunts, those
stored in a special memory file, unique in one way or another. Like
what happened in South Texas, east of Encinal between Cotulla and
Laredo. Murry and Winston Burnham, the brothers of game-calling fame,
and I were intent on calling a coyote, but our efforts proved to be
more productive than that. Much more, in fact. It was a winter
early-morning, just before sunrise, and we were hidden in some
thornbrush on the edge of a prickly pear flat where we could see some
distance. Murry was blowing on a dying-rabbit predator call. We got
results almost immediately.
"Look what's coming to breakfast," Winston whispered excitedly.
Across the clearing came 7 coyotes running in single file, a pack of
doglike critters. Murry kept them interested with his best imitation
of a jackrabbit in distress, easy prey, the coyotes would assume.
They hurried straight toward us without wavering. I tightened my grip
on the .243 rifle. When the coyotes got in range, I was ready to open
fire.
When the leader of the charge got within about 40 yards, he abruptly
stopped and looked in our direction. I sensed he was suspicious and
ready to retreat.
He was. By the time I had him in my scope sight he was heading the
other way, flat out running. I fired and missed. By the time I pumped
another round into the chamber I saw the rump of another coyote
leaving. I missed that one, too. It was over in a matter of a few
seconds. The animals, all seven of them, had disappeared and I was
sheepishly left holding an empty rifle. The Burnhams were doubled
over in laughter. When I first shot, they told me later, the sound
briefly confused the coyotes. A couple ran, but the other five stood
and stared, only fleeing after the second or third shots. Seeing
movement, I was only firing at moving targets, the difficult chances,
while the others stood motionless and avoided the barrage.
Marksmanship certainly is not the reason I remember that particular
hunt. But I'll never forget the sight of those seven animals rushing
toward us, ready to serve up the jackrabbit that was in obvious
distress as an entree. For a short time we had become the hunted
rather than the hunters.
There are other memories, too. Like the time near Sweetwater west of
Abilene, on a misty cold winter night when a bobcat came so close I
could have yanked one of his whiskers. Or when standing in the bed of
a pickup near Murry's home in Burnet County and watching with a
spotlight as three gray foxes, their bushy tails puffed up with
excitement as they circled the vehicle, looking for the source of the
cottontail distress cries being broadcast by an electronic caller. Or
seeing for my first time a red fox responding to a call on a tract of
land bordering the Fort Hood military reservation not far from
Gatesville. Or feeling and seeing an owl swoop in and knock my hat
off while playing a bird-distress tape with an electronic caller near
Gonzales. Or having a raccoon jump into my lap while I was sitting
against a live oak tree trunk and blowing a predator call on a ranch
in northern Blanco County. I don't know which of us was the most
surprised, but we separated without a formal introduction, the
frantic 'coon going one way, me another.
When calling nature's killers, you learn to expect the unexpected. It
is exciting, all right. High drama. And it is a sport that can be
practiced almost anywhere. Predators such as coyotes, bobcats, gray
and red foxes, and raccoons are widespread across Texas. In many
places, the range of two or more species, such as foxes and 'coons,
overlap. And if you're calling in West Texas or South Texas you might
have a mountain lion come check things out. Now, that is something
you can tell your buddies about.
Availability, though, doesn't guarantee success. And just because
predators are aggressive doesn't mean they ignore danger signs. It is
like calling a turkey gobbler in the spring or rattling up a
woods-wise buck deer. You've got to know what you are doing. You
learn by experience.
One factor coming into play is confidence. According to Gerald
Stewart, owner of Johnny Stewart Wildlife Calls, if a beginner blows
on a call a few times and doesn't get results, he becomes convinced
he is doing something counterproductive, like making the wrong sound.
"Even veterans such as myself experience times when nothing works,"
Stewart said. "Just have faith in what you are doing. Success will
come."
Predator calling, either with a mouth-blown call or an electronic
caller, is done either during the day or night. Coyotes are called
primarily in daylight, with early-morning being the most productive,
although late-afternoon can be good, too. Coyotes are light-shy.
Bobcats are the opposite. They respond best in the dark, especially
on a moonless night. Also, their eyes glow in a light beam, making it
easier to track one sneaking toward the call.
But while a coyote, fox or raccoon usually will appear within 15
minutes, if it is going to show, a bobcat is more deliberate,
slinking in rather than hurrying. If after a cat, call for at least
45 minutes. Check your watch and don't get impatient. You are
operating on the animal's schedule.
The standard calling sounds are a dying-rabbit cry, either
high-pitched to imitate a cottontail, or more coarse to mimic a
jackrabbit, or a bird in distress, which appeals to all varmints,
being particularly effective on raccoons. Lay the anguish on heavy.
Make the call sound like a screaming rabbit, under attack by a pack
of ruthless coyotes. Murry Burnham said it is almost impossible to
make the wrong sound with a call that's been properly tuned.
If you choose to use an electronic caller, there are many different
calling sounds available, everything from rabbits and birds in
distress to crying baby foxes and coyotes and the howls of grown
coyotes. After some experience you will learn what call to use and
when. The calling sound, however, is only part of the package. You
have to familiarize yourself with the habits of your target species
and learn something about the terrain it prefers and how to hunt that
terrain. Calling in the brush country of South Texas is different
from hunting the rolling prairies of the mesquite country north of
Abilene.
Basic hunting fundamentals come into play, too. One of the first
things the Burnhams taught me is the need for quiet. Make no noise as
you leave the parked vehicle. Don't talk; communicate only with hand
signals. Never ignore the prevailing wind. Human scent is one danger
signal no wild critter ignores. One reason morning calling is
successful is because there is little or no breeze. The calling sound
carries farther and there is less wind to swirl human scent
around.
Wear complete camouflage and don't silhouette yourself along a
ridge or hill as you walk toward your calling site.
One reason night-calling is popular is because darkness can be the
hunter's ally. Preparation is not as critical. For example, guide Jim
Roche of Magnum Guide Service in Christoval hunts at night from the
bed of a parked pickup, traveling about a half-mile between stops,
and uses an electronic caller, the speaker placed off to one side a
few yards from the vehicle. Any incoming varmint will lock-in on the
source of the sound, not the pickup, and there is less chance Roche
and his hunter will be detected. Roche will handle the spotlight and
tell his client when to shoot, by dropping the bright beam directly
on the startled animal.
Minimize mistakes. That's how you spell success.
⌐ Texas Fish & Game Publishing Co., L.L.C. All rights reserved.
