The rut had long since past, and the season was winding to a close.  It was a New Year and I still had a buck tag.  I made a call to my favorite ranch owner, and the hunt was on.
For the third consecutive year, I was hunting the historic Half Moon Ranch. This ranch, just like the great state of Texas, needs no introduction.  Just driving through the gate of the 6,400 acre spread evokes visions of cattle drives and comanches. 
Accompanying me on this late season quest was Zach Matthys: closing pitcher for Sam Houston State University.  Zach has spent most of his life in the whitetail woods, and I was anxious to put him on a West Texas trophy.
As we watched Abilene in the rear view of my trusty Silverado, I thought about the score I had to settle with the Half Moon.
"The Buck", as my friends and family know him, had been a fixture of my life since 2011.  This magnificent ten point bruiser had given me the slip two seasons in a row.  I was going to make sure that if our paths crossed again, It would be the last time.
As we pulled up to the ranch gate, there was a feeling of determination.  No pig or coyote would distract me from my pursuit of "The Buck." 
I drove to the North end of the wheat and stopped for Zach.  As he chambered the Weatherby .270, I told him one thing: "Make it Count Zach." He nodded his head as he disappeared into the darkness.
I drove to the south end of the same spread of wheat, and anxiously awaited first shooting light. 
Sitting silent, under the shade of night: Visions of my trophy began to overtake my mind.  I was drifting off into a dream world, when the distant howling of a coyote awoken my senses.  Soon to follow were the routine sounds of song birds bringing in the New Year.  It was light enough to make out the landscape, and at that point there was no turning back.
As I drew up my Nikon binoculars, my heart began pounding!!!
A group of hogs were within 200 yards of me.  The lead boar was massive, and they were heading right to me.  I was dying to let my .257 Weatherby Mag do it's job, but I held off.  I had to remind myself what I came here for, and it wasn't a trophy boar.
The morning went on without a single whitetail spotting, so I eased up and made the long trek back to my Chevy.
When I went to pick up Zach, I saw a s*** eating grin on his face. At that point, I knew that he had a close encounter of the whitetail kind.  
"What'd you see Zach?", as he slumped his head and told me about the Booner eight pointer that got away.  It sounded like he did everything a hunter could have done, it just wasn't in the cards for him this morning.  I knew exactly how he felt.  The hunt was far from over though, and we still had thousands of acres to cover.
Late morning found us hiking across the ranch, stopping every few hundred yards to try and coax in a coyote.  The wind began to scream out of the South, which sent our predator calling to a screeching halt.  "Enough of this, let's go get some Dairy Queen."  
With Zach still re-playing the morning hunt and memories of the past dancing in my head, we began to strategize our evening assault.  One of us would walk away from the Half Moon with a filled tag.
As we returned from DQ on a full stomach, I had a strange sense of confidence. I knew memories would be made this evening, hoping the harvest would be plentiful for the both of us.
Zach was heading right back to the same spot, but I had something fresh up my sleeve.  While I don't normally prefer deer blinds; There was a tower overlooking the wheat that just had to be hunted.  I made the climb up into the blind and anxiously awaited my quarry.
The hours ticked by and the only thing moving was the tumbleweeds. The blind was swaying as the transmission lines rattled like a diamondback. These were miserable conditions and a shot over 200 yards would be extremely difficult. As the evening pressed on without any movement, my hopes began to fade.
All of a sudden, a whitetail in full sprint was headed toward the wheat. I fumbled for my Weatherby, and anxiously awaited to see if this would be "The Buck." Much to my disappointment, it was a young spike. Although he was not the deer I was looking for, it reassured me that there would be some movement this evening. 
I watched the spike graze in the wheat, scanning for his larger cousins every few seconds.  Dusk would soon be here, and the wind just kept on howling. Eventually, he gracefully disappeared into the mesquite and I was alone yet again.  I decided to make a last scan of the wheat, When it happened!!!
The deer came pouring over the barbed wire fence in single file.  Bucks and does alike.  I shouldered my 257 and frantically laid the cross hairs in the group. 
Like a big Bull Elk guarding his harem, this massive ten point whitetail raised up and looked over his group of does.  His body built like a quarter horse, and his rack every bit of 150 inches.  If I could pull off this 300 yard shot, I would have fulfilled a lifelong dream.
My heart was pounding out of control, as the North wind wreaked havoc on the blind.  I drew down on him as he turned broadside.  I had to take my finger off the trigger and try to re gain myself.  It was now or never as the wind cut straight through me.  In a last effort, I centered him in my reticle and gently squeezed the trigger.
Like a blade straight through my heart, I sunk in despair. He sprinted into the wheat with no intentions of giving me a second shot.  I violently cycled the bolt and tried to redeem myself.
Just then, a mature six point  turned to spot the danger from above.  I did not hesitate as I knew he was well within my range.  I honed in on his vitals and let the 257 Weatherby do the rest.  The buck did not move an inch.
A mix of emotions was running through me. Excitement and heartache all at the same time.  I proudly stepped off 281 paces to my harvest, all the while thinking about my wall hanger that got away.  I kneeled down next to this big bodied West Texas whitetail and thanked the Lord for the clean harvest. He was a perfect management buck and would provide venison for months to come.
As Zach and I left the Half Moon, haunted by our missed opportunities: I stopped to reflect on how truly blessed we were. It is a gift to be raised as Texans, just like our fathers before us. And a successful harvest, regardless of size, is always a reason to give grace.

• Like a roadtrip back to my childhood, spring time conjures up visions of bobbers

going under and worms dangling off the hook. Although my quarry and techniques have changed; the fishing principals I learned as a boy are essential to my success on the water.
April had finally arrived and it had been 53 weeks since I had watched my rod bend to the weight of a largemouth. Daydreams of little green lunkers were starting to get the best of me, and I knew I had to seek out my honey hole.
Lake Abilene, at only 595 surface acres, is some of the best bass fishing in the Big Country. At full pool, it is loaded with flooded timber and brush piles. With the current low water conditions, most of the spawning structure is found on the dam rip rap. I had consistently hooked 3-6 pound bass over the last four seasons and expected similar success. Knowing well that the water temperature and the atmospheric conditions were just about right, I felt confident that my daydreams would become a reality.
I pulled up to the gate at 6:35 a.m. and started to strategize my assault. Water temperature in the mid 60's and stained water conditions narrowed down my choices of lures. I grabbed my Texas rig rod and my spinnerbait rod and headed for the dam.
With every step came a heightened level of anticipation, although I still had well over a quarter mile to go. To reach my honey hole is no easy task, and is definitely not for the lazy angler. But making the trek has always paid off in hefty sacks of largemouth.
As I drew ever closer to that magical stretch of dam, I stopped to bask in nature's morning routine. The solitude of the lake, broken only by the distant wake of a largemouth; is what I live for every spring. With a total absence of any human interruption, I was now pitted against the most sought after game species of all.
It was finally time to unveil my 1/4 oz. firetiger spinnerbait, and hopefully entice my quarry into striking. The first well placed cast came back without a taker, as did the second. I focused on a portruding dam rock as I gracefully let the spinnerbait fly for the third cast. WHAM!!!!, my spinnerbait was steamrolled.
Years of angling instinct told me to point my rod to the heavens. With a fierce hook set, the battle was on. My rod doubled over as my drag peeled with intensity. I knew this was a big female, and I was bound and determined to get her to the bank. After what seemed like a lifetime of struggle between predator and prey, my trophy revealed herself. I reached down and took hold with an adrenaline driven force. I held her high and gazed with pride. She was pushing 4 lbs. and full of eggs. I knew I had to get her picture quick and release her to swim another day. After a few snapshots, I watched her gently glide back into the depths. I had accomplished what I came to do, but I had no idea what the rest of the morning had in store for me.
Ready for another valiant battle, I launched a Texas rigged plastic worm in the same area. As I slid the worm over the dam rock, I felt a violent tug. Like a runaway freight train, my line sizzled in the opposite direction. I raised the rod tip and felt the weight of another solid largemouth. The buck bass fought with all of his might, but countless hours on the water came through in my favor. I hoisted him up to the bank and marveled at my second keeper in less than 7 casts.
Cast after cast led to bass after bass as I hiked along the dam. Everything seemed to be working, and I was in pure ecstasy. I had finally tapped the true potentail of Lake Abilene.
As my index finger became raw from unhooking keeper largemouth, I realized how blessed I truly was. I ended the day with 8 keepers and over 23 lbs. of total weight, not counting the three that came unhooked. Many anglers will go a lifetime without experiencing the kind of success that had been laid before me.
As I came ever closer to my trusty Silverado, I thought about my young son. To share a fishing trip like the former would be a father's greatest honor. The skills of conservation and appreciation are one of the few remains of the "good ole days"; and I would make it my life's work to make sure they are carried on for generations to come.

For a majority of hunters, spring time means rifles in the safe and fishing equipment to get ready.  Although I do my share of bass fishing, I never miss the opportunity to go after the ever elusive Rio Grande gobbler.
A month prior to the season opener, I received a phone call from my buddy David Mayfield at Bow Hunting West Texas.  He asked if I would be interested in hunting with him opening day of spring season.  That was a no brainer, I said count me in.
David runs a world class hunting operation at his Broken Point Ranch in Trent, Texas.  The 640 acre ranch has a diverse topography; consisting of everything from rocky hilltops to hardwood creek bottoms.  The wildlife is abundant and David's southern hospitality is unparalelled.  You can visit his website at www.bowhuntingwesttexas.com.
I pulled up to the ranch gate at 6:45 a.m. and proceeded to the guest lodge.  David had coffee brewing and a few words of wisdom for my morning hunt.  We jumped in the mule and headed to the windmill where the gobblers frequent, leaving a trail of corn on the ranch roads.  He pointed out a nice mesquite tree I could set up at and said call me when you shoot a turkey.  
As I eased into place, I couldn't help but marvel at the solitude of the Broken Point.  With every slight gust of wind came an aroma of spring time.  Songbirds carried on their morning routine and the distant gobbles of trophy tom's echoed across the land.
As the Eastern sky gave way to a classic Texas sunrise, I caught movement to the West.  My senses were on high as I watched a group of feral hogs make their way towards me.  Any other time, I would have been ready for some breakfast sausage; but I had my sights set on a trophy tom. The hogs spent the next few minutes devouring every last kernel of corn, then disappeared into the brush.
The next half hour went by with only a couple of feral hog sightings.  I was ready to try my hand at the custom chalk box David had lent me for the morning.  I quickly found a routine on the call and prayed that it would lure in my quarry.  A few minutes of unsuccesful calling went by and my confidence was starting to wane; when I caught movement to the East.
With a renewed spirit, I focused on the lone turkey 250 yards away.  It slowly headed in my direction, stopping only to eat the corn and scan for predators. 
Minutes seemed like hours as the turkey gradually headed westbound.  As it got closer, I knew it wasn't a tom.  At this point in the game, a bearded hen was just fine with me.
Like a deliberate kick in the pants, the hen hung up at 60 yards and headed for the cedar breaks.  My dreams of the harvest disappeared as I watched her transform into the landscape.  With a feeling of defeat and no other turkeys in sight, I started to lose hope:  When it happened!!!
My heart began to pump on all cylinders as the hen made her way back to the road.  She was almost in scattergun range at this point.  I slowly raised my 1927 Winchester Model 12, and prepeared for the moment of truth.  With a last effort to elude, she bolted for the fence line.  A lifetime of hunting experience told me I had to act now or lose her forever.  I followed her with the bead and sent flames through the Winchester.  She went down on impact.
Feeling like I had just hit a walk off grand slam,  I swaggered my way to my trophy.  With a few fist pumps and a couple of wails of excitement, I became the proud owner of a beautiful Broken Point hen.
I called David and he came roaring up in the Mule.  "Turkey Man", he yelled out as a sense of pride showed up in his grin.  We finished the morning with a couple of arrowheads and an unlucky skunk that met the business end of my Model 12.
As I left the ranch, recollections of a simpler time filled my mind.  A time where hard work and a handshake is all you needed.  The Broken Point is a throwback to the good ole days; and men like David Mayfield keep the cowboy spirit alive and well.  

With deer season coming to a close, my pursuits turn to the elusive predator that molded my hunting career.  This is the time of year where fond memories of the Panhandle fill my mind, and new memories are made in the Big Country.
I had the opportunity to hunt the historic Half Moon Ranch.  This ranch is located in Brazos River country, looked down upon by the Double Mountain.  The ranch is made up of 6,400 acres of remarkable, yet unforgiving Texas rangeland.
I pulled up to the cattle guard at 6:45 a.m. and threw the Silverado in park. I stepped out and grabbed the Savage .223 that had accompanied me on every coyote hunt for the last decade.  Today was the day to pursue the trickster himself .
As the landscape transformed with the dawn's first light, echoes of my cottontail in distress pierced the morning silence.  With my wits on full alert, I scanned the wheat field for movement.  Like many times before, but always disappointing, my first stand produced no coyotes.
With a fire still burning for a clean harvest, I knew I had to capitalize on the time I had remaining.
My next stand found me about twenty feet up on a canyon ledge, overlooking a creek carved ravine.  The view alone made the stand worth it.  I called for 15 minutes and was about to chalk up my second failure: When it happened!!!
Like a flashback from the days of old, I caught movement in the tall grass.  The coyote eased ever so carefully to the downwind side and disappeared into the cedar breaks.  I waited, trigger finger ready, for him to come out into the clearing.  This moment never came.  Even with a little coaxing on the rabbit call he stayed hidden.  As I  admitted defeat yet again, I eased up to my feet: There he stood!!!  
His stare turned into a sprint, as I fumbled to get my .223 into position.  I had but a few seconds to get a bead on him or he would disappear forever.  The moment came well over 200 yards as he quartered away, and a shot split the Texas sky.  I felt like I shot high and 10 minutes of searching confirmed my worst fear. 
Feeling like an amateur, I had to bring myself together for the last stand of the morning.  At this point, I knew it was all or nothing.
Knowing well that the creek bottom was holding coyotes, I just moved a few hundred yards South.  I found another nice ledge to overlook the landscape.   I started the tell tale sound of a cottontail pierced by canines and waited for my quarry.  After three minutes of calling, I stopped to scan the ravine.  
Like an instinctive reaction to a unbenounced attacker, my heart began to beat uncontrollably.  The coyote had made it within 30 yards of me and I had no time to spare.  I swung my Savage as he halted in his tracks, getting ready to bolt.  I squeezed the trigger not a second too soon, and watched the Coyote fall on impact.
I re-played the moment in my head time after time as I walked from the ledge to my trophy.  I had tricked the trickster, and proved that I still have what it takes to match wits with one of the smartest predators on the planet.

Nothing can compare to the solitude of a cool November morning spent in the whitetail woods. While most of my outings are spent with a camera in hand, I always cherish the couple of times a year I can tote my Weatherby.
This year, I had the opportunity to hunt alongside my buddy Brandon Fulcher at the Fulcher Ranch in Jayton, TX.  The ranch is located in the southernmost tip of the Texas Panhandle. The Panhandle is known for it's big bodied whitetails, with weights exceeding that of any other region in the state.
While I have always dreamed of harvesting that bruiser buck that you see at the Texas Big Game Awards, this weekend was spent targeting a mature, management buck to fill up the freezer.
I pulled up to the ranch gate at 5:45 a.m.  I opened the door to my Silverado and immediately felt the bite of that good ole November wind.  With coyotes howling in the distance, I started to imagine what kind of wildlife was lurking behind the shade of night.  We would soon find out.
As the silhouette of the Double Mountain appeared in the Southeast, it was finally light enough to see the land.  With a level of anticipation only a whitetail hunter can relate to, I glassed the CRP for antlers.
I spotted a doe right off the bat and watched her perform her morning routine.  She gracefully made her way through the pasture, stopping only to look around for danger. I was just about to scan the rest of the pasture: When it happened!!!
Like a lion in the tall grass, this mature whitetail buck seemed to almost disappear into the landscape.  I shouldered my Weatherby .270 and frantically stared through my Nikon riflescope.  I had but a few seconds to decide if this was the buck I was looking to harvest.  About the time I made up my mind that he was a shooter, he started to head for the mesquite cover.  Knowing I had to overcome my buck fever and try to pull off a far from routine shot, I took a deep breath and laid my crosshairs on him.  I only had about 10 yards of shooting lane left, when, like a page out of a hunting novel, he stopped and turned broadside.  At that moment, the shaking stopped as I squeezed the trigger and listened for the tell tale "thud."  I honestly didn't know if it was a clean shot or if he had came away unscathed.  
After an hour of waiting and anticipating, I decided it was time to do some tracking.  With thoughts of a downed buck running through my head, I made my way to the point of impact.  I found no blood whatsoever.  No deer in sight and no blood trail to follow, my heart sunk.  I made a desperate trail into the dense, mesquite forest as if trying to find a needle in a haystack.  I had all but lost hope when, like a gold medal winner on the podium, one single tine rose above the undergrowth.  
As if hit by a cattle prod, I raced in the direction of the buck.  I had no intention of hiding my feelings, as my voice echoed clear across the ranch.  I kneeled down and thanked the lord for the clean harvest of this magnificent animal.  I had once again proven to myself why I love the sport of whitetail hunting and why I always will.