If you've visited Central Texas, more than likely you've met some hunters. It's been said that they're pretty much like everyone else: They have four seasons. But they're not spring, summer, winter and fall. Rather, they're deer, turkey, quail and dove.

Hopefully, if you like to hunt, you'll make it out our way sometime. The following are commentaries on hunting around Brownwood, straight from local hunters.

People in and around Brownwood are going to hunt. The weather is almost always ideal and time spent in the field is a pure delight. Well, not always. There's the time that friends of mine, Jim Herman (U.S. Border Patrol) and Larry Holland (Texas Parks and Wildlife) sat in the cab of a pickup and watched the rain fall hour after hour after hour. This was the first day of dove hunting season. To make the most of the rainout, they took turns shooting at doves huddled on the telephone wires above them. Their weapon? A slingshot. They were even betting surefire American currency on who might bring down the first bird of the season. The dove fared well that day. No bets got paid. Hunters hunt, even when it's pouring down rain.

People come to and through Brownwood from all over northeast Texas to hunt in Brown County and surrounding counties. Or at least they pass through on their way to favorite leases if deer season has called them. There used to be a traffic circle where Highways 377 and 67 converge in front of the old Gibson's Store, where Eckerd Drug stands now. Most November mornings in this part of Texas dawn bright and sunny. In the late '70s sleet and ice fell all night and all day on the Friday before deer season was to begin on Saturday morning. There must have been several thousand vehicles that day creeping along at five to eight miles per hour, trying to get on that circle and then get off. It was quite a sight. I think every one of those hunters made it to the lease that day but not without thinking that the whole trip might end up in a ditch or a huge pileup. Hunters hunt. Two inches of sleet on top of glare ice won't change that.

There are a lot of wild turkey along the bottoms and in the stands of oaks and pecans that make this land so beautiful. One of my former preachers, Pat McClatchy, still lives and works the family farm near Trickham (his son Leslie is actually the one working). Pat agreed that a retired friend, Steele McDonald, and I might set up some ground-level blinds on the edge of some grain fields that were backed up by a line of grand old oak trees. Over time, we made several trips to the site, laying out some corn and becoming familiar with the terrain. On the day of the hunt we were on the farm by 4:30 in the morning and moving quietly in Steele's truck toward the silhouette of the biggest tree in the stand. There was just enough moonlight left to make our way to where we were going to park. Steele stopped and turned off the engine. It was very quiet; the early morning was crisp and the air was fresh. We both eased out of the cab and put both feet on the wet ground. Now Steele didn't hear well at all, but we both got an earful the moment he slammed the door of his truck. Yes, he shut that door hard. With the first sounds entering my brain, I thought that there must have been a helicopter parked in the top of that tree and we had arrived at just the moment that the crew was practicing emergency takeoffs. What it was though, was this: It seems that most of the turkeys that had ever been hatched between Brownwood and Trickham had roosted in that tree, the one we parked under. Branches and acorns rained down on us and the truck for a few minutes and then Steele said, "I think we spooked 'em." Big understatement. We went to the blinds anyway. Saw or heard nothing for the next three-and-a-half hours, but we were hunting.

    Tom Jordan

Rascal

The year was 1945. Camp Bowie was in full swing, and Coggin Baptist Church had burned to the ground on Easter Sunday morning. My father had accepted the call to become the new pastor at Coggin, and just before the family moved from Waco to Brownwood, Dad's beloved bird dog up and died.

Now, Dad loved quail hunting and bird dogs almost to the point of being shameful, and Brownwood was (and still is) great quail country. As soon as the family was settled into the parsonage on Avenue E, a delegation from Coggin's Board of Deacons appeared and presented Dad with a pointer puppy. A splendid liver-and-white pointer puppy with a bird dog lineage that would be the envy of quail hunters for miles around.

Dad christened the pup "Rascal" and set about training him. Rascal grew into a powerful dog, a world-class hunter and the bane of the neighborhood. Along with his prowess as a bird dog Rascal possessed monumental talent as an escape artist. The backyard corner where Dad built a state-of-the-art dog pen soon looked more like a battle zone, but there was no fence that Rascal couldn't go over, under or through, and on his nightly sorties he loped joyfully from one trash can to another, spreading their contents for inventory and sampling anything appealing. Newspapers from all up and down the block appeared conspicuously in our front yard, along with an assortment of clean laundry from neighboring clotheslines. Mother fielded irate phone calls and Dad apologetically returned Rascal's booty as best he could. An equal-opportunity bandit, though, he also shredded one of Mother's quilts that had been hung to air on the clothesline. On summer outings to Lake Brownwood, Rascal rode happily in the back seat, leaning over the front seat to catch the wind from the open window - and slobbering all over Mother's neck in the process. Mother was perilously close to murder, or at least saying things unbecoming to a preacher's wife.

After Camp Bowie closed, Dad and Rascal spent many a glorious winter afternoon hunting in the maneuver area, Rascal's powerful body covering the territory and his spectacular nose finding the birds. It almost made up for his nocturnal forays. Almost. But the day came when Rascal cashed in his chips, so to speak, poisoned probably by an irate neighbor. And Dad was devastated.

After a decent period of mourning (but soon enough that Mother would still be feeling sorry for him), Dad broached the subject of maybe getting another bird dog. Wistfully he spoke of how he had enjoyed those afternoon hunts and how he would miss the recreation, then delicately worked around to the idea of another dog. Mother listened sympathetically, thoughtfully, and when he had finished his pitch, she chose her words carefully.

Looking him in the eye, she said firmly, "Hubbard, from now on, any bird dog you bring home better be able to cook!"

    Ann Beadel