By Kevin Caffey
I grew up in central Texas. It’s a place where the black land meets the post oak savannah. Not far enough west to get into the beauty of the hill country and not far enough east to get into the big thicket of the piney woods. Black, sticky farmland turns to sand hills as you move west to east through my stomping grounds, until you finally hit the Brazos River.
I spent the first third of my life hunting the area I knew as home. When I was young, birds were plentiful—dove season was always good, and though they were starting to dwindle, coveys of quail could still be found in the countryside if you knew the right landowners and had decent dogs, but deer, deer were a different story. You likely had a better chance of spotting Bigfoot than seeing a buck worth shooting. I should know why, after standing in the dusty garages and workshops of the old timers I knew, whose walls were lined with the mummified skull caps and basket racks of bucks shot on opening day for several decades before my time—all likely their first, maybe second, set of horns. “Antler restrictions” and “aging a buck on the hoof” were phrases unknown to the men who came home after WW2 and began working and farming that country.
To put it simply, the deer pickins were slim in those parts, so when I was offered the opportunity to get on a deer lease in Del Rio with a few guys, I jumped at the chance, even though I was only a few years out of college and trying to support a wife and two boys. I had always wanted to hunt South Texas bucks. Visions of their heavy, dark antlers and huge bodies began to stream through my mind as soon as I hung up the phone, wrote the check, and put it in the mail—committing myself to a deer lease I had never laid eyes on. No matter, to hunt on 5,000 acres outside of Del Rio was a dream come true, and opening weekend couldn’t get here fast enough.
My hunting buddy, Mack, said we were on the lease with two other hunters I had never met. This posed no problem, as you can get to know someone real quick, spending time around a campfire, and I looked forward to doing just that when the season opened up. As it turned out, campfire interviews would have to wait because neither Mack nor our other two lease mates could make it out on opening weekend. I, on the other hand, had blocked it off on the calendar months before, and I was not going to miss it even if it meant there would be a lack of conversation. We had no camp set up yet, so my plan was to drive to the ranch in time to get an evening hunt in on opening day and then go check into a hotel room in Del Rio afterwards. I figured that first evening would just be a scouting trip, as long as daylight allowed, and then the next day I could really hunt, explore the ranch, and get to know it. Mack informed me of the procedures: the ranch was owned by a nice elderly couple who lived in a modest house right off the county road. Turn in and check in at the house, go through the next gate and make sure to close it, then park near the cattle pens and have at it. The rules were 2 bucks per hunter, 8 points or better (I guess the people in the country who grew big deer knew a little bit about management). With literally months to think of a hunting strategy, I had decided that I would drop the first buck I saw that was 8 or better, for meat, and then hunt the rest of the season for a sizeable rack. This would at least take the pressure off and let me pursue the “Muy Grande,” knowing I had a freezer full of venison to get us through the year.
As I pulled up to the old rancher’s house late in the afternoon on opening day, I looked behind it and saw an undulating landscape, rocky and brown, with spots of scrub brush and gatherings of cedars in the draws and low spots. My pulse quickened, and my senses were heightened—somewhere out there lurked the old, wide, dark-antlered buck I had been dreaming of. After visiting with the old man for a few minutes, thanking him for the opportunity to hunt his land, and ensuring him that we would respect it, I pulled through the second gate, shut it behind my truck, and parked.
Surveying the area immediately behind the cattle pens, I came up with a plan for a quick hunt with the daylight I had remaining. Stretching to the south was a long, narrow plateau that sloped down on both sides and created several draws and ravines. These brushy and wooded areas would hold deer, so I thought my best bet was to walk the plateau and “rock” the ravines and draws. Basically, my plan was to pitch rocks into the brushy areas to flush any deer out that might be bedded down or not visible.
I crisscrossed the high ground, peering over the edges into the draws, and rolled baseball-sized rocks into the ones that were too thick to see into. I did this unsuccessfully 4 or 5 times and then had to walk about 300 yards to the next draw that sloped down and away from the plateau. There was less brush in this one, mostly thin bushes and cacti. I stood on the edge, mainly looking at the horizon and the beautiful landscape, so much different than where I called home. My gaze shifted down, and I spied a decent-sized rock and kicked it so it would roll down the hill. I was looking at the horizon again when the rock finally landed at the bottom of the draw, and almost immediately, I heard the sound of busting brush and rocks sliding and rolling as I looked down to see a buck making its way up the south side of the draw.
I threw up my rifle and locked in on him. He was easily outside his ears with solid brow tines—I knew he was at least an 8 without question. I squeezed off a round, and he jumped and kicked just as he crested the hill, definitely a hit. I could hear rocks crashing on the other side as he likely was sliding down to the bottom of the next draw. I half walked and half slid down the steep rocky hill until the ground leveled off at the bottom, and then tried to judge just where the buck had gone up the other side. Lining up where I was standing when I took the shot and looking at the rocky formations above me, I agreed with myself on the general area where the buck topped the hill and began my ascent. When I reached the peak and looked into the next draw, it was apparent I would have to do some searching for the downed deer. This draw was thick with cedar and brush. I figured blood would be easy to find on the rocks, so I began pacing back and forth atop the hill to find exactly where the buck had crossed over so I could follow a blood trail to him.
As I walked along the ridge looking for sign, there was no need to be cautious; I had my meat deer down, and the rest of the season could be spent trophy hunting. Pacing quicker now, I knocked some rocks loose on the edge of the hill, and they tumbled down towards the brush where my next year’s worth of venison lay somewhere, waiting to be retrieved. Still intent on finding blood, I was surprised by the sound of clamoring at the bottom of the draw. I scanned back and forth and finally caught the motion of the buck coming out of the brush and starting up the other side. Instinctively, I leveled my rifle, found the buck in the scope, and shot. He dropped in his tracks on the far side of the draw. As I unloaded the few unspent rounds from my rifle, an overwhelming sense of dread suddenly fell over me. Something didn’t feel right. I looked at the buck, lying on the hillside, and shook it off, telling myself: No way. Not a chance.
As I walked along the ridge to find an easy place to head down to the bottom, I spotted what I had been looking for minutes before when the buck had sprung back up out of the brush: a small splatter of bright red blood on the light tan rocks. The trail became evident as I looked down the hill and I could visualize the path the buck had taken into the brush.
Following the trail into the cedars and mesquites, I told myself I was soon going to come upon the spot where the buck had lain down. There would likely be a pool of blood and then a trail to where he now lay, up on the hill. As I used my forearm to push branches away from my face, I walked into a small clearing, and my feeling of dread returned. There, in front of me, lay a beautiful, mature, 8-point buck. I simply shook my head as I stepped over him and continued until I came through the brush to the other side of the draw, where I looked up and saw the second buck, lying lifeless above me. I had just managed to pack a full season of hunting into less than 45 minutes. The second buck looked like it could have been the brother of the first. Probably a year younger, but a solid 8-point nonetheless. Dreams of drop tines and massive racks quickly dissolved as I glanced back and forth between the two bucks and realized the work that needed to be done now as light was fading.
After field dressing and loading both bucks into my truck, I pulled through the gate behind the rancher’s house, where he walked across my headlights and came to my window. Looking over his right shoulder into the pickup bed, he grinned and said, “Well, son, you made quick work of that, huh?” “Yessir,” I replied, “guess I doubled down.” He threw his head back in laughter and wished me safe travels. As I pulled onto the road, I could barely see the house and the plateau stretching out behind the cattle pens in my rear-view mirror. My Del Rio deer lease lasted a total of about four and a half hours, as I never set foot on it again, but the story of the “Del Rio Double Down” has become a legend, and I have enjoyed telling it, hundreds of times, around our campfires and hunting camps for the past 30 years.
