HUNTING TEXAN STYLE – JIMBO RED JOINS ROYALTY AND FITS RIGHT IN – PART ONE.

I will preface this next story, by saying, that, as I am remembering it, and preparing it for writing, I am struck by how unbelievable it sounds. It is understood, that, many of you will read a few sentences and think, “BULLSHIT!” I can only say that everything I will write down is the 100% truth, as I recall it. In some ways, I have tempered it a bit, just so it does not sound, even, more outrageous, than it now does. It takes place shortly after New Year, 2002, a few months prior to our leaving Scotland, for Texas.

The setting for this story is the King Ranch near the Gulf of Mexico, south of San Antonia and a bit west of Corpus Christie. One of the subsidiaries, of one, of our parent companies, held a hunting lease on this ranch. At that time, I believe the ranch consisted of 1,250,000 acres. Which made it bigger, than the state of Rhode Island and only slightly smaller than the Canadian province of Prince Edward Island. The CEO of our parent, it’s president, along with our president decided that a “bonding” session was called for. They wanted one of their future partners, their best customer, and our biggest supplier, to spend as few days together, “schmoozing” each other.

That is where JimboRed came in. Since becoming involved with this company, I had facilitated a supplier agreement, on which we spent about $100,000,000 annually. This agreement was with one of the largest paint and epoxy coatings suppliers in the world. The president of their US operations, and I had become quite close, during the negotiations of our deal. Needless to say, it was a big deal for both companies. So our leaders needed me, to invite him, and to accompany them on this outing. I’m like, “hell yeah, I’ll go!” I think shortly after that was when I realized that this trip was going to be like something I had not previously experienced.

Within a few days of agreeing to go. And getting buy-in from our supplier, we’ll call him “predator” (you’ll see why later), I received a list of clothing to wear for the trip. It was not a “suggested” clothing list. It more, had the tone of, “You Will”, bring the following articles of clothing. “That is, if you even think about coming to our ranch”. Believe me, they even had brand names for most of it. Geezus! It was quite intimidating. The list included; coat, boots, hat, gloves, shirts and pants. However, even in Scotland, we managed to find everything on the list. It cost a lot. I still have, and still wear, the canvas hunting overcoat to this day. It is indestructible. So all “kitted out”, I make my way to Houston, to join the group.

I still have very little understanding of what we are doing, or where we might be going. At this point, I had already spent some time doing a bit of research into the King Ranch. As I mentioned before, this was a big place. On one border, of the ranch, it touched the Gulf of Mexico. The opposite boundary, was 60 miles (almost 100 km) inland from the coast. I’m telling you, this was not a ranch where you hopped on your horse and rode out, around your property in a day. Hell no. If you wanted to go for a fence line inspection, you had better be carrying your bedroll and have a chuck wagon bringing your food along. You were gonna be gone for a week or two.

The King Ranch was started by the King family in the mid 1800’s. It had probably existed in pieces prior to that, however, most of the joining, leasing, land grants, and acquisitions took place, formally, in the 1850’s. I believe it is still held, by descendants of the King family, all these years later. At this point in time, I believe, it still contains about 825,000 acres. This makes it the largest active ranch in the USA. The ranch employs about 500 cowboys, who raise about 60,000 head of cattle each year. The King Ranch company, generates about $240,000,000 revenue each year. This comes from cattle, hunting tours, hunting leases, brand name high-end goods, food and alcohol, and advertising. “What?” “Get on with it”, you say.

I arrived in Houston, was picked up by my boss and shuttled to Hobby Airport. We pulled up directly to a private terminal. The name, on the hanger read Million Air. Seems like we were taking a private jet. I’m thinking, if they only knew, how far I was from being their dream client. In any event we boarded a jet. It was like walking into your living room at home. There were large, plush armchairs spread out, instead of rows of seats. There were 6 of us on this flight, plus two pilots, a hostess and a guy, that, I was told, was the coach of the US skeet shooting team for the Australia Olympics in 2000. He just kind of helped get drinks, chatted with each of us a bit and floated around. I had no idea what he was along for.

After a short flight we touched down at a private airstrip close to the King Ranch. There were black SUV’s, with tinted windows, from the ranch, waiting our arrival. We were whisked away to the ranch. On arrival we were split up in pairs and each assigned to a guest house. We were told to change for hunting and meet in the “tack” room in 30 minutes.

Upon entering the guest quarters, you are immediately struck by the photos of very famous people, hanging everywhere. There were a couple US Presidents, a Saudi Crown Prince, one very famous “western” movie star, a princess or two, the former president of our parent company (and soon to be VP of the USA) and a smattering of well known politicos. Each had hunted and stayed in this very room. I understand that each of the guest houses were also filled with portraits of the famous people, who had slept there. I wondered, briefly, where my picture might end up on this wall.

It was then that I came out of the daze, and started to grasp the significance of everything that had taken place to this point. I might say, I was starting to feel a little pampered and kinda special. I couldn’t wait for the photoshoot where they took my picture for mounting up above the bed I slept in. Up to now, I still think everything is quite believable and, even, quite possibly, did happen. Then Deysi’s parting words came to mind. They jarred me back to my senses. As I prepared to leave she said, “don’t spend, don’t drink, no smoking, don’t let one of those fools shoot you, don’t kill anything, and remember I’ll be here to check you out when you get home!” Followed by, “You hear me?”

Finally, when we gathered for the hunting, the full impact of what I was into, finally hit. We were in a big room, it was wall to wall guns. About 75 %, shotgun types, and 25 % big game rifles. There were hundreds. I cannot imagine a type, size, make or model of gun or rifle that they did not have. Also present in the room was a group of hunting guides. There was one for each pair of hunters.

We were asked what type of game we wanted to hunt, what type of gun, type of shot, or load we wanted to use, etc. They also signed us up for hunting licenses, on the spot. We were told the rules of the hunt, given our choice of what we wanted to hunt, and were, pretty much, fawned over. We were checked for suitable attire and anything that was not quite right, was replaced. I mean, they had everything on the list, just like a high end clothing store for hunters.

One of our guys, the president of our Canadian parent, unsheathed his personal shotgun and everyone crowded around to look. There was much ooohhhing and aaahhhing. Apparently it was a $30,000 gun. Geezus! I might add, that it was nice, but not $29,500 nicer than the gun from my youth. After everybody finished slobbering over each other, we were herded outside to the practice range. “Hold it”, I thought, “this isn’t golf.” “Why would I need to warm up for shooting a gun”? It was at that point, where I realized, what the extra passenger on our flight, was there for. He was introduced, and sure enough he was coach of the US skeet shooting team. It was explained that he was there to check us out on the guns, and to give us a little “shooting” coaching. Geezus!

One by one we each had to step up and try to kill a few clay pigeons, right in front of this guy (and everyone else). I was crapping myself. Of course, my boss is like, “Jimbo you fool, you go first, yeah show us what you got big boy, hahaha this is gonna be good”. He is playing to the group, trying to relieve his own tensions, by stressing me out. I’m shaking, inside and out, hoping that I don’t “shank” one and shoot the olympic coach by accident. Anyway, I step up, carrying a replica of my 20 gauge shotgun, from my youth. The same one that my friends called a ‘girlie” gun. The coach kinda looks at me, shakes his head a little, and nods at something in the distance.

All of a sudden this frisbee shaped thing comes flying out of a blind, at near light speed. Not having any time to think about it, my cat like reflexes take over. I swing that gun up, wait for the disc to almost disappear behind the barrel of the gun, and I pull the trigger. That thing explodes into pieces, and rains clay all over the ground. I am about to holler out, when another one comes from the opposite direction. I fire again, one comes from behind, right over my head, BAM, another is then launched from the right, BAM. There is silence.

The coach looks at me and says, “ok you are good to go. You know how to shoot”. Somehow I had managed to kill three of the four clay pigeons they had launched at me. My ol’ boss is not jumping around anymore. No, he now looks a little green around the gills.The guy with the $30,000 gun hits two of four, so I can’t say I was rushing out to buy one like it. Everyone was approved to go hunting, although a couple of them had to have a little more intense lesson, before finally hitting a pigeon or two.

From there we are moved to another practice range. This one in a flat grassy area, about 25 feet in front of a high bank, or berm. It stood about 12 feet high and was basically a 100 foot long bank of piled up dirt. In front of this bank, stood shooting stations. these were wooden pedestals, 4 feet high, with a two foot square, rimmed tray on the top. Onto this tray, the guides poured a couple of boxes of shotgun shells, for each person. We were lined up facing the bank.

It was at this point, my guest, then, informed the hunters that “he didn’t want to shoot anything”. Hold it! The whole principle of the trip was to shoot something. He nows makes this revelation, and I must say, stops the guides in their tracks. I can guarantee, they had never heard that line, before. They had no response. I must say the rest of us were also, pretty gobsmacked. Seems like his wife and daughters had told him not to come home, if he killed anything. So, he just stood by his shooting station, resting on the barrel of his gun, dressed up like Davy Crockett, with no place to go. Now the real fun was about to start!

We were told to get ready to practice on some real birds. The instruction was to only fire straight in front of you, and face the embankment at all times. The hunters would walk up and down behind us and provide tips and coaching. They also carried their guns on their shoulders. Geezus, and I thought this wasn’t golf! Now I’m on the practice range and I have an armed guard walking up and down behind me. I barely have time to think just how ridiculous this was. I mean, who gets “practice” birds before the hunt begins. All of a sudden, a flood of game birds coming flying straight over the bank towards us. We each pull up our guns and start blasting away. It sounded like a war had broken out. There were cries of joy, mixed with, the ear splitting Boom, Bam, Crash, as everyone blazed away.

I briefly wondered how they could get those poor birds to fly over that embankment and come straight at us. Until I finally realized, that the birds were coming at us “feet first”, with their wings flapping like brakes. OMG, these birds had been loaded into “slingshots” behind the hill, and propelled over the hill. It was not of their own free will, let me tell you that! As the birds sailed past, their wings caught up to their bodies and the survivors then tried to make a break for freedom. Then I discovered why the hunters carried guns. They stood behind us and calmly dispatched any bird that made it past our shooting stations. Somehow I felt a little sick to my stomach and had a vague feeling of sympathy for these birds. They sent pheasant, grouse, doves, pigeons, and quail over the bank, for our practice.

About mid way thru the debauchery, I glance over at my guest. An amazing transformation appears to have happened. He is standing behind his shooting station, in a semi crouch, eyes blazing red, hair dishevelled and foam coming out of the corners of his mouth. He looks like a wild man! Apparently his wife’s and daughter’s threats have left him. He is now completely committed to the hunt. He is in beast mode, shooting, yelling and frothing. That is why I name him predator for this piece. I could not help but to burst out laughing, when I saw, the predator’s, transformation from man to beast.

It was now approaching late afternoon. We were told that practice was over and we could now, go get ready for cocktails and dinner. By the way, please wear jackets to the reception, once you have rested and are ready to come up. “Jackets, too a booze up”? “Where the hell were we, at a Scottish golf course?” I am overwhelmed. I stand for a moment amongst the scattered remains of game birds, that have been scarified to our pleasure. I’m not sure, that I am necessarily happy, but to say the least, I WAS BLOODY IMPRESSED.

A short time later, we gather in a huge hall, reception room, bar, lounge and dining room. The wine is broken out. We stand around complementing each other and our hunting skills. The bartender is placing bottles of King Ranch wine along the bar, every couple of feet. Later I found out that the King Ranch brand, sold for $75.00 per bottle. We must have had $2000.00 worth of wine, opened, and waiting for us as we straggled in to the room. A representative of the ranch joined us, as well as the chef, the guides and a host. It did not take long before, a new selection of wines appeared along the bar. This process seemed to continue for a long time.

While standing and chatting at the bar, the host explained to everyone, that the birds we had practiced on that day, had all been gathered and brought to the kitchen. The chef had made a selection of appetizers for our enjoyment. He explained that “nothing” was put to waste on the ranch. The birds that we had “went postal” on, were part of the overall wildlife management program of the ranch. Lucky birds! They were selected to be part of the “culling” process, to keep the bird population, at a sustainable level, on the ranch. Then, trays of such incredible delicacies were presented to us. Somehow, the chef had prepared a feast fit for kings. And believe me, kings had been served in this very room, with the same food and wine, as Jimbo Red.

The food brought around for us to try, was in the form of medallions of pheasant, grouse, dove, quail and each accompanied by its own sauce, crafted for each particular flavour. It was heaven. We stood around, quaffing wine and gorging on delicacies, for two hours. They, then, called us for dinner. At that point, dinner was the last thing I needed in my life. I was full, to overflowing, by then. But, you weren’t going to hurt anyone’s feelings by refusing dinner. Were you? So, along with the others, ol’ Jimbo Red, bellied right up to the table.

And then came our dinner. Each course more exotic than the previous one. Somewhere in the middle of it, some big Texas size King Ranch, filet mignons, were trotted out. The wine was flowing, only now they had produced their top of the line product. I do not think that you could have been better fed, anywhere in this world, than what we were swerved. Exquisite! (Later I understood that the chef was world famous for wild game dishes). A couple of cigars and a Port later, and they sent us to bed. With the promise, that, at dawn, they would wake us with breakfast, prior to going on the real hunt. Geezus, all I needed was more to eat. With that I retired to my quarters and slept the sleep of the dead, under pictures of people who had slept there before me..

Ok, I have now spewed out another 3000 words and haven’t even got to the hunting part. What I have written to now, is pretty unbelievable, even to me, and I was there. I just had to get it onto paper, before I lost all memory of this trip. However, the fun was not yet started. You will have to wait for Part II, to hear the further adventures of Jimbo Red, hunting Texas. Please forgive my lack of brevity. Once, I get myself started, I just can’t stop. Stay tuned.