RUSSELL THORNBERRY OUTDOORS

A Monster For the Missus

A year ago last September, my wife asked, “When am I going to get to hunt something big?”  So I set a plan in motion to take her on an elk hunt last September. Sharleen is, by her on admission, a fair-weather hunter. She loves getting out of doors, but she isn’t to long-term suffering for the sport. How many wives are? So I picked a camp with adequate creature comforts and lots of big el in Saskatchewan, Canada.

Little could we have known that Sharleen would be diagnosed with breast cancer a week before the departure date for our hunting trip. The news was numbing, shocking, frightening – all of the above.  What should we do about the hunting trip in view of this terrible news?  It would be 10 days before any medical procedures began so we decided to go elk hunting!  Let it never be said Sharleen wasn’t a trooper.  The hunt couldn’t have come at a better time.  It gave us something to think about other than cancer.

Sharleen has taken several deer and javelina, but always from a pre-established rest from which she could get a steady aim.  That was my plan for her elk hunt, too.  But the elk threw us a curve.

I built a ground blind with camo netting between two neighboring aspens at the edge of a meadow where the elk often fed in the late evening.  For the finishing touches, I cut some aspen saplings, which were still green, and brushed in the blind.  It was a work of art.  No elk on earth would be suspicious of it. We came back the following afternoon to occupy the blind, the elk had eaten every green leaf off the aspen saplings, and in the process, totally destroyed the blind. 

Suddenly, we were thrust into plan B: stalking. I asked the missus if she thought she could lean against a tree and get steady enough to shoot. She was game to try, so with the wind in our faces and the sun at out backs, the stalk began.  Fortunately, the bulls were bugling vigorously, giving us some indication of direction.

As we moved in on the bugling we approached another meadow and through the dense aspens we could see elk grazing in the open.  The plan was to edge close to the timber’s edge and see if we could get a shot at a good bull.  Unexpectedly, as we were sneaking along, we climbed a small hill for a better view only to find a huge bull bedded on the hilltop also watching the elk in the meadow. He was like a sentinel bull all by himself.  By the time we spotted the bull we were no more than 30 yards behind him so we backed off a few yards and laid in the grass waiting for him to stand up.  But for the next 30 minutes he remained bedded.  From our rear view we couldn’t tell enough about his rack to make a decision, so another plan “B” was hatched.  We would sneak down a sallow ravine that flanked the hill upon which he was bedded in hopes of getting a better view of his rack.  When we were almost to the vantage point we wanted, the bull stood and started moving away from us, even though he had no idea we were there.  He worked his way along the timber’s edge fighting the brush with his antlers and bugling.  We followed him from a distance hoping he would turn broadside and offer Sharleen a shot.  The cat and mouse game continued into the fading light of evening before the bull finally turned to his left.  Shar leaned against an aspen tree and got as steady as she could and finally touched off a shot from her little Marlin Model 336 chambered for.35 Remington. After taking a 200-grain bullet in the boiler room, the bull never took a step. Shar was thrilled her first elk, and it was a spectacular bull. Oh -- did I mention that it scored 390?  Ugh! To her delight, her trophy elk betters my best elk by roughly 30 inches, but then who counts?  She still carries a picture of her and her trophy around in her purse and shows it off at every opportunity.

Postscript:

Sharleen underwent cancer surgery and has recovered and given a clean bill of health.  For that we thank God daily.  You don’t realize just how fragile life is until you face the reality of your own mortality.

For more information about hunting elk and/or trophy whitetails with Spirit of the North Trophy Hunts, contact  russell@russellthornberry.com or call (334) 409-0574.   Also, read up on Sharleen’s recent adventures at www.sharleenthornberry.com.

Forgotten Children of Honduras

My wife Sharleen and I led a mission trip of 12 people to Honduras from June 7th -14th to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, to work with Forgotten Children Ministries.  Eighty percent of the

Honduran population lives below the extreme poverty level on dirt floor hovels – sometimes nothing more than structures of sticks, cardboard, plastic tarps and pieces of tin. They are born into poverty and the majority of them will die that way.  Children are often abandoned and severely abused, and they end up on the streets of the cities looking for any scraps that will sustain them. They live under bridges, in garbage dumps and under buildings like animals and are routinely murdered by gangs, and corrupt policemen.  For pennies underground venders sell them baby food jars of cobblers glue, which the hide under their shirts and inhale the fumes, to abate their hunger pains. Tragically, the glue fumes also kill their brain cells, and thousands of children are starving and stoned with no hope of any kind for their lives.

The mission of Forgotten Children Ministries is to rescue the abandoned, homeless and forgotten children of Honduras.  At present we have 14 young boys in our shelter in Tegucigalpa and 40 older boys at Grace Farm in the village of Monte Redondo.  Our four-point mandate is to share with them the reality of the love of God through Jesus Christ, to care for them with food, shelter, clothing, etc., to provide them an education and to teach them English, so that when they are grown and enter back into society they will be men of character, equipped for life and able to find gainful employment to stop the cycle of poverty into which they were born.

FCM is now involved in taking food to the destitute mothers of the boys in the ministry, as well as distributing food to the needy families in the community.  It’s a humbling experience to find a mother feeding her baby dirt because she has no food.  One impoverished man we found living under a tarp showed us the make shift bed upon which he and his wife slept. Lying on the rotting mattress were four chicken eggs – all the food they possessed, with which to feed them and their children. The man told us that his wife woke up the day before and found a coral snake in the mattress! No words can describe the joy of delivering bags of beans, rice, powdered milk, cereal and many other essential food items – enough to feed the family for a month or more.

While we were delivering food to another destitute family, an elderly woman elbowed her way into the tiny shack and asked if we could come to her house and pray.  I assumed it was a ploy to get us to bring her food, which we would gladly do, but to my amazement what she wanted was to introduce me to an elderly man who wanted to know how to be saved. On the spot, with no argument or convincing, he joyously accepted Jesus as his savior!

The needs are great and it is an honor to serve, but as ever, God did as much in the hearts of the team members as he did for those we served. I will be taking an all-mens group to Honduras from Jan. --    . Our purpose will be to mentor the boys in what it means to be a man of God.  In their matriarchal society where men typically abandon their wives and children, it is a concept that they desperately need.  So I’m looking for a few good men to go with me.  I hope you will consider being one.

www.forgottenchildrenministries.org

Black Day on the Brazos

According to all who knew him before that day, Brother Dudley's word was as good as gold.  He was a straight shooter and a man of great integrity.  Even today, some still feel that way about him.  Had it not been for his one great weakness, there probably would have never been a reason to doubt the man ... no chink in his armor ... no shadow of suspicion cast.  But turkey hunting will eventually tell on a man.  It has a way of bringing things to the surface, which have hitherto been buried deep in obscurity.  In the end all will be laid bare. 

I make no judgment in Brother Dudley's case, although certain facts certainly challenge one's best efforts to remain objective.  Rather, I will present his story and let you judge for yourself.  If I could offer anything of a personal bias, it would be to encourage you, the reader, to consider what you are about to read in light of Brother's Dudley's exemplary life as a devoted husband, father and minister of The Gospel.  To my knowledge he has no criminal record and has never been convicted of a felony. 

Date: April 14, 1992
Place: Shackleford County
Time: Daybreak

Brother Dudley sat huddled hopefully in an ancient pecan bottom, waiting for dawn to break above the banks of the Brazos River.  In another location, 200 yards away, Shallow Jack, his friend and turkey hunting partner also sat in predawn darkness waiting for first light.

It merits mention that Brother Dudley's friend Jack is known to be a man of great integrity.  He is a seminary graduate and devoted Bible scholar, and prior to this event, has never been known to be a part of any shady or skulduggerous schemes or practices.

Brother Dudley was clad from head to toe in the appropriate camouflage and was armed with a small caliber rifle and a devastating new turkey call.  This new call was so deadly that there were already rumors about it becoming illegal in several southern states.  Rather than imitating the language of love of the female turkey, this call duplicated the voices of two irate gobblers engaged in all-out battle with one another.  While girl talk would fool a gobbler every now and then, the sound of two gobblers fighting was more than any red-blooded Tom could resist.  Brother Dudley was determined to dupe some west Texas turkeys with it before it was completely outlawed.

As darkness gradually retreated a barred owl announced the coming day, and in the distance a gobbler responded aggressively from his roost.  This was the signal Brother Dudley was waiting to hear.  There was a gobbler within hearing distance.

With a call in each hand, Brother Dudley began pumping the plungers with his thumbs, creating the chortles and purrs that gobblers make in combat.  After a minute or two he stopped and listened for a response, but all was silent.  The air was still.  The owls and the turkeys failed to speak.

After a short pause Brother Dudley resumed his fighting purrs.  In spite of the eerie stillness, he was confident of success.  Turkeys were his forte ... he spoke their language well.  It was just a matter of time.

After 20 minutes of sporadic calling Brother Dudley saw movement before him in the timber.  He slowly laid his calls on the ground beside him and wrapped his hands around the stock of his .22-250.  In an instant four gobblers walked boldly out of the timber 150 yards in front of him.  They were not tiptoeing suspiciously in single file as gobblers typically do when they come to the call.  Not these birds.  They looked like the James gang, walking defiantly into Dodge, four abreast, hands above their holsters, just itching for a good fight.

Though somewhat amazed at the brazen audacity of the incoming gobblers, Brother Dudley knew that turkey was as good as in the pan.  All he had to do was sit perfectly still and wait for them to come into easy range.  And come they did.  At an estimated 60 yards, the gobblers stopped to look for the fight they believed they were about to find.  Brother Dudley centered his crosshairs on the largest of the four and touched the trigger.  At the sound of the shot his gobbler hit the ground with a thud.  The deed was done.  Brother Dudley had once again outsmarted the wariest of all game birds.

But something was different this time.  Instead of streaking for cover, the other three turkeys stood their ground in blatant defiance of death.  These were determined birds to say the least.  Brother Dudley could have easily shot another, but since the remaining three were showing no signs of fear he thought he might be able to sneak back through the timber and bring Jack up for a crack at them.  In spite of the shot and their fallen comrade, the turkeys stood their ground, obviously still intent on locating the fighting toms they had come to see.

Brother Dudley leaned his rifle against a tree and was slinking back into the timber toward Jack when he thought he saw his dead turkey move.  So, he stopped to get a better look.  Sure enough, there were some signs of life.  It seemed like his dead turkey was not so dead after all.  At first the shot seemed perfect, but obviously it hadn't done the job completely.  Twitches turned to flops and soon the turkey was far too lively to leave alone.  Brother Dudley was now unarmed, so he'd have to grab a stick or a limb to use as a club to finish the turkey off.

However, the closer he came to the turkey the more it tried to get away.  Brother Dudley could see that the turkey was flopping his way toward the river bank so he made a dash for the crippled bird.  But the turkey was too fast.  It flopped its way over the steep bank and toppled down to the water's edge 12 feet below.

Now Brother Dudley and the turkey both faced a crisis.  He couldn't follow the turkey down the straight drop-off, and the turkey had to decide how he was going to handle being trapped between Brother Dudley and the river.

The gobbler looked up at Brother Dudley, then turned his head and stared contemplatively at the river, flowing only inches in front of him.  The wheels were turning and a decision was at hand.  Finally, after considering all his options, or lack thereof, the turkey made a desperate move ... one which no turkey hunter but Brother Dudley had ever witnessed.  It threw himself squarely into the Brazos River.

A turkey wasn't made for water, and it was an ungainly spectacle to see the big bird spraddled awkwardly in the flowing water.  Caught in the current, the courageous bird started to drift downstream.  Brother Dudley, in the meantime, had decided his best option was to go back for his rifle, return, put the turkey out of his misery, and then fish him out of the river farther downstream.  The plan certainly made sense at the time.

Shallow Jack, having heard the shot, walked up to Brother Dudley just as he was about to abandon the turkey to retrieve his rifle.  It was at that point that Brother Dudley claims to have pointed out his floating turkey to Shallow Jack who agrees that he was, in fact, a witness to the gobbler adrift in the river, which begs the question: How did Shallow Jack come by his name?

Then a most bizarre thing happened.  From the depths of the Brazos, a huge fish savagely attacked the floating gobbler, grabbing the bird in its cavernous jaws and pulling him under the surface to a watery grave.  Brother Dudley and Jack both reported watching the huge fish writhing and rolling in the deep water, as it swallowed the ill-fated gobbler whole.  Then, as suddenly as it began, the water ceased to boil, leaving only a muddy cloud as a grim reminder of how tough it can be to be a turkey.

As the story of the great turkey-eating fish was circulated throughout the south, two questions have emerged.  First, what kind of fish could possibly be big enough to swallow a full grown turkey?  Fishermen who know the Brazos well believe it had to have been a huge flathead catfish.  Flatheads in excess of 100 pounds have been caught in the Brazos.  Others venture the possibility of a huge alligator gar, or even an alligator, although no one can recall any record of alligators in the Brazos in modern history.  In any case, these possibilities were offered by fishermen, not turkey hunters.

Turkey hunters, on the other hand, did not immediately embrace the possibility of a turkey-eating fish, and were more inclined to ask: "How dumb does Brother Dudley think we really are?"  Admittedly, some grace was lacking in their initial response.  One long-time turkey hunter commented, "It ain't no crime to come home without no turkey.  It happened to me once.  I just missed him, that's all!"  It has been said that the truth can't be found in any turkey hunter.

Interviews with wives and children of devoted turkey hunters offer yet another possibility:  that turkey hunters in general lack the ability to discern certain facts from the imagined.  One anonymous turkey hunter's wife said of her former husband, "By the end of the turkey season that man couldn't tell ya his name.  He'd walk around here in a daze, with a glazed look in his eyes.  Kinda reminded me of one of them cereal killers.  Nothin' he mighta said in turkey season woulda surprised me one bit!"

In conclusion, it appears that turkey hunting is more than a casual sporting pursuit.  It should probably be viewed as an affliction.  Perhaps its victims should be pitied rather than scorned.

Those who know and love Brother Dudley will stand by him and see him through the humiliation of this incident.  To them it doesn't matter what happened to his turkey.  But Brother Dudley is still sticking to his incredible story, just the way he remembers it.  Strangely however, he seems to have lost his interest in turkey hunting.  Rumor has it that he's spending his spare time fishing these days ... out on the Brazos in Shackleford County.

Sportsmen’s Retreats

Spring 2008 Southwest Sportsman’s Retreat

The 2008 Spring Southwest Sportsman’s Retreat, hosted by Dudley Hall and Russell Thornberry was held at the Tesoro Escondido Ranch on the banks of the Brazos River near Mineral Wells, Texas, on May 16-18, 2008, with the leadership team including David Hall, Cecil Carder, Kenny Thacker and Jim Linn.

Peter Krumsieg demonstrates his winning style in the Texas hog toss event.

 

Forty men gathered to participate in a number of outdoors events and team competitions including skeet shooting, bow and arrow golf, fly-casting, Texas hog toss, pickle spitting, knife throwing, atlatl throwing and traditional black powder rifle shooting.  While the retreat is set against a backdrop of outdoors events, specific skills are not required

Zack Brooks was baptised by Dudley and David Hall in the Brazos River during the retreat. Zack's father John looks on.

to have a great weekend.  Many of the events are designed to be of equal inopportunity – meaning that no one is likely to be an expert. Who ever heard of the Texas hog toss, anyway?  It really all about braggin’ and raggin’ rights! While there is ample time for individuals to hone their outdoor skills under the tutelage of expert outdoorsmen, the camaraderie and fun team competitions create an atmosphere of relaxation and hilarity, insured by original, side-splitting campfire songs and stories told by world class story tellers.

The Sportsman’s Retreat offers a comfortable and natural environment for men, who seldom set aside time just for fun and relaxation. Through discussions

and teachings by Dudley, David Kenny and Russell, men are enriched, refreshed an

2008 Southwest Sportsman's Retreat leadership team  (left to right) Dudley Hall, Russell Thornberry, Kenny Thacker, Cecil Carder, Daviid Hall and Jim Linn..

Yes, those are actually Cecil's real legs - he's not riding a chicken!

d encouraged in their faith and challenged in their destiny as men of God.

Winter 2009 Southeastern Sportsman’s Retreat

The next Sportsman’s Retreat will be held Feb. 13-15, 2009 at the Southern Sportsman’s Lodge near Selma Alabama.  To make the retreats more accessible Russell and Dudley now offer two events per year – one in Texas in the spring and one in Alabama in the winter.  We are booking now for the Winter 09 Retreat. The price is $300 per person.  A $150 deposit is required to secure your booking. Retreat capacity is 40 men and the minimum age is 15.

For information and bookings contact
Russell Thornberry, (334) 409-0574 or
email mailto:russell@russellthornberry.com.

Fall Bowhunting in British Columbia, Canada

Russell bagged his best ever mule deer during an early season bowhunt with Horshoe Creek Outfitters in easter British Columbia, Canada.

Those of you who have watched the Buckmasters TV show or read Buckmasters Whitetail Magazine for any length of time will have seen my coverage of hunting the Peace River drainage in eastern British Columbia, Canada. This area is unique because of its high game population and diversity of game species -- all roaming the same area.

Beginning Sept. 1, 2008, a bowhunter can hunt five game species and hold over-the-counter tags for each: mule deer, white-tailed deer, moose, elk and black bear (2 black bear tags available per hunter).

I have scored on all the species mentioned above by hunting with outfitter Ray Jackson of Horseshoe Creek Outfitters, sometimes tagging as many as four animals in one hunt. The reason for my success is pretty simple. All I do is walk out the bunkhouse door and I’m hunting. The game is so concentrated in Jackson’s area that you can expect any of the five species anywhere you go. In one afternoon shift in a treestand overlooking a small pond a mile back into the green timber, I saw all five species come to water. I don’t believe there is another western state or province where such a variety of game is available to a hunter on a single hunt.

A few years ago, Dale Larson and I hunted with Jackson, and both of us took 170-inch mule deer with our bows - mine from a treestand and his while stalking. In addition, I shot two black bears and a bull elk. At that time of the year, elk and bear may also be taken with a rifle if the hunter so desires.

During a November hunt with Ray Jackson, I shot the biggest bodied whitetail I have ever taken with a bow. It was a 160-class buck weighing 321 pounds on the hoof. That one made the cover of Buckmasters magazine.

I get regular inquiries asking if I can suggest a place to hunt big mule deer. Without hesitation I recommend Jackson’s area. I have seen more monster mule deer in that area than any other I have hunted. The last time I was there, I spotted a huge mule deer buck that I felt sure would score 200 inches as a clean 4x4 typical. It blew my mind. So I set up a treestand along the edge of an alfalfa field where I had seen the buck feeding. I could only hunt that stand in the afternoon because there was no way to approach the field in the dark of morning without spooking the deer that were most likely feeding there.

This huge 361-inch 6X6 bull elk, taken by one of Ray Jackson's hunters, won 1st place as the largest elk taken with an outfitter in northeast British Columbia.

Late one morning as Jackson was bringing another hunter in for lunch, he passed that alfalfa field, and there stood the huge buck, right beneath my empty treestand. I didn’t shoot that buck but another hunter did. It scored 198 typical. My guess was pretty close.

Most of my hunts with Ray Jackson have been in early September because I am a bowhunter and that’s the perfect time for archers. The game is calm and in regular feeding routines. The black bears invade the oat fields at that time of the year in unbelievable numbers. I have seen in excess of 30 bears in a single field. My friend Guy Hood hunted with Ray last September, and unfortunately, because of a mix-up on his airline ticket he arrived a day late in Fort St. John. Ray picked him up at the airport that afternoon and while driving back to camp, Ray spotted an oat field full of bears. He stopped and told Guy to grab his bow, and so with bow in hand and still in his street clothes, Guy arrowed a 7-foot trophy black bear before he even got to camp. That is not an unusual scenario.

Ray has private access to actual townships of prime agricultural land on which alfalfa and oats are grown. It is not unusual to see all five species in one field at the same time. I have seen it on many occasions.

In addition to the farmland hunting, Ray’s territory encompasses true mountain wilderness for those who prefer wilderness hunting, but I must admit it is very hard for me to drive past alfalfa fields speckled with deer, moose and elk, to get to a mountain to hunt the critters I just drove past. Don’t get me wrong, I have spent my fair share of time in the deep wilderness, but now that I am maturing (a kind metaphor for getting old) I am not as mad about the mountains as I used to be. At my age there’s something pretty special about sleeping in a soft bed under a real roof.

When I remember all the game I’ve taken while hunting with Ray Jackson, which includes all five species mentioned, I am certain that I have never been more than a 1 ½ miles from his house. How’s that for a game paradise? Admittedly, since Ray lives only a stone’s throw from the Peace River, I am enamored by the rainbow trout that tug at my heart and my fly rod during the middle of the day when I’m not hunting. That rocks my world.

Ray recently dropped by my office on his annual spring tour through the U.S.

“When can you come?” he asked.

“When can I come?” I replied.

“September 8-13 and bring a cameraman,” he said.

So that’s my plan – to head to British Columbia to begin bowhunting.

The Peace River drainage in eastern British Columbia has the highest black bear population in Canada. This record bear is one of two that Russell arrowed on his last trip with Horseshoe Creek Outfitters. Each hunter can buy two black bear tags.

Sept. 8th. There are four more places open during that hunt, for a total of five hunters – one being me. If you’d like to experience the bowhunt of a lifetime, why don’t you join me?

For full details go to www.horseshoecreekoutfitters.com or call Ray at (250) 783-5220

It is an awesome experience and who knows, you might even wind up on the Buckmasters TV show. But first you must learn to begin the account of your hunting story by cocking your head to one side, raising one eyebrow, and saying: “There I was . . .”

Just kidding!